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Chapter Text

The forest lay quiet, bathed in golden light filtering through dense canopies that arched like ancient cathedrals over the narrow dirt road. The clip-clop of Gandrel's pony disturbed an otherwise tranquil woodland, his cart rolling steadily as he adjusted his reins, his attention largely on the road ahead. Behind him, in the cart's shadow, lay a large cage cloaked in heavy canvas, edges bound tightly with rope. Gandrel's eyes flicked occasionally to the side, cautious, as if sensing something amiss in the quiet.

In his periphery, a dark shape loomed, slinking from the undergrowth. A giant direwolf, fur like tarnished steel, padded up beside the cart, its massive paws silent on the earth. Astride the beast sat a young elven woman with raven-black hair, braided and woven with feathers. Her ice-blue eyes held him in a gaze as unwavering as her mount's. She wore a mix of leather and fur armor, each piece worn and shaped by use, the rough sinew of her life in the wilds. In her hand, a bow rested, almost lazily, but her body remained taut, poised as if she could spring from her seat at any moment.

Gandrel steadied his voice, though his grip on the reins tightened. "Greetings, friend - if friend you may be," he called out, keeping his tone cautious yet amiable. "I am Gandrel. May I know your business with me?"

The woman inclined her head slightly. Her expression gave nothing away, yet something about her presence prickled at his instincts. "Greetings, Gandrel. I am Ashara. My business with you will depend on what is contained within that cage of yours."

Gandrel glanced back to the covered cage, feeling a sudden surge of unease. Though he masked it, a shiver crept up his spine. Guiding his pony to the side, he stopped, watching her with wary eyes. She made no move to approach, but the direwolf's amber gaze was fixed upon him.

"It holds no beasts of the forest, if that is your concern," Gandrel replied, choosing his words carefully. "Only a prisoner, one I am taking to Baldur's Gate."

Ashara's expression didn't shift, but her posture did, almost imperceptibly; her bow was suddenly, dangerously, taut, the arrow aimed directly at him. "People are disappearing up and down the Sword Coast," she said, her tone sharp as flint. "I've been hired to investigate. You will show me this prisoner. Now."

Gandrel forced a placating smile, raising his hands slowly. "Please, do not mistake my intent. The prisoner I carry isn't one of your missing innocents. He is vampire spawn - a creature my tribe tasked me with capturing and delivering to Baldur's Gate."

Ashara's gaze never wavered, the bowstring taut in her grip. "Nevertheless, I require you to show me this prisoner."

Reluctantly, Gandrel clambered down from the cart, moving slowly to avoid provoking her further. He reached for the ropes holding the thick canvas in place, fingers steady but betraying a flicker of resignation. With a swift motion, he pulled the covering free, revealing the cage's occupant.

-♤-

Ashara's gaze sharpened as she took in the unusual features of the elven man in front of her: red eyes like garnets gleaming beneath the tangle of his silver curls, pale skin sunlit, but without the burns that would afflict a vampire. He was on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, a strip of twisted cloth silencing any cries he might have given. A rope wound tightly around his neck, the other end of which was passed through the bars of his prison and tied to a metal ring in the bed of the cart.

As he caught sight of her, the elf strained against his bindings, muffled sounds slipping past the gag as he glanced between her and Gandrel with urgent desperation.

Gandrel held up a hand, intercepting her questions before she could voice them. "I understand the confusion," he said, his voice calm yet resolute. "I was also taken aback to find a vampire walking freely in sunlight. But make no mistake - his immunity only serves his deceit. He used it to win the trust of a band of adventurers."

Inside the cage, the elf shook his head furiously, his eyes flashing with fierce protest. In a desperate effort, he scraped his gag against the bars until he managed to free his mouth. Though Ashara searched for telltale fangs, he kept his lips firmly pressed - a gesture that did not escape her notice. She hesitated, her gaze sharp with suspicion, yet unwilling to accept Gandrel's explanation outright.

"Please, listen," the elf gasped, his voice smooth yet strained, an accent polished with nobility. "This Gur is lying through his teeth! My name is Astarion, and I'm a magistrate from Baldur's Gate. I was kidnapped by this thug, who most likely intends to ransom me. Free me, and I'll see you richly rewarded."

Ashara studied him, noting the regal, carefully groomed air about him, the elegance of his speech, his clothing - though dirtied - was finely made. She looked back at Gandrel, suspicion flickering in her gaze. "Proof," she said quietly, her tone brooking no argument. "Show me proof of his nature beyond mere words."

Gandrel's expression flickered as if with hesitation, but he nodded in resigned acceptance. Climbing up onto the cart, he took hold of the rope tied to the elf's neck and pulled it taut, dragging him toward the back of the cage despite his furious writhing. Tying it off, he produced a key and moved to the cage's door, opening it and stepping inside.

Ashara watched, a prickling unease creeping up her spine as he seized the man by the hair, forcing his head back with a relentless grip.

Astarion snarled, his voice venomous. "Unhand me, you filthy bastard! What are you - no!"

Gandrel ignored his protests, gripping Astarion's lower jaw with his other hand, forcing his mouth open to reveal sharp, glinting canines, gleaming in the sunlight like a predator's trap laid bare.

"See?" Gandrel murmured, his voice low, yet something in his eyes seemed troubled as he looked back at Ashara.

All pretense vanished from Astarion's face, twisting his elegant features into something feral as he jerked his head, his fangs flashing as he snapped at Gandrel's hands. The hunter barely flinched, releasing Astarion with an eerie calm, stepping back as if accustomed to such wild resistance.

Gandrel's voice was devoid of sympathy. "I take no pleasure in this, spawn. It would have served you better to be truthful."

Astarion strained against his bonds, spitting like a wild cat. "Go to the hells! I'll tear you to pieces for this, Gur."

Ashara felt a chill crawl up her spine at Astarion's abrupt, vicious change. He'd gone from a desperate prisoner to something far more dangerous, a predator wounded and cornered. Still, her voice was steady when she spoke to Gandrel, watching him as he locked up the cage and loosened the rope tether, giving Astarion just enough freedom to slump back onto his knees.

"What will happen to this vampire once you've delivered him to your people?" she asked, her gaze flicking to Astarion, now panting heavily, his eyes wild with fury.

"What do you think? They'll kill me!" Astarion cut in before Gandrel could answer. The fear in his gaze stirred something reluctant in her, as he pleaded, "Look, I'm sorry for lying, but I haven't done anything wrong. I wasn't going to hurt anyone, I swear."

Gandrel's expression hardened, his voice now cool, a wall built from old wounds and memories. "That may be so these past few days, but you're wanted for more than just being a vampire. You helped steal away the children of my tribe. My own included."

The words fell like stones, each one a blow that left Astarion frozen. He flicked a nervous glance at Ashara, his composure wavering. She caught the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of shame in his eyes, so brief it could've been a trick of the light. But when he looked up, anger masked his face once more.

"I didn't have a choice!" Astarion's voice rose, a bitter edge cutting through it. "Cazador ordered me to take them, and I had to obey. All his spawn have to obey - you know that damn well, Gur!"

Gandrel's face hardened, but a flicker of pain crossed his eyes, so brief Ashara almost missed it. "Willingly or not, it makes no difference. You know what happened to those children, and you will tell us."

Astarion looked away, jaw clenched. "You want to know what happened? They're probably dead by now." His voice was low, resignation tainted with anger. "Nothing I say can change that, and I won't apologize for something I couldn't control."

The weight of Gandrel's sorrow settled heavily in the silence between them, and his jaw tightened, a haunted glint in his eye. "Then my people will have their vengeance... one way or another."

Astarion scoffed, a hollow, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Killing me won't change a damn thing."

Gandrel turned to Ashara, his eyes weary but resolute. "Now that you've seen my prisoner, am I free to continue on my way?"

She glanced back at Astarion, who had slumped back against the bars, head bowed as though each breath was an effort. A faint sense of guilt stirred within her, but she forced herself to nod, her voice quiet. "Yes... your business with this man is your own."

Astarion's head jerked up, his eyes ablaze with fury and betrayal. "Damn you!" His voice cracked, the anger veiling something more fragile. Then he fell silent, a hollow figure against the iron bars.

Ashara straightened, stroking her wolf's thick fur as she gave Gandrel a respectful nod. "Onyx and I apologize for detaining you, Gandrel of the Gur. May your journey be swift and your burden light."

A weary smile ghosted across Gandrel's face as he climbed back onto the cart, his eyes softening as he inclined his head. "And so too may yours be, Ashara."

She nudged Onyx to step aside as Gandrel took up the reins, his cart lumbering forward along the winding path. But as they passed, her gaze fell back to the figure in the cage. Astarion was watching her, and in his eyes, she caught a shimmer - a trace of something unguarded, unfeigned. A plea that was all the more startling for its sincerity.

"Please... help me," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread, breaking under the weight of despair.

She tore her gaze away, her chest tightening as a pang of guilt twisted within her. Beneath her, Onyx sensed her discomfort, and gave a low rumbling growl of reassurance as they slipped back into the forest.

Beneath the cover of trees, she dismounted, letting her thoughts drift as she resumed the task she'd abandoned earlier - skinning the deer she'd taken down just before Gandrel had passed by.

Onyx settled beside her, his watchful eyes fixed on her with a calm assurance as his voice echoed in her mind.

"You feel guilt for the vampire. Waste not your sympathy. His kind are known for cruelty and deception. His fate is one he surely deserves."

Ashara paused, turning to run her hand over the thick fur along Onyx's neck. "I know. But something about seeing him caged like that - so desperate for freedom - it reminded me of you. People said you were a monster too." She gave a half-smile, her eyes softening. "And I'm glad I didn't believe them."

Onyx's muzzle curled into a canine grin, his teeth glinting. "As am I, my friend."

She sighed, tracing the line of her blade over the deer's pelt. "I know I shouldn't get involved-"

"Then don't." Onyx's voice was calm, grounded in a wisdom that often tempered her impulsive nature.

"But maybe we could free him and let him go somewhere remote and far away from people?" she argued, more to herself than to him. "Like the owlbear we rescued from those hunters?"

Onyx scratched an ear, tilting his head thoughtfully. "A vampire is not an owlbear, Ashara. If he is freed, he will remember every slight, every indignity. And he will eventually return to civilization, hungrier and more cunning than before. Do you truly wish the blood of the next innocent traveller he meets to be on your conscience?"

Ashara felt the weight of his words and lowered her gaze, her resolve weakening. "No... you're right."

Onyx's voice softened as he leaned his head against her arm. "If you choose to free him, his fate is your responsibility. You would have to ensure he never harms another innocent soul. And that would mean keeping him close and watching over him."

She glanced up, startled. "What... like a pet?"

A rare bark of laughter escaped Onyx, a sharp huff that made her smile despite herself. "No, not quite. I do not think he would take kindly to that title."

Then, a spark of curiosity glinted in her eyes as she remembered. "Oh, how did I do back there by the way?"

Onyx nuzzled her cheek affectionately. "You handled yourself well. You were confident, respectful."

"I wasn't too aggressive?"

"For a man who captured a vampire? I think you showed just the right amount." His amber eyes gleamed approvingly.

Ashara gave a small, proud smile, her hands resuming their work. But even as she focused on the deer, her thoughts drifted back to the prisoner. Those crimson eyes, filled with anguish, haunted her. And as the forest wrapped around her, she wondered if she could truly let that plea go unanswered.

-☆-

Astarion leaned against the cold iron bars of his cage, eyes fixed on the firelight dancing across Gandrel's stoic face. The day had been an unending haze of jostling and grinding through the forest paths, and now, as the stars thickened above, they had pulled off the main road to camp. The pony was tethered nearby, munching idly on dry grass, while the tempting aroma of roasting meat hung heavy in the air, making Astarion's stomach twist in unbidden hunger. It didn't matter that he couldn't enjoy real food anymore, the scent was still enough to trigger his bloodlust. 

Gandrel, seated on a log by the fire, watched Astarion's quiet struggle, the way his fingers tugged and twisted against the ropes, futile and desperate. The hunter's voice cut through the quiet, low and calm. "That will do you no good. Not many can slip from my knots."

Astarion threw him a scornful look, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I'm so glad to have been bound by a professional. It must be nice to know you have at least one useful skill in life."

Gandrel's mouth tightened, unimpressed. "Save your energy. You will need it for when we reach my people."

Astarion slumped back, the cold iron biting into his skin as he stared up into the dark canopy. The stars above flickered, distant and indifferent. "And what are the chances I'll actually survive the interrogations?" His voice was low, barely more than a mutter.

Gandrel's gaze fell to the fire, his jaw clenching as he poked at it, refusing to meet Astarion's eyes. The silence hung thick between them, an answer in itself.

A humourless smile curved over Astarion's lips. "Right. None, then."

A shadow flickered across Gandrel's face as he added another log to the fire, the flames hissing and sparking. "I do feel some regret, Astarion. I wish things were different. But I lost my children because of you. If there's even a chance I could get them back..."

"There isn't." Astarion's tone was cold, sharper than he intended. "Trust me, Cazador wouldn't show mercy simply because they were children."

The flicker of a tear caught in Gandrel's eye as he poked at the fire with more force, scattering sparks into the night air. Astarion's gaze narrowed, the gears in his mind turning. He'd seen that look before - the glimmer of grief, ripe for manipulation.

"Oh, it surprised me too," Astarion continued, his tone coaxing, almost confessional. "When he ordered me and my 'siblings' to take them. Usually, my targets are... well, let's just say they're of age. I can only assume he wanted a leash on you monster hunters."

Gandrel's jaw tightened, his eyes hardening as he met Astarion's gaze. "He made a mistake provoking us."

"Oh, I agree," Astarion said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. "I'd love nothing more than to see his head rotting on a spike, believe me. But you can't win, none of us can. And all dragging me back to Baldur's Gate will do, is add one more spawn to his arsenal."

"Not if we kill you first." Gandrel's words were cold, final.

Astarion's eyes glinted, the faintest trace of fear darkening them. "You probably won't get the chance to before he finds me."

Gandrel let out a frustrated breath, his shoulders sagging. "So I'm just supposed to accept my children are gone and let you go?" His voice cracked, a moment of vulnerability slipping through. "Is that what you're saying?"

Astarion's eyes narrowed, trying to push any advantage he could find. "Well...yes, that's precisely what I was getting at."

Gandrel's eyes locked onto his, piercing and weary. "I'm sorry. But that is not my decision alone to make. There are others who grieve, others who demand justice. Even if I could find it in my heart to forgive you... I cannot deny my tribe."

Astarion sighed, leaning back against the bars, his face a mask of weary indifference. "Well... it was worth a try."

Gandrel let out a slow, steadying breath, his tone softening. "It need not be the end for you, Astarion. Not if you cooperate and-"

The sudden twang of a bowstring split the air as an arrow sliced through the night, embedding itself in Gandrel's shoulder with a sickening thud. He staggered, a grimace of pain crossing his face as he instinctively broke the shaft. Astarion jerked around, alarm spiking as the silence shattered, replaced by guttural howls and the heavy thud of footsteps encircling the camp.

Gandrel, grimacing, reached for his crossbow, his eyes darkening. "Orc raiders."

Panic clawed at Astarion, but he forced his voice steady, pressing against the cage bars. "Free me. Let me help. You'll need all the hands you can get if you're to survive."

"Quiet!" Gandrel's eyes darted between the approaching orcs as he loaded a bolt with trembling hands, his face pale from the wound but resolute.

A particularly large orc let out a thunderous roar, raising a massive axe high. Gandrel loosed his bolt, striking the orc in the chest. The orc staggered, snarling, but continued forward, undeterred.

"Gandrel!" Astarion's voice rose, desperate. "If you want to make it out alive, I'm your best chance! Release me!"

Gandrel's jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to Astarion's cage, hesitation in his eyes. But before he could respond, another arrow whistled through the air, embedding itself in the ground mere inches from his foot.

The orcs surged forward, a wave of muscle and rage, forcing Gandrel to back away, his grip tight on his crossbow. With a grim look at Astarion, he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Gandrel turned, breaking into a painful sprint as the orcs chased him into the trees. Astarion watched, helpless, as his captor vanished into the darkness, the sounds of his flight receding into the forest.

Then, silence.

A chill ran down Astarion's spine as the orcs turned toward him, eyes gleaming with a cruel satisfaction. He noted the symbols painted on their skin, the barely-concealed smirks, the glint of amusement in their eyes as they inspected him like livestock.

"He looks like the one," one of them grunted, prodding Astarion's ribs through the cage with the butt of his spear. Another grinned, a flash of yellowed teeth under a scarred lip. "Lord Cazador will pay well to get his spawn back."

Astarion's stomach churned, fear mingling with rage as he thrashed against his bonds, but the orcs laughed, ignoring his struggles. They set about hitching the pony to the cart, slapping its haunches and roaring with mirth as it squealed in protest and swiftly started moving.

Hours passed, the forest blurring as they pulled him along the narrow trails, their taunts filling the night air. By the time they arrived at their camp, a vast encampment sprawled along the riverbank, the sight of it was almost worse than the journey. Makeshift tents, stacks of weapons, and bloodied meat hung from racks scattered around the area. His cage was unceremoniously set down, the cart wheels squeaking as they finally ground to a halt.

The orc leader, a hulking figure with a patchwork of scars, raised a hand to silence his men. He strode up to the cage, his leer widening as he looked Astarion over. "Well done, lads. Lord Cazador will be pleased." He lifted a fist, and his voice rose over the gathering. "Tonight, we celebrate. Firewine for everyone!"

The orcs erupted in cheers, bringing out barrels of the potent drink. Cups clinked, and laughter turned raucous, the wine fueling their already coarse revelry. Astarion watched them warily, instinct telling him to keep his head low, to avoid drawing their attention. Yet it wasn't long before a few of the raiders stumbled close to his cage, emboldened by drink, and prodded their weapons through the bars, laughing cruelly as he flinched.

"Aw, what's wrong, little spawn? Scared?" one slurred, poking a rusted blade toward him.

Another joined, his thick, calloused hand reaching between the bars to snag a lock of Astarion's silver hair. He jerked it, forcing Astarion's head against the bars. "Shiny hair for a bloodsucker. Guess even the undead got vanity, eh?" His breath stank of firewine as he smirked.

Astarion met his gaze with defiance, even as his scalp burned from the pull. "One day," he hissed, his voice laced with quiet venom, "I'll be the one doing the hunting. And believe me, you'll wish I had the mercy to let you run."

The orc laughed, shoving his head back with a mocking grin before rejoining the group around the fire.

The drunken sounds of the revelry echoed through the trees, a twisted symphony of debauchery that grated against Astarion's nerves. His wrists ached from the chafing of the ropes, and he slumped against the bars, trapped and helpless, the sharp chill of dread pooling within him. 

He tried to retreat into himself, to block out the cacophony of voices and smells - until two orcs, a hulking male and a lithe female, ambled toward him. Their eyes gleamed, and Astarion's skin prickled at their leering appraisal.

The female, her lips pulling back in a smirk, tilted her head as she studied him. "Ain't never had a vampire before," she purred, her voice like gravel. "Think he got the stamina for it, Thritch?"

The male orc shrugged, a sly grin pulling at his scarred lips. "Boss won't like it if you mess him up too much, Vassa. Vampire Lord is payin' good money for 'im."

Astarion's stomach twisted as he heard Vassa laugh, a low, cruel sound. Without further warning, she raised her battle axe and brought it crashing down onto the cage lock, shattering it. His heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, but there was nowhere to go. 

The heavy iron door swung open, and Vassa stepped in, grabbing the rope around his neck with one hand, dragging him forward with brute strength. He stumbled, struggling to stay upright, but her grip tightened as she pulled him from the cage.

His mind raced as dread consumed him, his every instinct screaming to flee. Thritch's thick hands clamped down on his arms, pinning him as Vassa prowled closer, her gaze sweeping over him, as if savoring a feast. He could see the lust in her eyes, the savage edge to her smile.

Trying to regain control, Astarion forced a smooth, flirty smile to his lips. "Well, aren't you a luscious thing?" His voice was a purr, though every fiber of him recoiled from the words. "I'd be more than happy to indulge your curiosity about my... endurance. But to fully appreciate my talents, wouldn't you rather enjoy the experience with my hands free?"

The effort was wasted. Thritch's chuckle was a dark, rumbling sound from behind him. "She don't need your hands to enjoy herself."

The breath against Astarion's neck was warm, rancid, as Thritch leaned closer, his hand trailing down his back. "Neither do I," Thritch murmured, letting his fingers slide down Astarion's groin.

Astarion stiffened, unable to suppress a shiver of revulsion as Thritch's hand crept lower. He could feel Vassa's sinister grin as she watched him, sensing his discomfort. Her hand dropped to her belt, pulling a jagged dagger which she used to slice through the ties on his padded doublet, each cut sharp and deliberate, exposing him further with each stroke. 

Astarion's heart hammered as he tried to twist away, but Thritch's grip held him immobile. His charm, his façade, began to crumble, his calm replaced with growing terror as he struggled.

"Don't touch me, you filthy swine!" he spat, his voice cracking with a raw edge of panic as he felt Thritch's fingers curl around him through the fabric of his trousers.

Vassa laughed, undeterred. "So, the little spawn has some fight in him. Good." Her blade continued its path through his clothing, revealing the fine fabric beneath. "I like it when they squirm."

Astarion's vision blurred as Thritch yanked him down, the rough ground scraping against his back as he cried out in pain and shock. He barely had time to brace himself before Vassa straddled him, her dagger slicing through the remnants of his doublet, her sneer widening as she ripped the fabric from him, piece by piece. She ran her fingers over the ruffles of his undershirt, her eyes gleaming.

"Ooh, fancy," Vassa cooed mockingly. "Almost seems a shame to get blood on it." She leaned closer, her breath rank and sour, her hand moving toward the ties on his trousers. "Now, let's see what the rest of you looks like."

Astarion clenched his eyes shut, a shudder coursing through his entire body as he felt her fingers slithering over him. His mind reeled, retreating into itself. In his thoughts, he whispered to the night, to anything that might hear, Please... just let it be over quickly.

-♤-

Ashara and Onyx had tracked the orc raiding party since morning, moving silently through the trees as they followed the signs of carnage left in its wake. Now, crouched low behind a thicket, she could see the faint glow of firelight and hear the raucous sounds of celebration drifting through the trees. 

She dismounted, kneeling in the soil, letting her fingers dig into the earth as she reached out with her senses, feeling the hum of the forest's magic pulse beneath her hands. Her awareness spread outward, revealing scattered guards patrolling the camp's perimeter and exposing a blind spot in the defenses.

Quiet as shadows, she and Onyx slipped through the trees, hiding atop a rocky outcropping overlooking the encampment beside the river. Ashara's gaze swept over the scene, taking in the drunken orcs swilling firewine, tearing at stolen food, and tossing plundered trinkets aside. Piles of crates and barrels surrounded the roaring bonfire, and her eyes narrowed as she spotted Gandrel's cart and the tethered pony. But the cage... it appeared empty.

A chill passed through her as her eyes roved over the clearing, and then she saw him. Astarion lay pinned to the ground, bound and helpless, two orcs looming over him like vultures, their lecherous intentions unmistakable. One of them straddled him, her hand moving over his body with cruel, deliberate slowness.

A pulse of pure, gut-wrenching fear surged through the soil beneath Ashara's hands, a raw, frantic energy that she could feel radiating from the vampire.

Onyx's voice rumbled in her mind, his eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. "I don't see any weapons drawn. What are they doing to him?"

Ashara's stomach twisted as she choked out, "We need to help him. Now!"

Onyx whined, his voice a mix of hesitation and caution. "We can't take on a whole camp alone... patience."

She whipped her head toward him, her eyes blazing. "Those orcs are about to rape him!"

The words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking into both of them. Onyx's eyes flashed, his usual calm evaporating as a guttural, furious growl rose from his chest. His fangs bared, he spoke in a voice that was a vow. "Everyone here dies this night! Let the Lord of the Wild Hunt be called forth."

"There's no time!" Ashara whispered urgently, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword.

Onyx met her gaze with a fierce, unyielding stare. "Then you know what must be done."

Ashara's heart pounded as she met Onyx's gaze, the bond between them thrumming with shared rage and purpose. She glanced at Astarion again, feeling a surge of guilt and fury swell within her. Without another word, she nodded, her resolve steeling. She would make them pay for this. Every single one of them.

-☆-

Astarion lay still, his body a cage of fear as Vassa's dagger traced down the ties of his trousers, her breath a hot, fetid wind against his skin as she raked her teeth and tongue over his exposed abdomen. His mind screamed for escape, but his body refused to move, caught in a stifling paralysis. Just as her blade pressed further, a distant, blood-curdling scream sliced through the night air.

Vassa jerked, her hand freezing mid-cut as she whipped her head toward the sound. Another scream followed, and then another, until chaos erupted throughout the camp. Shouts and the clash of weapons filled the night, firelight flickering wildly as figures darted through the shadows, fleeing or searching for an unseen assailant. 

Thritch scrambled to his feet and took off to investigate, while Vassa cursed and hauled Astarion to his feet, her fingers digging into his arms like claws. She shoved him back into the cage, slamming the door shut behind him just as a low growl rumbled nearby.

Before Astarion could catch his breath, Vassa let out a strangled scream as something dark and monstrous yanked her backward. Bone-white jaws clamped around the orc's torso, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her scream was raw, torn from her throat as the beast hauled her up, her body twisting helplessly. Astarion pressed himself against the back of the cage, staring in horror as she disappeared out of sight above him, her screams cut short by a sickening crunch. Seconds later, her mangled corpse dropped back to the ground, split in two, blood soaking the earth.

Astarion was paralyzed, his eyes glued to the twisted remains, his mind reeling. His gaze slowly lifted, pulled by some dreadful compulsion, until he found himself staring into a pair of glowing blue eyes. 

They shone from the face of a giant wolf skull - bleached bone, with jagged fangs that gleamed like polished ivory, bared in an eternal deathly grin. The eyes - if they could even be called eyes - seemed to bore straight into him, like twin frozen flames, empty and ancient, radiating an aura of malice older than time.

Terror clawed through him, a primal fear that reached deep into his bones. This wasn't an animal, or even a spirit - it was death given form. The skull-headed wolf regarded him, unblinking, a silent omen of his fate. Astarion barely had time to draw breath before the creature turned, lunging with silent, deadly grace toward an oncoming group of orcs, its jaws snapping and claws tearing through their ranks like paper.

The camp descended into bedlam. Weapons flashed, arrows and spells whizzed through the air, and screams echoed through the trees as the orcs scrambled, some desperately fighting while others fled. Astarion glanced at the cage door, heart pounding when he noticed it was still unlocked. He threw his shoulder against it, the door swinging open just as the ground shook with the force of an explosion. A fireball streaked through the air, cast by one of the raiding party's spellcasters, exploding as it collided with a massive shape.

Astarion's senses blurred as the shockwave hit, sending the cage, the cart, and him hurtling down the embankment. He tumbled, his world spinning in a frenzy of mud, metal, and shattered wood, before crashing into the river below.

Panic gripped him, his legs thrashing as he took a deep, instinctual breath, only to feel himself dragged downward. The cage settled on the riverbed, a cloud of silt seeping through the bars. He pushed toward the door, but the rope around his neck jerked him back sharply, his terror spiking as he realized it had tangled in the wheels of the overturned cart beside him. 

Fear clawed at Astarion's chest as his lungs began to burn. The knowledge that he couldn't die from this did nothing to quiet the terror writhing inside him. He remembered what drowning felt like - the dark pressure crushing him, the burn of water in his lungs, the endless, agonizing cycles of death and revival. He had no intention of reliving it, of being trapped in the riverbed, reviving only to drown over and over again. The surface was so close, tantalizingly out of reach, just above his head.

Desperation clawed at him, and he twisted, bringing the rope to his mouth, his teeth gnashing against the thick, waterlogged fibers. But the rope wouldn't give, and his movements became weaker, his vision swimming as his lungs screamed for air. Pain wracked his body, water creeping into his throat, each gulp cutting off his lifeline. He choked, his body spasming as it tried to expel the water in his chest.

Then, a shadow moved above him. He looked up, his vision darkening, to see a figure swimming down. The elven woman from the road was reaching for him, a knife held between her teeth.

She grasped rope around his neck, her blade flashing as she cut through it with swift, precise strokes. Relief flooded Astarion, but his lungs betrayed him, his body convulsing as the last of his air escaped. He could feel himself slipping, but he was dimly aware of her arms wrapping around him, pulling him close as he drifted into unconsciousness. 

Darkness clawed at his mind, and as he went limp, the last sensation he registered was the warmth of her arms, cradling him as the world faded into black.

Chapter Text

Ashara stared down at the drenched, unconscious vampire sprawled out on the riverbank in front of her, his pale skin gleaming under the moonlight like washed-out porcelain. Beside her, Onyx sniffed at Astarion with a slow, deliberate inhale, his ears twitching back with curiosity.

"He isn't breathing," Onyx observed, his voice a low rumble in her mind.

Ashara raised an eyebrow, casting a sidelong glance at her wolf companion. "Isn't that normal for undead?"

Onyx shook his head, his golden eyes fixed on her. "Vampires are different. They can and still do breathe. While they don't need air to live, it keeps them conscious. He won't die, but if you want him to wake sooner, he'll need air from your lungs."

Ashara's face twisted with reluctance. "Can't we just... wait?"

Onyx huffed. "We could, but if we're to reach the Emerald Grove by noon, we'd best leave now."

She glanced down, her lips pressed thin. "Can you do it?"

Onyx let out a wry, gruff sound that might have been a laugh. "I'm afraid my mouth is the wrong shape for this task."

With a resigned sigh, she knelt beside Astarion, pinching his nose as she took a deep breath. Her mouth covered his, and she exhaled, feeling his chest rise faintly beneath her hand. She paused, bracing herself before taking another breath, and as she breathed into him a second time, she felt him stir. Ashara pulled back as he jerked, rolling onto his side with a shuddering cough, water pouring from his mouth.

"Just breathe," she murmured softly, resting a hand on his back as he gasped and trembled, his chest heaving as he purged the river water.

He coughed, the last of the water spilling free, but before Ashara could react, Astarion twisted around, moving with a speed that stunned her. In an instant, he had her dagger - pulled from her own belt - pressed to her throat, and she found herself pushed against the earth, the cold blade biting against her neck. Astarion's eyes were wide, wild with fear and pain, his hand trembling as he snarled down at her.

"Don't touch me!"

Ashara froze, shock tightening her throat as she stared up at him. Onyx responded with a menacing snarl, his hackles raised, every muscle in his body coiled to spring. Astarion's eyes flicked up at him, the dagger pressing closer to Ashara's neck.

"Call off your dog. Now," he demanded, voice edged with desperation.

Ashara's gaze hardened, her voice laced with both indignation and defiance. "He's not a dog, you ungrateful, stinking bullywug!"

Something flickered in Astarion's eyes, and the pressure on her neck slackened just slightly. His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. "Did you just call me... a bullywug?"

Ashara noticed the wild panic in his eyes begin to ebb, softening into something more bemused than hostile. She took a gamble, letting humor edge her voice, hoping to dispel the remnants of his fear. "Yes. Because only a bullywug would threaten someone who just saved their life. I must've made a mistake - clearly, you're not the vampire who begged for my help." She jerked her head toward the river. "I'll just put you back where you belong, then, shall I?"

Astarion blinked, visibly thrown, and finally lowered the dagger. He looked away, seemingly ashamed, and cast a quick, wary glance at Onyx, who remained tense. With a frustrated sigh, he tossed the dagger onto the ground and moved a few steps away, collapsing into a dejected heap on the gravel.

"What's the point?" he muttered, voice laced with exhaustion. "If I kill you, the wolf will tear me to shreds. And after threatening you, you'll probably just end up wanting to kill me yourself."

Ashara sat up, brushing the damp soil from her sleeves as she regarded him. "Can I suggest a third option?"

Astarion looked up, his expression hollow. "If you're about to suggest I join you on some grand quest to cure yourself of an Illithid tadpole... don't bother. I already tried that once. It didn't end well."

He hugged his knees to his chest, bitterness darkening his eyes. "Gods... I can't believe I trusted them."

Ashara tilted her head, curiosity piqued. "Tadpole?"

Astarion snorted, a sound devoid of humor. "Oh, wonderful. You're not even infected. Nice of the universe to rub salt in the wound."

Ashara gave him a perplexed look. "You're not making much sense."

He sighed, the sound heavy with an old, unshakeable weight. "Am I not? Perhaps it's because I don't care anymore. I finally escape Cazador's grasp, only to find that nothing has changed. I'm still just something to be bought, sold, and used."

Ashara's gaze softened as she watched him shiver, his form visibly trembling in the night air. Quietly, she reached into her bag of holding, feeling around its enchanted depths until her fingers brushed a soft rabbit-fur cloak. She pulled it free and approached him, draping it carefully over his shoulders. He flinched at the touch, his eyes snapping up to her, wary and defensive. She quickly stepped back, raising her hands.

"I didn't touch you," she said calmly. "I just thought you might want that."

Astarion blinked, his eyes widening slightly as he glanced down at the cloak now wrapped around him. He hesitated, then muttered, "I... I wasn't actually cold."

She shrugged, reaching out as if to take it back, but he gripped it, pulling it around himself with a determined gesture. "It is a bit chilly though, and I am soaked to the bone..."

Ashara paused, watching him settle into the cloak with something like a fragile relief. "Need it or don't need it - it's yours now."

Astarion stiffened, his gaze sharpening with suspicion. "Why? What do you want from me?"

Ashara's confusion was genuine as she looked back at Onyx, who had settled beside her, his eyes never leaving the vampire.

"Does a gift have to have a reason?"

Astarion's eyes narrowed, distrust plain as day. "In my experience... yes."

Onyx tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he observed the vampire. "He thinks you're trying to buy some kind of service from him in exchange for kindness."

Ashara's eyes widened, a pang of sadness tightening her chest as she looked at Astarion. "Has no one ever given you a gift before?"

A faint, bitter smile ghosted across his lips. "Oh, I've been given plenty of gifts," he replied, his voice a sarcastic murmur. "But they were usually only given after I'd earned them."

Ashara's hand moved gently over Onyx's thick fur as she regarded Astarion with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. "So... you've never had someone just do something nice for you, without expecting anything in return?"

He averted his gaze, his shoulders tightening beneath the cloak as he looked out toward the river. "No."

Ashara exhaled, a low whistle of disbelief escaping her lips. "Wow... your life sounds depressing."

Astarion let out a dry chuckle, his mouth curling into a wry, humorless smile. "Depressing doesn't even begin to cover it, darling."

A low, dangerous growl rumbled through the air as Onyx glared at Astarion, inching closer, his golden eyes narrowed with unmistakable warning. The vampire tensed, edging back slightly, his gaze flickering with alarm.

"Why is he looking at me like that?" he muttered, his voice carrying a wary edge.

Onyx's growl deepened, turning into a low snarl. "He should not use such a familiar term with you."

Ashara's lips quirked as she interpreted. "I don't think he liked you calling me 'darling.'"

Astarion raised his hands defensively, caught off guard. "Wait... he can understand me? Is he a druid?"

Ashara chuckled, shaking her head. "No. He's just... really clever."

Astarion glanced at Onyx, skepticism mingling with intrigue, but he wisely held his tongue. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the bubbling river sounds and the quiet rustle of leaves overhead.

Then Ashara took a breath, turning her gaze back to Astarion. "What did you mean earlier about an Illithid tadpole?"

Astarion's expression shifted, a look of disbelief mingling with faint irritation. "Have you been living under a rock for the past few weeks?"

She shrugged casually. "No. In the woods."

To her surprise, a faint smile ghosted across his face, a momentary softening in his guarded gaze. "You sound like a Githyanki I once knew."

As quickly as it appeared, the softness faded as he continued."Mindflayers have been snatching people all over Faerûn, infecting them with parasites that, if left unchecked, turn the host into one of them. I'm—" His words caught, his face paling further as realization struck.

"Oh shit..." He dropped his head into his hands, gripping his hair, as his eyes widened with a flash of fear. "I forgot. It was the artifact that was keeping me from transforming."

A choked laugh escaped him, strained and bitter. "You probably should have just left me in the river... I'm liable to start sprouting tentacles any moment."

Ashara's brow furrowed, her arms crossing as she regarded him intently. "Alright. I'm going to need an explanation for that sentence."

He threw her a frustrated glance, his patience visibly fraying. "I'm infected. So was the group I was originally traveling with. They have an artifact - some sort of relic that holds a being capable of shielding us from the process. Now that I'm no longer with them... I'm probably out of its range."

Ashara's gaze sharpened as she took in his words. "Why aren't you still travelling with them?"

Astarion's expression darkened, his features hardening with barely concealed rage. "Because the Dragonborn bastard leading them is a piece of shit. He knew I was a vampire from the start, even promised to keep it quiet - but then he put on this performance, all righteous and wounded, and handed me over to that Gur, pretending it was for the 'good of the team.' To protect them from a 'monster.'" Astarion's fist struck the ground, sending a small spray of dirt scattering.

"The only monster around was him," he hissed, his voice thick with anger. "I could almost pity the fools following him if they hadn't just stood by, watching, while he betrayed me."

A low, simmering growl erupted from Onyx, his golden eyes flashing with rare, ferocious anger. "To abandon a pack member like that is shameful. This Dragonborn is not a true leader."

Astarion's head jerked up, frowning. "Now what did I say?"

Ashara sank down beside him, crossing her legs and letting her hands rest on her knees. "He doesn't like how you were treated. Wolves don't betray each other. They look out for one another and only travel as fast as their slowest pack member."

Astarion scoffed, indignant. "I wasn't the slowest one."

She rolled her eyes. "You're missing the point. Strong, weak, clever, dumb - it doesn't matter in a wolf pack. Every member is valued. Onyx and I are a pack, and we would never betray each other, no matter what."

Silence settled between them, thick with the weight of all that had gone unsaid. Ashara's gaze lingered on Astarion, noting the faint tremor in his hands as he held her cloak tightly around himself, as though it might ward off something far colder than the night air. His eyes grew distant, troubled, and for a moment, she thought he might not speak again. But then he glanced at her, hesitant, his voice softer than she'd yet heard.

"Why... why did you come back for me?" His tone was edged with suspicion, and yet something vulnerable glinted beneath it. "You seemed pretty unconcerned about my fate, back when I was with the Gur."

Ashara frowned, her brow knitting as she tried to put her answer into words. "That's not entirely true. I was concerned - I don't like seeing anything or anyone in a cage." Her gaze dropped briefly to her hands, rough from the forest, stained from the soil. "But... stealing children? That's a pretty monstrous thing to do. I couldn't ignore that."

Astarion's jaw clenched, his expression sour. "Well, on that we can agree. But you're forgetting that I didn't have a choice in the matter."

"Everyone always has a choice," she replied bluntly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You chose badly."

A spark of frustration lit his gaze, and his scowl deepened as he bristled, anger flaring. "Well, how lovely for everyone else. Except, as a vampire spawn, I literally have no choice. Cazador speaks, and I obey. I'm like a puppet, bound to his will, body and soul. I have no free will of my own to make choices that everyone else takes for granted - right or wrong."

His anger subsided, but a bitter, twisted smile replaced it. "Or at least that's how it used to be. Now that I've got this lovely little tadpole squirming around in my brain, his commands don't seem to reach me. It's like I'm finally lost to him - and I'll be damned if I let anyone else control me ever again."

Ashara watched him, subdued, as his words struck a familiar chord. She knew the feeling of chains - visible or unseen. "Then I'm even sorrier for not helping you sooner. I didn't realize vampire lords could control their spawn like that."

Astarion's lips twisted into a wry smile, his tone laced with condescension, though it lacked its usual bite. "Your ignorance is forgiven... considering I owe you for eventually deciding to help."

She shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "I wasn't planning to. You just happened to be captured by the same orc raiders I'd been tracking all day."

Astarion's mouth fell open for a moment, then he rubbed his eyes with a weary sigh. "That's... well, that's slightly less reassuring. But at least you're honest. That's something, I suppose."

Ashara's expression softened, her voice lowering. "Despite how I felt about you and what you did, I couldn't just stand by and let those two orcs go through with what they had planned."

Astarion stilled, his body tensing as he processed her words. He turned his head slowly, a blank expression masking the tight discomfort she could see behind his eyes. "You... saw that."

"Yes," she answered quietly, a steely resolve in her voice. "And 'that' is the reason they're all dead now."

His breath hitched, a flash of surprise crossing his features before he looked at her sharply, as though trying to comprehend her motives. A glint of gratitude warred with confusion in his gaze, but suspicion lingered, carving lines of weariness into his face.

"You destroyed a whole warband of orcs... for me?"

Ashara met his stare unflinchingly. "I hate cages, but I despise rapists even more. This particular warband has left behind many broken souls."

Astarion swallowed, looking away as he wrapped the cloak tighter around himself, as though shielding himself from her words. They sat in silence, the dark night air thick with the unspoken. Ashara didn't press him, giving him space as he stared at the ground, his shoulders tense, defensive.

Gradually, his posture eased, his shoulders relaxing, and after a long pause, he murmured under his breath, barely audible, "What would I have to do..."

Ashara glanced at him, sensing the weight of something unspoken. He cleared his throat, speaking louder, though a hint of uncertainty lingered in his voice.

"What would I have to do to - temporarily - become a member of your pack?"

Ashara tilted her head, studying him with interest. "You still want to trust us after everything you've been through?"

Astarion let out a humorless laugh, his lips twisting into a grim smile. "Oh, I don't trust you or anyone else. But I also don't have much choice. Cazador is clearly looking for me, and isn't above hiring scum like those raiders."

He cast a sidelong glance at her. "And while it's entirely possible you've been hired to capture me too, I'm choosing to assume that if you wanted me, you'd have taken me from that Gur without all this... effort."

Onyx's solemn nod seemed to amuse Astarion, and his mouth quirked slightly, the faintest glimmer of a smile flickering across his face.

"Not to mention," Astarion added with a hint of dark humor, "there is the little matter of saving my - well, perhaps not my life, but certainly my sanity. I'm particularly glad not to spend an eternity trapped underwater."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Would you have just kept drowning? Over and over?"

Astarion shot her a withering look. "Yes... thank you for putting that lovely thought into words."

She cocked her head, frowning. "How is drowning for eternity a lovely thought? That sounds terrifying to me."

The vampire blinked, his brow furrowing as he eyed her, baffled. "I take it sarcasm isn't common where you come from?"

"Oh..." Ashara gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I don't always pick up on that."

"Really? I'd never have guessed," he muttered, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

Beside her, Onyx turned his head, scratching furiously at his ear. Ashara could hear his huffing breaths and knew he was trying to stifle a laugh.

Ashara sighed, a hint of a smile on her face. "You were being sarcastic again, weren't you?"

Astarion groaned, pressing his fingers to his temple. "I'm already regretting this."

He took a deep breath, as if gathering the last remnants of his resolve. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that I'd rather take my chances with you than face whatever else is waiting for me... if you'll have me."

Ashara leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees, her expression contemplative. "Well, my original plan was to take you somewhere remote, far from innocent people, and let you fend for yourself. But Onyx said that would probably make you angry and vengeful."

Astarion's jaw dropped, and he let out a strangled laugh, an incredulous sound that verged on genuine amusement. "Yes... that would most definitely piss me off."

A grin tugged at her lips, and they shared a moment of reluctant understanding. She glanced at Onyx, who offered a wolfish shrug.

"This is your decision," Onyx murmured, his tone warm with reassurance. "I will follow your lead."

Ashara stood, brushing bits of river mud from her sleeves as she fixed her gaze on Astarion. "It sounds like you may have more information about a possible explanation for the missing people I'm looking for. If they were infected by mindflayers like you, then it's likely they're searching for a cure too."

She extended a hand to him. "If you join us, I'll help you find something - or someone - to rid you of that parasite. Chances are, we'll run into others in the same predicament along the way."

Astarion's mouth twisted in a grimace. "That's what I'm afraid of."

He hesitated, his gaze shifting to her outstretched hand before he rose on his own, ignoring the gesture. For a moment, they stood in silence, a tentative truce settling between them.

"Hypothetically..." he began, a sly edge in his tone, "if we were to come across my former traveling companions, what would your reaction be if I were to... oh, I don't know... murder the son of a b - uh, bear who betrayed me?"

Ashara shrugged, her tone casual. "It sounds like those traveling with him might need protecting from their leaders deception, so I'd probably help you kill him."

He looked genuinely pleased with her answer, then tilted his head thoughtfully. "And if my old master came to personally drag me back to Baldur's Gate? Would being part of your 'pack' protect me?"

Onyx let out a low, rumbling growl, his fangs flashing as he bared his teeth. Astarion flinched, though he quickly recovered, his gaze wary.

In response, Ashara conveyed Onyx's fierce loyalty. "Onyx says he'll tear this Cazador to pieces if he threatens us."

Astarion looked at the wolf with new respect, nodding before clearing his throat, his bemused smirk returning. "So... do I get an initiation ceremony? Secret handshake, blood ritual, stand on a cliff and howl at the moon?"

Ashara fought to contain a laugh, catching the mischievous glint in his eyes. Beneath the anger and mistrust, she glimpsed a sharp wit, a humor that had somehow survived everything he'd endured.

"We're not werewolves," she replied, crossing her arms with a grin. "And this isn't a story from one of Volo's ridiculous guides." Her gaze softened, though she met his with steely resolve. "While my gifts may come without a price, as an outsider, you're still going to have to earn your place."

Astarion glanced at Onyx, who observed him with a steady, discerning gaze. "And I suppose the wolf gets the final vote?"

Ashara nodded, smiling. "Always."

Astarion frowned, his gaze shifting from Ashara to Onyx with clear unease. "I wish I could hear him though. It's rather unnerving to know someone's talking about you and not being able to understand them. I don't suppose you have a potion of animal speaking in that bag of yours, do you?"

Ashara ruffled Onyx's fur affectionately and turned her gaze to Astarion. "Hearing him is easy. You just have to stop being afraid of him."

Astarion blinked, his expression incredulous. "I beg your pardon?"

Without another word, Ashara grasped the thick fur at Onyx's neck and swung herself up onto his back with a graceful, practiced motion. She reached down, extending a hand to Astarion. "His words will not find you if you encircle your heart with walls of fear," she said calmly. "Trust him, and understanding will soon follow."

He stared at her hand, then glanced at Onyx, who watched him with an inscrutable golden gaze. The idea of riding on the back of the massive direwolf made his stomach clench. "Um... you want me to... ride him? With you?"

"Yes, he's strong enough to carry us both."

Astarion narrowed his eyes, a touch of wariness coloring his tone. "Does he also frequently have a habit of turning into a monstrous, skull-headed demon wolf?"

Ashara's face remained impassive. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. He's just a regular giant magical direwolf."

Onyx let out a low rumble, curling his lip ever so slightly to flash a sharp fang in Astarion's direction. The vampire hesitated, muttering, "Right... nothing to fear at all."

After a tense moment, he took Ashara's hand, and she pulled him up onto Onyx's back behind her. The sensation of the wolf's muscles shifting beneath him was strange, a visceral reminder of the sheer power coiled in the creature he now straddled.

The closeness to Ashara made him suddenly, acutely aware of her warmth, the steady beat of her pulse at her neck - a reminder of his gnawing hunger. His gaze drifted to that vulnerable spot just below her jaw, the rhythm of her heartbeat tugging at him, stirring the need he'd been fighting since his escape. He swallowed, gritting his teeth as he tried to force the craving down.

Before he could steady himself, Onyx rose swiftly, the sudden movement throwing him against her back. He gasped, instinctively gripping her waist to keep himself from falling. The closeness, combined with the scent of her blood just beneath her skin, was too much.

"Actually, you know what," he blurted, his voice more frantic than he intended, "I think it's better if I just... walk. Or run, perhaps. I've never been good at riding horses, and this is... infinitely worse."

Ashara glanced back, her tone patient. "Just hold onto me, and you'll be fine."

Astarion forced himself to take shallow breaths, but the craving gnawed at him, a steady drumbeat that grew louder by the moment. It had been far too long since he'd last fed, and proximity to Ashara only made the need sharper, more unbearable. Desperate to keep his composure, he shifted, trying to dismount.

"No, no, I really think it's best if I walk," he babbled. "I've been sat in a cage for days - I could do with the exercise."

Onyx's head turned slightly, his golden eyes fixed on him, and Astarion noted Ashara was listening to the wolf intently. She twisted around, her gaze landing on him with unnerving accuracy.

"Were you thinking about biting me?"

Astarion muttered, half-defensive, "I'm always thinking about biting someone."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, though her gaze softened with understanding. He added hastily, "I don't specifically want to bite you, per se. It's just... being this close is somewhat... distracting. My self-control isn't exactly at its peak right now."

"How much blood would you need to... not be distracted?" she asked, her tone curious, not fearful.

The question caught him off guard, sparking a flicker of hope. "Why?" He paused, unable to hide a faint, wry grin. "Are you volunteering some?"

Before she could answer, Onyx let out a low growl, a deep rumble that vibrated through Astarion's body. He tensed, quickly backtracking. "Never mind. I'll just... grit my teeth and endure it."

Ashara considered him, then shrugged, as though the solution were simple. "You don't have to do that. Onyx doesn't want you feeding on me." She paused, glancing at the wolf. "But he doesn't mind if you want to take some of his blood."

Astarion stared at her, dumbfounded, then looked down at Onyx, who met his gaze with calm, unblinking acceptance. "Really?"

In answer, Onyx sank down onto his haunches, lowering himself to make it easier for Astarion to dismount. With hesitant steps, he moved closer, feeling acutely vulnerable as he knelt beside the massive wolf. Onyx was the size of a cave bear, his sheer strength undeniable, and yet he lay there, placid and composed, even dipping his head slightly to grant access.

Ashara's voice came gently, calm and guiding, cut through his hesitation "He says the fur is thinnest just under his ear."

Astarion took a steadying breath, reaching up to part the fur beneath Onyx's ear, exposing a small patch of skin where a vein pulsed just below the surface. His heart pounded, but he steeled himself, muttering under his breath, "Here goes nothing..."

He bit down, expecting resistance, a snap, or growl - but Onyx didn't flinch. The blood flowed rich and warm, deeper and more potent than any animal he'd tasted before. It held an essence that was oddly... wise, a powerful vitality unlike anything he'd ever known. He wondered, briefly, if Onyx would be considered a "thinking being" forbidden by Cazador's cruel law. The thought nagged at him, but as he drank, the strength flooding into his veins dulled his doubts.

He drank deeply, the pleasure of it soothing his frayed nerves, the ache in his body melting away. Time slipped by, his mind lulled by the simple, primal satisfaction of fully sating his hunger. But gradually, a prickling sense of unease began to creep in, pulling him back to awareness as he realised just how long he'd been feeding.

He lifted his head, glancing at Onyx in surprise. The wolf watched him out of the corner of his eye, fully conscious, as calm as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"Dear gods..." Astarion whispered, wiping his mouth. "How much blood do you have in you?"

A faint tickle at the edge of his mind made him blink. Then a voice, rich with amusement, drifted into his thoughts.

"More than you can ever drink, little spawn."

Astarion stiffened, his eyes widening as he stared at Onyx. "I... I can hear you."

Onyx nuzzled his shoulder, a quiet, comforting gesture. "Because you no longer fear me."

Astarion huffed out a breath, a startled laugh escaping him. "I'm fairly certain I'm still terrified of you."

Onyx's voice, warm yet resolute, responded with quiet certainty. "Perhaps in your head, but not your heart."

Astarion looked up, catching Ashara's gaze as she observed him with a gentle smile, a sense of acceptance radiating from her.

"Welcome to my pack, Astarion." Her voice was steady, her words simple yet brimming with an unspoken promise.

For a moment, he was speechless, struck by the strangeness of it all. After a life defined by manipulation, of feigned kindnesses and hidden prices, her acceptance was both unsettling and strangely heartening.

With a faint sigh of resignation, he took her hand and swung himself up behind her again. Once seated, he realized he had no idea where to place his hands. His mind flicked over the options with mounting awkwardness - should he grab the thick fur along Onyx's back? Cling to Ashara's waist? The thought disturbed him, the closeness feeling almost intrusive.

But before he could decide, Onyx rose with a sudden, powerful motion that jolted Astarion forward. Instinct took over, and he clutched Ashara's waist, fingers gripping tight as the wolf shifted into a steady trot.

To his relief, she didn't seem to mind his grip, remaining focused on the path ahead. Her calm steadiness was oddly reassuring, grounding him as the trees slipped by, their shadows stretching long under the moonlight. He forced himself to breathe, to settle into the rhythm of Onyx's stride, his initial discomfort gradually giving way to something close to... ease.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, a quiet peace settled over him, the soft murmur of leaves, the scent of pine, and the occasional hoot of an owl weaving a strange, fragile sense of safety around him. He tightened his grip on Ashara just slightly, feeling the warmth of her through her cloak, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

And yet, in the stillness of the forest, a single thought rose to the surface, a plea spoken only within the confines of his own mind.

Please let this time be different.

Chapter Text

As the first light of dawn touched the sky, casting a soft amber glow across the horizon, Ashara and Astarion, astride Onyx, reached the summit of a hill on the path to the Emerald Grove. Beneath them, the world unfurled like a tapestry - the river Chionthar wound its way through dense forests, a silver thread bordered by swathes of dark, ancient trees.

But the sight that held Ashara captive was the twisted wreck of the Nautiloid, its grotesque shape unmistakable even from a distance. As the sunlight unfurled, it exposed the peculiar glint of metal and pulsating organic matter, lying like some immense dead sea creature on the shoreline.

Ashara’s breath caught, her eyes wide in awe and something like revulsion. “Wow… I’ve heard about Illithid ships, but I’ve never seen one in person.”

Behind her, Astarion’s scoff broke the spell. “Lucky you,” he muttered, his tone clipped. “I’ve seen more of that ship’s interior than I ever cared to. And none of it was this scenic.”

Onyx, sensing their subtle shift in mood, lowered himself to the ground. Ashara dismounted fluidly, patting his neck in gratitude. She felt Astarion’s weight disappear from behind her, only to hear a faint stumble, followed by the rustle of fur.

She turned, catching sight of Astarion clutching onto Onyx’s coat for support, his pale face marred by a fleeting grimace. Despite his defiant grin, the faint tremor in his hands betrayed him.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft, eyes narrowing as she observed the stiffness in his movements.

“Of course,” he replied, voice straining with forced cheer as he shifted, trying to regain his balance. “Perfectly fine. It’s just that my legs seem to have staged a mutiny. Who knew that sitting on your arse for five hours could be quite this exhausting?” He let out a self-deprecating laugh that sounded closer to a sigh.

Ashara chuckled, unable to resist rubbing her own aching backside in empathy. “You get used to it, sort of. At least we’re on foot from here.” She glanced at Onyx, giving him a firm nod. “Scout ahead for us, and maybe… warn the Grove we’re on our way?”

Astarion’s expression shifted, his usual sarcastic edge returning, though his gaze held a wary gleam. “This would be the same Druid’s Grove led by a child-murdering fanatic, yes?”

At that, Onyx lifted his head, baring his teeth in a silent snarl, a deep rumble vibrating through him. "Not unless Halsin has gone mad…"

Astarion moved toward a boulder, leaning against it with a sigh as he stretched, wincing slightly as he eased his muscles. “The last time I visited, a charming zealot by the name of Khaga was calling the shots,” he said, his words laced with a bitter disdain. “Halsin had apparently gotten himself captured by goblins in some rundown Selunite temple. We thought he might have a good idea about how to cure us - seeing as he's been studying the infected."

He sat down heavily on the bolder, rubbing his face tiredly as he continued, "So my erstwhile companions and I were about to stage a rescue… right up until we encountered a delightful Gur hunter in the swamps. You know how that particular adventure went.”

Ashara pulled a canteen out from her bag and unscrewed it, letting the cold water slip down her throat before speaking. “Do you think they managed to rescue him?”

Astarion gave a careless shrug, his eyes distant. “Perhaps. Or maybe Durge left him to rot - who’s to say? Either way, I’d tread lightly if I were you.”

“Durge?” Ashara echoed, curiosity sparking in her tone.

“The Dragonborn,” he said, his voice low, nearly lost to the wind. “That was all he could remember about himself. He woke up on that infernal ship with no memories except for a name, and somehow, that… scaly white juggernaut still ended up leading our little band of survivors. Quite the inspiring tale, isn’t it? Proof that brute strength and a knack for violence are all one really needs to inspire loyalty.”

As he spoke, Astarion’s fingers drifted absently to his chest, tracing the frayed edges of his torn shirt where Vassa’s dagger had sliced through. His fingers paused, trembling slightly as they lingered over the rip, the brief, haunted look in his eyes speaking more than he likely intended.

Ashara’s gaze softened, her decision coming as naturally as a breath. “We’ve been traveling all night,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “While Onyx scouts ahead, how about we make camp here and rest a bit? I’ll look through my supplies and see if I can find you some new clothes and armor, too.”

Astarion stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “I suppose I could use a rest… I didn’t get much chance to sleep while in that cage.”

Ashara nodded to Onyx, who responded with a nuzzle against her shoulder before slipping into the shadowed forest, his movements unnervingly silent for a creature of his size. Astarion watched, caught between admiration and disbelief how Onyx's massive frame vanished so effortlessly. A creature of shadows, much like himself.

His attention shifted back to Ashara, who had knelt on the ground, hands digging into the soil as she murmured something in a language he didn’t recognize. Her words were soft, lilting, and the air around them seemed to hum in response. A faint glow began to spread from the earth beneath her hands, threads of green light snaking up through the soil.

To Astarion’s astonishment, the earth parted, revealing a small portal, a pool of otherworldly energy that pulsed gently, like the heartbeat of some ancient being. He watched, entranced, as she plunged her arm in up to her shoulder, her expression focused and calm.

One by one, she pulled items from the portal: bags, pouches, and loose objects which she examined with a discerning eye before either setting them aside or dropping them back into the mysterious opening. Astarion’s eyes widened as she continued to produce items from the depths, muttering to herself in half-whispered fragments as she went.

“Where on earth did I put that leather jerkin?” she murmured, her brow furrowed in mild frustration.

A moment later, she tossed a pair of trousers and a thick belt toward him. He caught them, pleased to see they were at least clean - more rustic than he was used to, but serviceable. The sudden clink of metal made him glance down, where a shortsword and dagger now lay in the grass beside him. He picked up the sword, testing its weight and balance. As he reached for the dagger, he felt a faint, tingling energy thrumming through its handle, unmistakably enchanted - and expensive.

He glanced up at Ashara, his brows raised in surprise, but she was still rummaging through her belongings, muttering to herself. “I really need to have a clear out and label this stuff properly…”

Glancing up, she registered the look on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyes flicking to meet his. “Don’t you like them?”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat as he tried to wrap his mind around her generosity. “It’s not that… you just handed weapons a vampire who held you at knife point less than five hours ago.”

She tilted her head, her expression shifting to something unreadable. “And?”

Astarion’s fingers tightened around the dagger. “You don’t see any problem in that?”

She studied him, her gaze lingering thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing him. “Why… are you planning on using them to hurt me?”

The question was so direct it almost threw him off balance. He blinked, momentarily disarmed. “Well… no. But the point is I could.”

Her mouth curved into a soft smile, a subtle challenge dancing in her eyes. “I think you’re smart enough to realize that would be a bad idea.”

He let out a short laugh, tinged with a hint of incredulity. “And what if I wasn’t?”

With a careless shrug, Ashara returned to rummaging through her supplies. “Then you’d have a very large and very pissed-off direwolf hunting you for all eternity.” She threw another bag at him, spilling an array of colorful fabrics at his feet. “Here, try on a few of these."

Astarion ran his fingers over the materials, marveling at the textures. Silks mingled with coarser linen and cotton, and he caught his breath, fingers lingering on a deep blue shirt trimmed with silver. He held it up, admiring the way the fabric shimmered.

“Where did you get all this?” he asked, still holding the shirt as if it were some relic.

Ashara looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m a bit of a… loot goblin. You wouldn’t believe the things Onyx and I find on our adventures. Some of it’s from grateful people, but most… is scavenged from ruins and, well… corpses.”

He chuckled, fingering the silver embroidery, which on closer examination appeared to be tiny, star-shaped flowers. “Corpses have excellent taste.”

Ashara shrugged and nodded towards the shirt witha smile. “Not exactly practical, but you can have it if you want. I prefer purple.”

She returned to the portal, her hand reaching in and then freezing in frustration. “Now, if I could just find that blasted jerkin…” With an exasperated huff, she bent forward, her entire upper body disappearing into the portal. Muffled curses floated back to him, punctuated by the occasional thump as she shuffled things around.

Astarion watched, momentarily transfixed, until his eyes landed on her - half in, half out of the portal, her backside angled toward him as she searched.

“Dear Lords… save me from temptation,” he murmured, smirking to himself as he quickly looked away when she straightened, triumphantly holding a black leather jerkin.

“Found it!” she crowed, brandishing it aloft. “It was tucked away behind the minotaur skull.”

She caught his sly grin as he avoided her gaze, her eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Surprised you didn’t think about kicking me in.”

He matched her smile, shrugging. “The thought did cross my mind.”

She laughed, a light, genuine sound that echoed through the trees, before turning her gaze to the scattered bags and objects around the portal. She groaned, opening her arms and scooping everything up, dumping it all unceremoniously back into the glowing pool. She whispered a soft word, sealing the earth with a shimmer, and brushed her hands off with a satisfied nod. “I’ll sort that lot out another time.”

“I’ll give you some privacy to change while I go set up camp further back,” she added, slinging a large canvas roll over her shoulder and heading off without another word.

He watched her disappear among the trees before looking back at the items in his hands. He stroked the silk shirt again, feeling the weight of it, the promise of comfort and warmth. The dagger’s enchanted hum thrummed in his hand, a reminder of how little anyone had ever willingly offered him. Durge had always kept the finest spoils, and Cazador… well, Cazador had only ever given him orders and pain. The casual generosity of Ashara was as baffling as it was unsettling.

For a moment, he wondered, uncertain. He didn't believe for one second that all of these gifts came without a price. The question was… what would that price be?

Astarion barely suppressed a shiver when he felt it- a prickle of awareness, a sense of eyes on him. He turned, already half on edge, and nearly leapt out of his skin to find Onyx sitting beside him, staring with an unervingly calm expression. The wolf’s scrutiny sent a strange chill down Astarion’s spine, making him feel as if every secret he held was exposed under that steady, knowing stare.

He pressed a hand to his chest, glaring as he attempted to steady his breathing. “Don’t do that to me!”

Onyx’s lips pulled back in what could only be described as a grin. “It was funny.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, but there was something oddly playful in the wolf’s unblinking gaze. Before he could come up with a retort, a thought struck him, and his gaze sharpened. “Were you watching us the whole time?”

“Yes,” Onyx replied, his tone devoid of apology. “Ashara may be quick to trust, but I am not.”

Astarion shifted, uneasy under the weight of Onyx’s presence as the wolf rose and circled him, positioning himself so that Astarion had no choice but to look up. Onyx’s bulk was formidable, his dark fur blending into the forest shadows, his eyes unwavering. Astarion felt small, as if he were a rabbit caught beneath the watchful eye of a hawk.

He raised his hands, trying for a diplomatic tone. “I have no intention of—”

“While at times Ashara displays a wisdom beyond her age, she is still very young," Onyx interrupted him with a deep sigh. "Much of her life has been spent isolated from others of her kind, so she does not always behave the way an adult is expected to.”

Astarion forced a smile, an attempt at deflection. “Let me guess, she was raised by wolves.”

Onyx’s expression remained as blank as stone before he responded, deadpan. “No. She was raised by a human man after he found her abandoned in the forest as a newborn.”

There was a long pause. Astarion felt an odd prickle of discomfort in the silence, a tension that only lessened when Onyx’s mouth curled in a strange, canine smile. “He was the one raised by wolves.”

A slow smile crept over Astarion’s face despite himself. Against his better judgment, he was beginning to like this creature’s strange sense of humor. “Ah… I take it she’s not had much in the way of socialising then?”

Onyx’s head dipped in agreement, his golden eyes glimmering with a faint sadness. “Unfortunately, no. She was taught how to survive in the wilds by a recluse who was pure-hearted and loyal, but who shunned his own kind. When he died, not more than three years ago, Ashara was left to navigate this world alone, unprepared for how harsh it can be. I have done my best to protect her, but she is still too inexperienced. She treats strangers with caution and suspicion, but those she likes enough to call friend are trusted unconditionally.”

The wolf’s gaze sharpened, drilling into Astarion, his unspoken judgment hanging in the silence. “Many would take advantage of this. I think, perhaps, you also intend to.”

Astarion flinched at the accusation, feeling heat rise under his collar as he struggled to meet Onyx’s eyes. He hated that the wolf could see through him so clearly, his intentions laid bare. Guilt prickled at him, mingling with irritation at the audacity of being confronted by a creature who barely knew him.

He lifted his head, forcing himself to meet the wolf’s eyes with a defiant tilt to his chin. “I have no intention of harming Ashara, but if she wants to show generosity toward me, I don’t see why I can’t… take advantage of that.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Onyx’s gaze remained unreadable as Astarion’s heart thudded in his chest, a relentless beat that seemed to echo in his ears. Finally, the wolf lay down, folding his massive paws beneath him. His head was now level with Astarion’s, close enough that he could see the individual shades of amber swirling in those keen eyes.

“Taking advantage of her generosity is not what I am concerned about,” Onyx said, his tone laced with a quiet authority. “She has far too many possessions in my opinion - I should never have taught her that ‘Hidden Earth’ spell. She hoards trinkets like a magpie.”

Astarion’s lips twitched at the wolf’s disgruntled tone. He could almost picture Onyx sighing in exasperation.

“No,” Onyx continued, his voice taking on a grave weight. “I am speaking of something deeper. Now that you are a member of her pack, she will defend you with her life. Do not take this for granted, and do not deliberately place her in a position where she must choose between protecting you and doing what is right.”

Astarion felt a flash of irritation prickling under his skin, his chest tightening with defiance. “I’m not exactly eager to go looking for trouble. Believe me, I’d rather stay comfortably in the shadows and let you and Ashara make all the grand decisions.”

His words, meant to be calm, came out sharper, more clipped. The tension was rising, a restless energy that made it impossible to stay still. He pushed to his feet, pacing with a quick, agitated stride, his emotions bubbling to the surface in spite of himself. “Maybe I could rob you both blind and disappear into the night, but what good would that do me? I have no idea how much time I have left before this… thing inside my head decides to turn me into a mind flayer. I’m out of allies, out of ideas, and desperate. So, yes, I’m only joining you to survive, to find some hope that I might escape this fate, but you can be damn sure I won’t be doing anything to jeopardize this… alliance.”

Astarion spun on his heel, his glare sharp as a blade, every nerve within him thrumming with anger and a frantic need to prove himself. “Does that satisfy you?” His voice was barely steady, the words trembling with unspoken fear. “Or are you still planning to drop me in the middle of nowhere, like you originally intended?”

His breath came in shallow, unsteady gasps, each one a struggle against the tightness squeezing his chest. He clawed at his shirt as though he could physically wrench the panic out, but it only grew, thick and suffocating. His vision wavered, and his fingers sought out the solidity of a nearby rock, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. His heart drummed in his chest, fast and erratic, a frantic beat that he couldn’t control.

“What’s happening to me?” he managed, voice a thin thread barely holding steady.

Onyx stood, padding over to him with a measured calmness, the wolf’s gaze piercing with both concern and quiet understanding. “You appear to be having a panic attack.”

Astarion scowled, the accusation feeling like a slap. “What? No… don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t had one of those in centuries. It must be the tadpole.”

But the thought of that parasite, burrowed in his skull and slowly gnawing away at his very sense of self, only made his breathing worse. His vision clouded with dread, his mind latching onto the horrifying image of himself as a mind flayer, his own body twisted into something grotesque and alien. The edges of his vision darkened, closing in as he spiraled deeper into the fear.

Then, cutting through the haze, a soft, steady voice spoke up. “Onyx is right.” Astarion’s gaze snapped to the side, where Ashara stood, her expression sympathetic. “I get these all the time, so he knows what they look like.”

Astarion’s stomach sank, the mortification settling over him like a cold mist. He felt exposed, raw, stripped of the cool composure he usually wore so well. “I’m fine,” he stammered, the betrayal of his voice stinging even as he tried to control it. “I j-just… n-need t-to rest.”

The words felt weak, hollow, mocking him in his own voice. His mind lashed out at him, a cruel whisper: Stop being so weak and pathetic!

Ashara took a step forward, determination hardening her gaze. “Sit down here, on the ground, just for a moment.”

Suspicion flickered in his eyes as he took a step back, resisting. “Why?”

“Just trust me, okay?”

Astarion hesitated, every instinct screaming at him to flee, to find some semblance of control on his own terms. The world felt too close, too stifling. He prepared to bolt when he felt a solid nudge at the backs of his legs, Onyx pressing him forward with an insistent force that left him stumbling and abruptly landing on the ground. Before he could even protest, the wolf’s massive paws settled on either side of him, boxing him in. His broad head lowered over Astarion’s shoulder to pin him gently but firmly in place.

“What are you doing?!” Astarion’s eyes darted, wild and full of panic, his instincts recoiling at the physical restraint. He struggled, twisting and pummelling his fists into Onyx’s head, but the wolf's weight was immovable.

Ashara’s voice reached him again, smooth and soft, soothing as a lullaby. “Listen to his heartbeat, Astarion. Feel the rise and fall of his chest, and try to match your breathing to his.”

“Stop this! I don’t need your—”

The heat from Onyx’s body began to seep into Astarion, the rich scent of pine and fresh-cut grass filling his senses. The warmth, unexpected and primal, touched something deep inside of him, breaking through the icy panic gnawing at his mind. He stilled, his protest dying on his lips.

Slowly, the rhythm of Onyx’s steady heartbeat resonated through his body, a quiet lull that eroded away at his fear. Without realizing, Astarion allowed himself to sink back, his rigid form softening as he let the wolf’s warmth envelop him. He reached out, his fingers stroking the thick fur along Onyx’s leg, feeling the softness, grounding himself in that small, repetitive motion. With each inhale, he worked to match the steady, even rise and fall of the wolf’s chest, forcing his breath to find that same tempo.

Gradually, the storm of panic ebbed, the tightness in his chest loosening as his body surrendered to the calm that radiated from Onyx’s presence. It was almost foreign, this sense of being anchored, held by something solid and sure. A faint, reluctant smile tugged at his lips, and he mumbled, “Actually… this is rather nice.”

A voice, gentle yet perceptive, slipped into his mind. “You fear being alone in this,” Onyx murmured, his words not judgmental but rather an observation, a truth spoken softly. “That when the time comes, you will have to face it without aid.”

Astarion’s jaw clenched, the instinct to deny flaring up, but he said nothing, unwilling to expose that raw, aching wound. Onyx seemed to sense the silence, not pressing further, letting the moment speak for itself.

When Onyx finally continued, his tone was softer, devoid of the sharp edge that had haunted their earlier exchange. “Do not take my previous words as a threat, Astarion. I only wish you to understand the nature of those with whom you have chosen to ally. We are not like this Durge who abandoned and betrayed you. We will not bully, manipulate or control you as your former master did. All we ask is that you contribute in your own way, whether that’s standing beside us in battle…"

Onyx raised his head to look at Ashara, a grin forming on his mouth. "Or by simply helping this little magpie tidy up her pocket dimension.”

A soft, unexpected laugh escaped from Ashara, and Astarion let out a reluctant chuckle of his own, caught off-guard by the dry humor in the wolf’s voice. He found himself smirking, almost in spite of himself. “Oh no, I’m not nearly brave enough to take on that mess," he quipped, his tone dry as he shot Ashara a quick look. “I’ll stick to fighting, if it’s all the same to you.”

Onyx huffed, his warm breath ruffling Astarion’s hair. "Wise choice."

Realizing the strange position he was in, Astarion shifted, squirming under the wolf’s weight. “You can stop… hugging me now,” he muttered, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.

Onyx lifted his head and slowly rose, stepping back but remaining close, his golden eyes reflecting an unexpected softness. As Astarion regained his footing, he felt a strange mixture of embarrassment and… relief. He didn’t want to admit it, but for the first time in ages, he felt a flicker of safety, even if it was conditional, even if it was fragile.

Astarion cleared his throat, his voice reasserting a touch of haughtiness. "Ahem… now that's out of the way - if you'll excuse me, I have some clothes to try on." His attempt at casualness rang with faint embarrassment as he stiffly strode over to the bundle of clothing, lifting it with a deliberate sort of dignity before slipping behind a nearby rock to change.

Ashara watched him go, the slightest curve of concern in her brow before she turned to Onyx. Leaning into his side, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face briefly in his thick fur. The warmth and earthy scent grounded her, easing the ache of old memories.

“I never thought I’d see someone else go through that.” Her voice was low, almost as if confessing to herself. She tilted her head, looking into Onyx’s warm, wise eyes. “Is that how I look when I’m having a panic attack?”

Onyx nuzzled her shoulder gently, his breath warm against her neck. “You are a little less violent,” he murmured with a touch of humor, “but yes.”

He glanced toward the rock where Astarion had disappeared. His gaze lingered, thoughtful. “I must admit to being surprised by the intensity of his fear. I think this one has suffered… more than most. Perhaps more than he’d care to admit to.”

Ashara sighed, glancing down, her voice a soft whisper. "I didn’t think a vampire could have something as… well… mortal as a panic attack."

Onyx scratched at his ear, his claws sinking briefly into his dark fur. “True Vampires, those who have fully succumbed to the transformation, are closer to death than life. But vampire spawn… they remain closer to life, not all that different to us. They still breath air, their hearts still beat - albeit extremely slowly. They still experience the same pain, fears, desires… and yes, it would seem even trauma lingers in them.”

Ashara absorbed this, her brow knitted in thought. “Then why are all vampires considered evil monsters?”

Onyx turned to her with a look that held centuries of knowledge. "True Vampires are inherently corrupt, thirsting for power and devouring whatever they touch. If they enslave their spawn in the way Astarion says they do… it’s little wonder the world views those like him as nothing but extensions of their masters’ evil."

A voice drifted from behind them, dry with faint bitterness. “Which apparently gives every monster hunter license to kill us on sight.”

Ashara and Onyx turned to see Astarion emerging, now clad in his new attire. He carried himself with a grace that bordered on defiance as he raised a sardonic eyebrow, brushing off imaginary dust from his sleeve. “You do know I could still hear you both, right?”

Onyx gave an exaggerated yawn, his jaw stretching wide. “Whoops,” he said, his tone as casual as if he’d accidentally stepped on a twig.

Astarion’s gaze narrowed, but he shook it off, stepping forward and striking a pose with an exaggerated flourish. “So, how do I look?”

Ashara tilted her head, taking in his appearance with a discerning eye. The black leather clung neatly to his frame, accentuating his lithe build. Beneath it, a crisp white linen shirt set off his pale skin, though she noticed a hint of blue silk peeking out from a bag slung from his belt beside the sword, now fastened at his hip.

"That jerkin suits you far better than it did me," she observed with a slight smile.

He shot her a smirk, a trace of playful arrogance in his expression. “Yes, I think you’ll find that about most clothes.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked to Onyx, his curiosity piqued. “How exactly do you know so much about vampires?”

Onyx’s eyes sparkled with mystery as he stood, stretching his powerful limbs in preparation to move on. “I know much about many things.” His tone was smooth, refusing to yield more than that.

Ashara could tell Astarion wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but as Onyx started forward, his posture signaling it was time to press on, neither she nor Astarion could do much but fall in step with him.

A few paces on, Onyx paused, lifting his head to the breeze, his voice lowering to a grave tone. "The Grove has been overrun by goblins. It would be wise to rest here before we go further."

Ashara blinked, surprise flaring in her eyes. “How do you know? You weren’t gone long enough to reach it.”

Onyx glanced back at her, his eyes glinting. "The ravens told me. They were boasting about the bounty of carrion after a battle that took place there recently."

Astarion let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s a shame. It was such a charming little spot.”

Ashara shot him a reproachful look. "It’s more than just a shame. It’s disastrous. The Emerald Grove was a safe haven, a place of refuge and a key source for supplies." She looked off into the distance, brow furrowing with worry. "I was hoping we could stock up on alchemical supplies before heading further up the coast."

Astarion raised a brow, his gaze calculating. "I doubt the current occupants will be too keen on accommodating a shopping spree. However… I might have a way around that."

Ashara looked at him, her interest piqued. “How?”

"One thing we discovered about these… tadpoles," Astarion continued, the faintest sneer gracing his lips, "is that they’ve inspired a new cult. Those infected are seen as blessed, supposedly able to hear the whispers of some grand, elusive goddess they call The Absolute."

Onyx snorted, unimpressed. "Sound like idiots to me."

"Just so," Astarion replied with an air of superiority. "But they’re idiots who practically fall over themselves to serve those they call ‘True Souls.’ As it happens, I am one of them." He finished with a flourish, his smirk taking on a sly, almost mischievous edge.

Ashara’s lips quirked. "An idiot or a True Soul?"

Astarion narrowed his eyes at her, a hint of hurt pride in his expression. “Do you want my help or not?”

Chastened, Ashara looked away, a faint flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "Sorry. Please, go on."

"The point is," Astarion continued, "I could walk up to the gates of the Grove, and they’d let me in without a second thought. We might even be able to gather whatever supplies we need if we claim it’s for the Absolute’s ‘divine cause.’"

Ashara turned to Onyx, seeking his counsel. “What do you think? Should we take the risk?”

Onyx’s gaze drifted back in the direction of the grove, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the decision. After a contemplative silence, he gave a low huff. “It’s risky, but the chance to infiltrate the goblins and learn more about this cult might be worth it.”

Ashara looked to Astarion, giving him a resolute nod. “Then it’s settled. We’ll rest until mid-afternoon. After that, we make for the grove.”

Chapter Text

Astarion stood before an ivy-covered gate set seamlessly into the cliff wall, his crimson eyes glinting with quiet authority. Behind him the sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays stretching across the ground where the scattered corpses of goblins and tieflings lay. The air carried the sharp, acrid tang of smokepowder mingled with the faint metallic hum of spent magic.

To his left, Ashara and Onyx stood tensely, the wolf's silver-streaked fur bristling slightly as ravens cawed and squabbled over the remains.

The goblins guarding the gates had been quick to challenge them, their grating voices and crude weapons raised in defiance. But Astarion had simply fixed them with an icy stare, his voice smooth and commanding as he ordered them to open the gates for a 'True Soul'. The reaction had been instantaneous: fear swept across their faces, and they scrambled to obey, fumbling with the heavy mechanisms.

Astarion smirked and leaned toward Ashara slightly, his voice a smooth purr. "See, what did I tell you?"

She exhaled softly, her gaze flicking between the gates and the wreckage surrounding them. "Maybe you should do all the talking then," she muttered, half-joking, half-pleading.

The gate groaned as it raised, revealing a dimly lit tunnel carved into the cliffside. Without hesitation, Astarion strode forward, his footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. Ashara hesitated for a moment before following, her grip on Onyx's fur tightening.

"Glad to," Astarion replied airily. "However, as leader of the pack, you'll be obligated to speak at some point, I would imagine."

Ashara swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the destruction that marred the area beyond the tunnel - splintered crates, bloodstains smeared across the ground, and the unmistakable stench of decay. Her voice was quieter now. "Can't you just be the leader for now?"

Astarion halted mid-stride, turning to her with an exaggerated laugh. "Ha!" His amusement faded as he studied her more closely. "Wait... you're serious?"

Ashara avoided his gaze, her hand now gripping Onyx's fur more tightly. Astarion's sharp eyes missed nothing: the tension in her jaw, the restless flick of her gaze, the slight tremor in her stance.

"You and Onyx wiped out an entire camp of orc raiders between the two of you," he said, incredulous. "You can't possibly tell me you're afraid of a few sniveling little goblins... are you?"

"It's not that," Ashara muttered, her voice low. "If I had to fight them, I'd be fine. It's talking to them that's the problem."

Astarion blinked, momentarily taken aback. "You're joking."

She huffed, defensive, and strode forward without waiting for him, forcing him to catch up. "I'm not good around people, okay? Especially large groups. I struggle to communicate properly in unfamiliar situations."

"You seem to have no trouble communicating with me," Astarion pointed out, his tone teasing but laced with genuine curiosity.

Ashara shrugged, glancing at him briefly. "That's different. I like you."

The casual sincerity of her words caught him completely off guard. His step faltered for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he recovered, straightening as if nothing had happened.

He cleared his throat, adopting his usual smooth nonchalance. "I'm flattered," he said lightly. "Well, just imagine they're all rabid squirrels or something."

Ashara snorted softly. "You're the one with the tadpole," she countered. "Wouldn't they expect you to be in charge anyway?"

Astarion stopped again, rubbing the back of his neck in mock contemplation. "I suppose so," he admitted. Then his grin returned, sharper this time. "Does this mean I get to order you and Onyx around?"

Ashara exchanged a quick look with Onyx. The wolf bared one sharp fang, his golden eyes narrowing with a look that could almost be called playful. "Within reason," he growled.

Astarion clasped his hands together, his crimson eyes gleaming with mischief. "Splendid. This is going to be such fun."

He turned on his heel and began marching forward with exaggerated determination, calling back over his shoulder. "Come along, then, minions!"

The ruins of the Emerald Grove sprawled in grotesque mockery of what it once had been - a haven of nature, now a scar of desecration. Ashara's boots crunched against splintered wood and shattered pottery, the remnants of barricades broken and overrun. Crude goblin banners, smeared with blood and ash, fluttered limply against the jagged remnants of the palisades. Spikes jutted from the ground at unnatural angles, their gruesome trophies grinning in silent mockery. Bones, both animal and humanoid, littered the earth alongside refuse and filth. The Grove was dead, its spirit strangled by the cruelty of its invaders.

She tightened her grip on Onyx's fur as they wove through the carnage. The wolf moved with a quiet grace despite the load of bags and bundles strapped across his back, a stark contrast to the chaos around them.

Ashara glanced at him, her brows knitting as her gaze fell on the burden he carried. "I think letting Astarion be in charge has gone to his head. I don't like that he's made you carry all that. You're not a donkey."

Onyx's ears flicked back briefly, and he huffed, the sound carrying a note of dry amusement. "If turning me into a beast of burden for a day makes him feel better about showing vulnerability in front of us... then I don't mind the slight indignity."

Ashara's scowl didn't ease. "You were only helping him. I don't see why he has to be so petty about it."

Onyx tilted his head, his golden eyes meeting hers with a steady, knowing gaze. "Let the man claw back his pride. He may feel like that is all he has left right now."

Ashara fell silent at that, the weight of his words sinking in. They neared Astarion, who stood just ahead, speaking with a goblin brawler. The goblin's voice was grating, coarse and full of boastful malice. The sharp stench of the creature - a mix of sweat, dirt, and rot - made Ashara's nose wrinkle as they drew closer.

"Poor suckers," the goblin snickered, jabbing a gnarled finger toward the remnants of the Grove's defenses. "Could almost feel sorry for 'em if they wasn't already dead. You'd have to be thick to trust a fellow like that Dragonborn - got a real killer's eye, that one does."

Astarion's tone was light, almost dismissive, though Ashara caught the subtle tension in his stance. "Dragonborn? Scaly white and red bruiser the size of a barn door? Breath like a morgue? Goes by the name Durge?"

The goblin's grin widened, his jagged teeth yellowed and cracked. "You know 'im?"

Astarion's shoulders remained relaxed, his expression smooth, but Ashara saw the faint twitch in his fingers. "We've met."

The goblin laughed again, a harsh, rasping sound that set Ashara's teeth on edge. "Well, then you've met the truest of true souls! Tricked this tree-huggin' lot into lettin' him in the Grove. Cosied up to 'em all nice like, then when we came along, he up and politely opens the gate and invites us in for a cuppa."

Ashara's throat tightened, her jaw clenching against the wave of anger that threatened to rise. Her fists curled at her sides as the goblin cackled at his own vile joke.

Astarion's voice remained even, though his words dripped with disdain. "So he betrayed them, did he? Well, at least he's consistent."

Ashara stepped forward, her voice cutting through the goblin's laughter. "How did his companions react to that?"

The goblin shrugged, scratching at a patch of flaky skin on its neck. "Dunno. Though now you mention it, there was a bit of a kerfuffle with a couple of 'em. Warlock and a big ol' flaming tieflin' kicked up a stink and turned traitor on us. True Soul Durge sorted 'em out, though."

Astarion's voice carried a brittle edge. "Oh? Gave them a slap on the wrist, did he? Or did he sell them to the first wandering vagrant he happened across?"

The goblin grinned wickedly, leaning in as if sharing a joke. "Nah, just straight-up killed the human. His head's on a spike somewhere around here - can't remember where like. Tieflin' managed to get away, though not before losin' an arm and burnin' half our lads to a crisp."

Ashara's eyes flicked to Astarion. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, the knuckles white, but his face remained a blank mask. It was a practiced expression, one that betrayed nothing, and the faint hitch in his breath was almost imperceptible, but Ashara noticed.

The goblin's gaze shifted to Onyx, and its eyes widened with crude admiration. "Now, he looks like a right vicious one! Never seen a direwolf as big as 'im before. What you been feedin' it on?"

Onyx turned his gaze toward the goblin, his voice a low rumble audible only to Ashara. "Goblins."

The corner of Ashara's mouth twitched into a faint smile, a flicker of humor breaking through the tension. Astarion's lips curved into a smirk at the same time, though the goblin, oblivious to Onyx's words, continued speaking.

"You should pay a visit to the worg pit," the goblin said, gesturing toward the Grove's depths. "Might 'ave some spare meat for you. Most of the prisoners already been shipped off to Monrise Towers, but there might be a bit of live prey left for your beast if you want some fun. Just follow the smell."

The casual way the goblin said "live prey" sent a chill rippling down Ashara's spine. Her stomach turned, and she forced herself to keep her expression steady. She could feel her pulse quicken, a mix of revulsion and fury building within her.

Onyx shifted beside her, his muscles tense beneath his fur. His eyes gleamed like molten metal as he stared at the goblin, a predator sizing up its next meal. Ashara reached out, her fingers brushing his neck in a silent gesture of restraint.

Astarion tilted his head, his smirk sharpening into something cold and dangerous. "Charming," he drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "We'll keep that in mind."

The goblin, still grinning, gave them a jaunty wave before sauntering off, leaving the three of them standing in the shadow of the ruined Grove. Ashara exhaled slowly, her fingers still gripping Onyx's fur.

"These creatures are worse than I imagined," she muttered, her voice tight.

Astarion's gaze lingered on the filth and carnage around them, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, but the tension in his frame spoke volumes. Ashara glanced at him, then turned her eyes forward, the weight of the goblin's words pressing heavily on her as they continued deeper into the ruined Grove.

It didn't take them long to come across the worg pit.

The stench hit Ashara first - rotting meat, bile, and the coppery tang of blood thick in the air. Jagged wooden palisades ringed what had once been the central sanctuary, their tops bristling with crude spikes.

Within the enclosure, the twisted canine forms of nearly a dozen worgs prowled, their yellow eyes gleaming with savage hunger. The beasts tore indiscriminately at the bodies littering the ground: animal carcasses mixed with the mangled remains of tieflings and other races, some still clad in the remnants of druidic robes.

Ashara's stomach churned, her hand reflexively gripping the fur at Onyx's shoulder. Her companion let out a low, guttural growl, but his eyes remained watchful, his body tensed and poised. She forced herself to look away from a druid's arm hanging limp from a worg's bloodied maw and tried to steady her breathing.

Even Astarion seemed shaken. His normally smooth stride faltered as his eyes scanned the carnage, his face tight with tension. Ashara followed closely behind, her boots crunching against the gravel, when he abruptly stopped. His shoulders trembled, and his breath caught audibly in his throat.

Ashara moved to his side, her gaze following his line of sight, and her heart seemed to stop.

Inside a battered metal cage, its bars twisted and smeared with rust and blood, lay the half-eaten body of a child. A tiefling boy, his blue hair tangled and matted, his small horns glistening with congealed blood. Glassy, unseeing eyes stared through the bars, as if accusing the world that had abandoned him.

Astarion's jaw tightened and his voice came out flat, dispassionate."The little would-be con artist... Looks like his scams won't be fleecing the citizens of Baldur's Gate after all."

Her eyes flicked to his hand, which had moved unconsciously to Onyx. The wolf leaned into the touch, pushing his massive head under Astarion's palm. The gesture seemed to ground him - if only slightly - but his eyes flicked toward the boy's body, unable to stay away for long.

Ashara's voice was barely above a whisper. "We need to leave this place now."

Astarion's answer was cold and clipped. "I couldn't agree more."

Before they could move, a commotion behind them drew their attention. Ashara turned to see two hulking bugbears dragging a tiefling between them. His head hung low, his torn and bloodstained clothes clinging to a battered frame marked with cruel burns and lacerations. His horns were chipped, his crimson skin pale and eyes sunken. The bugbears hauled him forward, their guttural laughter carrying over the din of the pit.

Ashara's fists clenched at her sides, her body vibrating with tension. Onyx pressed against her, his voice low and steady in her mind. "Stay calm. Show no emotion."

She sucked in a sharp breath, forcing her expression into neutrality. But when the tiefling looked up, his gaze landed on Astarion, and his battered face twisted with fury.

"You." His voice, hoarse but laced with venom, rose above the noise. "I remember you. You're one of the demons who promised to help us."

Astarion flinched, the movement so small Ashara doubted anyone else would have noticed. "Zevlor..." he muttered, the name barely audible.

Zevlor's voice rose, thick with sorrow and anger. "Was betraying us worth it, monster? All these lives wasted, families torn apart, children murdered... for what?!"

Astarion took a step back, his usual composure cracking. For a brief moment, a look of anguish crossed his face, raw and unguarded. "This wasn't... I didn't..." His voice faltered, and he glanced around, as if suddenly remembering they had an audience. His expression shifted in an instant, a mask of arrogance snapping into place.

"I didn't expect to see you still breathing, Zevlor," he sneered, his tone biting. "Hid under the bed while your people did all the fighting, did you?"

Zevlor's face contorted with rage, and he lunged forward with a roar. "Damn you!" he screamed, his voice breaking with grief and fury.

The bugbears laughed cruelly, yanking him back with practiced ease. One drove a fist into Zevlor's stomach, and he doubled over with a pained grunt before being dragged forward again. Ashara's nails dug into her palms as she fought to stay still, her heart pounding in her chest.

The bugbears hauled Zevlor toward a towering red-skinned hobgoblin who stood near the edge of the pit. His armor, cobbled together from scavenged metal and leather, glinted in the fading sunlight. His imposing figure radiated authority, and Ashara had no doubt that this was Dror Ragzlin, the leader of the horde.

Ashara leaned closer to Astarion, her voice barely a whisper. "We have to do something. He needs our help."

Astarion's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the scene ahead. He didn't reply immediately, his face unreadable. Onyx huffed softly, his massive frame still and coiled like a spring.

The air around the pit grew heavier as Ragzlin's gravelly voice cut through the jeers and laughter of the goblin horde.

"How does it feel to be the last man standing?" he growled at the tiefling, his jagged teeth bared in a mocking grin.

Zevlor remained silent, his head hanging low, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his defeat. The tension rippled through the crowd like a coiled serpent waiting to strike.

One of the bugbears sneered and jabbed him hard in the stomach with a crude club. "Oi! A true soul just asked you a question."

Zevlor winced but didn't falter. Lifting his head slightly, he muttered, "I have nothing to say to filth like you."

A hush fell over the gathered goblins, the boldness of his defiance hanging in the air. Ragzlin's grin turned to a snarl, his scarred face twisting with irritation.

"Well, in that case," he rumbled, "we'll just have to settle for your screams. Toss him in the pit."

Ashara's vision blurred with red-hot fury. She was already stepping forward, her hands curling into fists, when a cold grip on her wrist yanked her back. She twisted to see Astarion's hand clutching her tightly, his expression set in stone.

"Don't," he hissed through gritted teeth.

She whipped her head toward him, her eyes blazing. "Let go of me," she snapped, her voice a sharp whisper. "I have to help him!"

She turned back just in time to see Zevlor being dragged to the edge of the pit. Below, the worgs stirred, their ears pricking up, and their twisted, monstrous forms prowled closer, salivating in anticipation. The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers, their bloodlust palpable in the air.

Astarion's grip tightened. "No, you don't. You have to keep still and try not to attract the attention of an entire horde of murderers. His fate is sealed, Ashara. There's nothing you can do now."

Ashara's eyes narrowed, her voice trembling with anger. "Like your fate was sealed with those orcs?"

The barb landed, and Astarion faltered, his composure slipping for a heartbeat. A flicker of pain and guilt crossed his face, there and gone in an instant. He looked away, jaw clenched. "I know you want to be a hero, but we are outnumbered and outmatched." He shot a glare at Onyx. "Unless your friend here feels like slipping into something more terrifying any time soon?"

Onyx stepped forward, his golden eyes glinting with purpose. "That won't be necessary," he rumbled. His voice was deep, resonating with quiet authority. "Astarion, be ready."

Astarion blinked, incredulous. "Ready for what?"

Ashara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as Zevlor was shoved unceremoniously into the pit. He landed hard, rolling to a stop amidst the dirt and gore. Slowly, shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, his head turning as the worgs closed in, their snarls rising to a crescendo. The crowd leaned forward, eager for the spectacle, their shouts ringing out like a storm.

The worgs lunged.

"No!" Ashara screamed, her voice raw and piercing.

The sound carried across the pit like a whip crack, but was lost to the eager roar of the crowd. However, the effect on the worgs was instant. All of them froze mid-step, their heads snapping toward her in unison. A ripple of unease passed through the creatures, and their growls turned to whimpers. One by one, they backed away from Zevlor, their tails tucked between their legs as they cowered and whined.

A ripple of confusion swept through the crowd. The jeering ceased, replaced by murmurs and discontented grumbles. Heads turned, seeking the source of the disturbance, and Ashara felt the weight of their stares settle on her like a crushing burden.

Onyx stepped closer to Astarion, his voice low. "Astarion, you're up."

Astarion's head whipped toward him, his voice rising an octave. "What?! What do you expect me to do?"

"Claim this was the will of the Absolute," Onyx replied smoothly. "And think of some excuse to have Zevlor remanded into your custody."

Ashara's heart pounded as she saw Dror Ragzlin moving toward them, his hulking form cutting through the crowd like a boulder through a river.

Astarion shook his head vehemently. "No! Leave me out of this."

Ashara reached out, her hand brushing against his. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling with urgency.

He turned to her, and for a moment, his crimson eyes met hers, searching. Then he exhaled sharply, his lips twisting into a grimace. "Shit..." he muttered under his breath.

When he turned back to face Ragzlin, the transformation was instant. His lips curved into a broad, self-assured smile, and he spun on his heel, arms spreading wide in an exaggerated gesture of confidence. "Ah! Dror Ragzlin, just the fellow I needed to see. Sorry to spoil your fun, but I'm afraid this particular prisoner is needed elsewhere."

Ragzlin stopped, his yellow eyes narrowing as he gestured to the worgs, still trembling at the edges of the pit. "This your doing?" His voice was suspicious, yet laced with intrigue.

Astarion spread his hands theatrically, his grin unwavering. "Why, yes! Isn't the power of the Absolute simply wonderful?" His voice dripped with faux reverence, each word calculated.

The hobgoblin's gaze lingered on the worgs, his expression shifting to one of reluctant admiration. "Impressive. Never seen them so spooked before. Not much can come between a worg and its prey - except another worg."

Astarion nodded sagely. "I'd be happy to share the secret, of course. However, first things first." He gestured to Zevlor, who was still slumped in the dirt. "I want that tiefling alive and in chains. Ready to take to... where was it Minthara wanted him again?"

He turned his head slightly, his eyes flicking to Ashara. She stepped forward quickly, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "Moonrise Towers... Sir."

Astarion's smirk twitched upward ever so slightly at her use of "sir." He turned back to Ragzlin with an easy, confident air. "You heard her. Orders from the top, I'm afraid."

The mention of Minthara visibly unsettled Ragzlin. His hulking form shifted uneasily, and his lips pulled back in a slight sneer, though his suspicion lingered in his narrowed eyes. "Minthara already has enough prisoners," he grumbled, his voice heavy with irritation. "She said the rest were for my use."

Astarion's smile didn't waver, his tone light and filled with feigned exasperation."Yes, well, that was before we lost a few when the Dragonborn got drunk and went on a little killing spree," he replied smoothly, waving a hand as though recounting a minor inconvenience. "Minthara wasn't exactly thrilled with him, but you know how it is - what can you do, eh?"

A ripple of laughter spread through the nearby goblins, their cruel mirth echoing around the desecrated grove. Ragzlin's lips curled into a grin, his fangs glinting in the dim light. "I knew that guy would be a handful. Wish I'd been there to see the look on the drow's face."

"Oh, it was priceless," Astarion replied with a conspiratorial chuckle, his eyes glinting with faux delight. "I thought she'd burst a blood vessel right then and there. Anyway, she sent me back to pick up a few replacements. Seems you only have one left in stock." He glanced pointedly at Zevlor, still crumpled on the ground. "Not much, but it's better than showing up empty-handed, I suppose."

Ragzlin scratched his chin, his jagged nails scraping against his rough skin. "You might be able to pick up a few more along the road. Always plenty of lost souls wandering about these days."

He turned to the bugbears with a sharp gesture. "You heard him! Get that meatbag out of there and chain him up."

The bugbears moved quickly, their heavy footsteps thudding against the dirt. Zevlor was yanked from the pit, his body limp with exhaustion but his eyes burning with defiance. They shackled his wrists with brutal efficiency, slapping manacles onto him and attaching a chain to the cuffs. The end of the chain was handed to Astarion, who accepted it with an elegant nod, his expression unreadable.

Zevlor glared at them with such venom that Ashara wondered if looks alone could ignite fire.

Astarion tipped his head to Ragzlin, his smile razor-sharp. "Thank you. Well, it's been lovely, but I'm afraid we must be going. So many other errands to run, you understand."

He turned to leave, gesturing for Ashara and Onyx to follow. The three had barely taken a step when Ragzlin's voice rumbled behind them. "Wait."

Ashara's heart stuttered as the hobgoblin took a step forward, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "How did you control those worgs?"

Astarion paused, his body perfectly still for a moment before turning back. "Ah, that." He feigned a thoughtful expression, his voice dripping with theatrical gravitas. "I prayed to the Absolute three times, ground up a worg's tooth with my blood, and drank it under a full moon. It's not for everyone, I admit."

Ashara felt her stomach knot as Ragzlin narrowed his eyes. Her palms grew damp, and she could feel a single bead of sweat slide down the back of her neck. The hobgoblin scrutinized Astarion for a long, excruciating moment before grunting and turning away, his interest waning.

Ashara let out a quiet breath, her relief palpable. Astarion, ever the performer, gave the chain attached to Zevlor a sharp tug, his voice snapping with derision. "Walk faster, foulblood."

Ashara shot him a withering glare, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. Astarion ignored her, his eyes fixed ahead as they wove their way through the wreckage of the Grove. Every step felt like an eternity, each glance from the goblins and bugbears setting her nerves alight. She half-expected someone to challenge them, to demand an explanation, but no one did.

Finally, they passed through the gates and into the open air. The charred remains of trees loomed like skeletal sentinels, but the path ahead was clear. They kept walking until the ruined Grove disappeared behind them. Ashara let out a long, shaky sigh and wiped her damp palms on her tunic.

"I can't believe that worked," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe and exhaustion.

"Neither can I," Astarion admitted, glancing sidelong at her. "Tell me, how did you control those worgs, by the way?"

Ashara shook her head. "I didn't."

Their gazes snapped to Onyx, who trotted beside them with an air of smugness. He bared a single fang in a wolfish grin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Before Ashara could speak, there was a sudden flurry of movement. Cold metal pressed against her throat, and she was yanked backward with a force that nearly knocked her off her feet. A sharp, rattling sound filled her ears as the chain tightened around her neck.

Zevlor's voice hissed venomously beside her ear. "Release me, demon, or I swear by the Nine Hells I will snap her neck."

Astarion froze at the sight of Zevlor holding the chain taut against Ashara's neck. His eyes narrowed, and his hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his blade. Beside him, Onyx growled low and menacing, his hackles bristling like a sea of steel quills. Yet, the wolf's voice was calm and steady, directed not at the aggressor but at the victim.

"Stay calm, Ashara," Onyx said, his tone like a heavy stone settling. "He is acting out of fear and desperation."

Ashara's struggles ceased. Her hands fell away from the chain, though her breaths came fast and shallow. Her composure held, but Astarion could see the strain in her tense shoulders.

"I said release me!" Zevlor's voice cracked, fear clawing at its edges.

Astarion cocked his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I'd love to, believe me. However, the goblins, in their infinite wisdom, seemed to have neglected to provide me with the key to your restraints. I can only assume they expected I wouldn't need to free you until we reached our destination."

Zevlor's frantic gaze darted around, his mind clearly racing for options. Astarion didn't miss the way his grip on the chain tightened momentarily before his shoulders sagged with the weight of growing despair. Still, there was a grim resolve in his eyes.

"Then she comes with me until I find something to get these chains off me," Zevlor snapped, his grip tightening around the chain.

"Good idea," Astarion replied breezily, his tone as sharp as glass. "Or... you could let her go, and we all pay a visit to the blacksmith's workshop in Moonhaven. It's just further up the road. Lovely little place, probably still crawling with goblin scouts. You'll find all the tools you need there to free yourself. Although..." He let the word hang, savoring the moment. "Walking in with my companion as your prisoner might raise a few eyebrows. Or weapons."

Zevlor's eyes narrowed. "You could order them to stand down."

Astarion feigned a thoughtful pause, his fingers drumming lightly against the hilt of his sword. "True... but then I'd have to explain how a half-dead wretch like you managed to get the drop on a True Soul. It would be a little embarrassing, don't you think? I'd hate for the goblins to lose confidence in my authority."

The tiefling's grip faltered slightly, and Astarion saw the hesitation creeping into his expression. Yet, desperation flared again, and Zevlor yanked the chain harder, forcing Ashara to stumble slightly.

"Enough!" Zevlor barked. "Take me to Moonhaven now."

"Absolutely," Astarion said without missing a beat, his tone saccharine sweet. "Just as soon as you let go of the girl."

Ashara shot him a glare, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Girl?" she hissed under her breath, clearly irritated.

Astarion sighed theatrically. "Look, Zevlor," he said, his voice adopting a sharper edge, "as astonishing as this may sound, we're actually trying to help you - or at least she is." He gestured vaguely at Ashara. "Frankly, I couldn't care less what happens to you."

"Liar!" Zevlor spat. "Why would I believe you after what you and your companions did to us? After you helped those goblins slaughter my people?"

The accusation hit Astarion like a physical blow, and his carefully maintained mask cracked. His voice rose, sharp and raw. "I had nothing to do with any of that!"

Onyx's deep voice cut through the tension, smooth and cautious. "Take a deep breath and calm yourself, Astarion. Zevlor needs a reason to trust you beyond words."

Astarion inhaled sharply, his chest rising as he tried to tamp down the anger threatening to consume him. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, tinged with a sincerity that felt foreign on his tongue. "My former companions and I split ways some time ago," he said, the words slow and deliberate. "Being sold to a wandering monster hunter rather soured the relationship."

Zevlor's grip loosened slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied him. Encouraged, Astarion pressed on. "They betrayed me too, Zevlor. I don't know why, any more than I know why they chose to side with those vermin in the grove against your people. I'd probably be dead by now if these two hadn't found and... rescued me." He hesitated briefly, the weight of his words settling in his mind. Rescued. He hated how much truth that single word carried.

Astarion pushed the thought aside and met Zevlor's gaze directly, his tone softening. "You're currently threatening the one person who was willing to risk her life for you. Take it from someone who already made the mistake of doing that - it works out so much better if you trust her."

Zevlor glanced at Ashara, the tension in his face slowly melting into weariness. His shoulders slumped, and the chain slackened in his hands. His head bowed, his voice heavy with defeat. "What more do I have to lose? Those monsters already took everything from me."

The chain fell from his hands, clattering softly to the ground. Ashara stepped back, rubbing her neck where the metal had bitten into her skin. Zevlor stood frozen, his head hung low. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Ashara reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. "It's okay," she said softly. A flicker of warmth touched her voice. "Astarion held a dagger to my throat after I saved him. At least you apologized. I'm still waiting on one from him."

She turned, raising an eyebrow at Astarion, her expression wry.

He smirked, his usual self-assurance sliding back into place. "Must have slipped my mind," he said breezily.

Ashara huffed indignantly, her hand flying to her hip. "Oh, and girl?" she repeated, her tone sharp.

Astarion gave her an exaggerated shrug, his grin widening. "I was hoping to pass you off as a child for the sympathy vote."

Zevlor suddenly stumbled, his knees buckling as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him. Astarion watched as Ashara darted forward, catching the tiefling just before he collapsed entirely. Zevlor's breaths were ragged, each inhale a visible struggle. His hand clutched his stomach, fingers stained with blood seeping through torn fabric. Pain etched deep lines across his face, his eyes dulled by exhaustion.

"You're in pretty bad shape," Ashara said softly, her brow knitted with concern.

Zevlor's lips quirked in a faint, wry smile, his tone tinged with both resignation and irony. "I must confess, I've had better days."

Onyx stepped forward, his massive form casting a long shadow over the group. His deep voice carried a calm authority. "Help him onto my back."

Astarion hesitated only a moment before moving to assist. Together with Ashara, they guided Zevlor onto Onyx's broad back, settling him amidst the bags and bundles. It was a delicate task, but between the two of them, they managed to hoist him into position without causing him too much discomfort.

"Thank you," Zevlor murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced between Ashara and Astarion, regret shadowing his features. "I admit that I have misjudged you both greatly."

Astarion waved off the sentiment with a dismissive flick of his hand. "No harm done. Happens all the time."

Zevlor brushed a hand along Onyx's fur, his fingers tracing idle patterns as he murmured, "I would have given much to have a mount like this back in Elturel."

Onyx's ears swiveled back slightly, and he replied with a gentle rumble. "It would have been an honor to bear a Hellrider such as you into battle."

Zevlor's head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise. "Forgive me," he said hurriedly, his voice tinged with awe. "I did not know I was addressing a druid."

"I am no druid," Onyx corrected gently. "I am Onyx of the Fenris Guard."

The reaction was immediate. Zevlor stiffened, awe and apprehension mingling in his expression. "Then I must ask your forgiveness once more," he insisted. "Please, let me get down. One such as you should not be treated as a common garron for a broken soldier like me."

Onyx huffed, the sound half-amusement, half-dismissal. "Nonsense. I choose to carry you willingly."

Curiosity ignited within Astarion like a spark catching dry tinder. The deference Zevlor had given the wolf bordered on reverent. "What in the hells is a Fenris Guard?" he asked, unable to keep the question contained.

Onyx began walking, his stride careful to avoid jostling Zevlor. "A guard of Fenrir," he said simply, his tone making it clear he would elaborate no further.

Astarion's mind raced, searching for any recollection of the name Fenrir, but his memory came up frustratingly blank. He quickened his pace, catching up to the wolf. "Oh no, you don't," he said, his voice a mix of exasperation and determination. "You're not walking off and being cryptic again."

He turned to Ashara, who was grinning mischievously at his growing frustration. "What is he?" he demanded.

She shrugged, her grin widening. "If Onyx wants to tell you more about himself, he'll do it in his own sweet time. Took me a week before he even told me his name."

Onyx glanced back, a glimmer of amusement in his golden eyes. "I was unconscious for most of that week, if you recall..."

Ashara stuck her tongue out at him, her voice teasing. "It takes less than five seconds to say it."

Without missing a beat, Onyx's massive tail swung around, slapping her lightly over the head. Ashara giggled, the sound light and incongruous against the tension in the air.

Astarion sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up. "I thought we were supposed to trust one another in this 'pack.'"

Onyx met his gaze evenly. "Why? Are you ready to divulge every part of your own history to people you only met a day ago?"

Astarion narrowed his eyes, a smile forming despite himself. "Touché," he conceded.

They walked on in a contemplative silence. Onyx moved with deliberate care, ensuring Zevlor was jostled as little as possible. The forest around them was gradually darkening, shadows stretching long under the fading light. Astarion couldn't shake an uneasy feeling gnawing at him. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air - Zevlor's blood. It stirred a mixture of hunger and dread within him, a reminder of both his nature and the tiefling's dire condition.

He sidled closer to Ashara, his voice low. "Do you have any healing potions or know any spells that can help him?"

Ashara glanced at Zevlor, worry flickering in her eyes. "As soon as we're a safe distance away, I'll—"

Her words were abruptly cut off by a roar that shattered the quiet. From the dense foliage burst a towering figure - a red-skinned tiefling with a broken horn and an arm severed at the elbow. Flames licked across her body, casting her in a fierce, otherworldly light. She swung a massive battle axe with her remaining hand, the blade slicing through the air toward them.

"Down!" Astarion shouted, instinctively grabbing Ashara and pulling her aside. They tumbled to the ground as the axe slammed into the spot where they'd just stood, the impact sending a tremor through the earth and a spray of dirt and rocks into the air.

Heart pounding, Astarion scrambled to his feet. Recognition hit him like a cold wave. "Oh, for the love of - why did it have to be her?" he muttered under his breath.

Ashara, panting as she pushed herself upright, shot him a look. "You know that devil?"

"She's not a devil," he snapped, casting a wary glance at their assailant. "But yes. Her name is Karlach, and I think it's best if we run."

Karlach's eyes blazed hotter than the flames engulfing her. "Let Zevlor go!" she bellowed, her voice reverberating through the trees.

From atop Onyx, Zevlor leaned forward urgently. "Karlach, wait! They are not your enemy."

Astarion raised his hands defensively as Karlach advanced, her axe poised for another strike. "Yes, what he said!" he echoed, forcing a strained smile.

She froze mid-swing, her fiery gaze narrowing as if only now registering him. Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Astarion? How are you here?"

He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Long story, so here's the short version: Sold to Gur, captured by orcs, freed by a wild woman and her pet wolf, infiltrated goblin camp, saved Zevlor, reunited with crazy axe-wielding flaming tiefling. That about sums it up, don't you think?"

For a moment, Karlach's lips twitched as though fighting a smile. The flames surrounding her dimmed slightly, though her expression twisted in pain. She glanced up at Zevlor. "Why is he still in chains then?"

Astarion's voice was dry as he quipped, "Would you believe I lost the key down the back of the couch, darling?"

Karlach sighed, her expression a mix of irritation and weary amusement. Before she could respond, Ashara stepped forward, hands raised in a calming gesture. "We needed a credible way to get him out of the grove," she explained quickly. "The goblins didn't give us a way to remove the shackles. We're heading to the blacksmith's in Moonhaven. You can join us if you want?"

Karlach studied Ashara for a long moment, the fiery glow in her eyes softening. She leaned heavily on her axe, the weapon sinking slightly into the soil. The flames around her extinguished completely, leaving only the faint scent of smoke. "Fine," she muttered, her voice gruff. "But if you're lying..."

"We're not," Ashara assured her, her tone earnest. "You have my word."

Karlach's words were sharp-edged, her voice carrying the weight of old wounds. "Yeah, well, the last people I trusted turned out to be shitheads. Should've known that Dragonborn was a crook the moment he hung you out to dry, Astarion."

Astarion's tone was no less cutting, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "I didn't see you making any objections at the time."

The tiefling's shoulders stiffened, and she glanced away, guilt flickering across her face. "It didn't sit right with me, handing you over to the hunter like that," she admitted, her voice quieter now, laced with regret. "But I was too caught up in the whole 'you hid the fact you were a vampire from us' thing. I get now why you did, though."

From atop Onyx, Zevlor stirred, his gaze sharpening with unease. "You're a vampire?" His words carried both surprise and apprehension.

Astarion rolled his eyes, irritated. "Yes, and you're bleeding, but I'm not going feral over it. So it's safe to say I'm not a threat to you."

Onyx interjected smoothly, his deep voice calm. "He also fed on me recently, if that helps to reassure you."

Zevlor blinked, clearly taken aback, and his expression shifted to one of slight embarrassment. "I... apologize. I should know better than to judge someone based on their perceived nature."

Astarion's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Oh, don't worry. You're perfectly within your rights to fear and mistrust a vampire. On the whole, we're vicious, power-hungry monsters. I'm just... slightly less so."

Zevlor tilted his head, his voice unexpectedly warm. "And yet you helped rescue me and have the trust of a Fenris Guard. I think perhaps you give yourself too little credit."

The kindness in the tiefling's tone threw Astarion off balance. For a fleeting moment, he found himself at a loss for words, the familiar reflex of a snarky retort faltering. Before he could recover, Karlach drew in a sharp breath, her hand clutching at her severed arm.

Ashara was at her side in an instant, her voice filled with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Not really, soldier," Karlach replied weakly, her tone strained. "Stump's giving me hell. These flames of mine may have cauterized the wound quick enough, but it still hurts like the day it was lopped off."

Astarion hesitated, his curiosity edging past his usual aloofness. "How... how did that happen? I never thought I'd see you of all people in this state."

Karlach's laugh was hollow, bitter. "That makes two of us. Funny, all those years I spent in Avernus, I never once had a wound like this. I finally escape, and it takes all of a week before I'm out of action. Guess that's what happens when you're fighting for something you actually care about."

Zevlor straightened slightly, his voice steady despite his pain. "Your courage was remarkable, Karlach. I cannot thank you enough for choosing to fight for us."

Her expression crumpled, the weight of failure bearing down on her. "Didn't do much good in the end, though, did it?"

"You did enough," Zevlor insisted. "You and Wyll gave us a fighting chance. If it hadn't been for that damn drow and her spiders, we could have made it to the forest."

Karlach's face twisted in anguish at the mention of Wyll. "Gods... Wyll." Her voice cracked, and her fiery eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "He fought so hard to protect the kids... and they... they..."

The words broke into a sob, her grief spilling out in waves. Astarion felt a twist of sympathy, an ache in his chest that surprised him. As much as Wyll's self-righteousness had irritated him, the man had been a fierce fighter. His decision to spare Karlach's life and accept the consequences of angering his patron had impressed Astarion - a little.

Onyx stepped closer, his massive frame radiating calm. His head dipped slightly toward Karlach, the gesture deliberate yet unhurried. Astarion's eyes narrowed in concern.

"Careful!" he cautioned, his voice sharper than intended. "She'll singe your fur, Onyx."

The wolf ignored him, pressing his head gently against Karlach's side. She recoiled instinctively, her flames flickering brighter.

"Watch out, pup," she warned, her voice thick with tears. "I'll bur—"

Her words died on her lips as Onyx leaned further into her, his fur untouched by the flames licking at her skin. Her wide eyes met his golden gaze, disbelief etched across her face. Slowly, her hand reached out, trembling as it found purchase in his thick mane. When the flames didn't consume him, the tension in her shoulders melted, replaced by a look of overwhelmed relief.

Astarion watched, his mouth slightly agape, as Karlach buried her face into Onyx's fur. Her sobs grew louder, but they carried a different tone now - less despair, more catharsis. She gripped the wolf tightly, stroking him with almost frantic desperation, as if afraid this fragile, impossible moment might slip away.

The group waited in silence, the tension easing only slightly as Karlach's sobs subsided. Astarion shifted his weight impatiently but refrained from speaking, his usual acerbic remarks tempered by the rawness of the moment. Beside him, Ashara stood quietly, her gaze resting on Karlach with a mix of sympathy and patience. Onyx remained still as a stone, allowing Karlach to cling to him until she was ready to let go.

Finally, Karlach pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffing loudly. "Gods... look at me," she muttered, her voice thick but steady. "Blubbering like a little kid."

Onyx tilted his head, his deep voice gentle but firm. "Crying is not just for children. Brave souls sometimes need a release too, especially after loss."

Karlach opened her mouth to respond, but Onyx cut her off with a faintly sardonic tone. "And before you ask: no, I am not a druid."

The tiefling blinked, then let out a rough laugh, her voice scratchy but genuine. "Alright, just a normal talking wolf then. Gotcha."

Onyx's golden eyes glinted as he lifted his head and looked toward Ashara. "I like her."

Ashara smiled warmly at Karlach, and Astarion felt an unexpected twinge of unease. The easy camaraderie between them unsettled him, though he couldn't quite pinpoint why. Was it the prospect of Karlach joining their group? Or the thought that her presence might upset the tenuous bond he'd formed with Ashara and her enigmatic companion?

He cleared his throat, brushing the feeling aside with practiced indifference. "Well, now that we've all caught up and shed our requisite tears, what say we finally head to Moonhaven?"

Ashara's smile faded as her expression turned serious. Her gaze shifted to him, her blue eyes hardening into something steely. "After we do that..." she said slowly, her voice cold and deliberate. "There's one thing I need to do."

Astarion rolled his eyes, already exasperated. "Now what?"

Ashara stepped closer, and the intensity in her gaze made him straighten instinctively. "I'm going to go back and kill every last living thing in that grove," she said, her tone as icy as her eyes.

Astarion felt a chill creep up his spine. He stared at her, caught off guard by the sheer ferocity in her expression. For a moment, her usually warm, steady presence had transformed into something dangerous, an edge honed by pain and fury.

Behind her, Karlach's lips curved into a fierce grin. "Hell yeah."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, forcing a smirk onto his face to mask his discomfort. "Oh? And how exactly were you planning on accomplishing that? Because while your enthusiasm is admirable, I do hope you have more than just righteous fury on your side."

Ashara didn't flinch. Her gaze didn't waver. "With help from a few new friends," she said, her voice cool and measured. Her eyes flicked briefly to Onyx. "And an ancient, forgotten god."

Chapter Text

The forest clearing was oppressive, cloaked in a darkness that even the starlight failed to pierce. The moon's absence felt deliberate, as if it, too, had turned its face from what was to come.

Astarion shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his boots crunching against dry leaves. The stillness of the air pressed down on his chest, amplifying the unease he couldn't shake. He glanced at Onyx, who stood like a shadow beside Ashara, his golden eyes unblinking as he observed her movements.

Ashara knelt before a rockface, her knife scraping against the surface as she carved intricate symbols around a circular scratch. Each stroke seemed calculated, purposeful, though Astarion couldn't begin to decipher their meaning. The sharp scent of disturbed stone mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest, an odd contrast to the tension humming in the air.

He envied Zevlor. The tiefling had earned a reprieve, resting back at their makeshift camp in the abandoned village of Moonhaven. The goblins who had once occupied it were evidently part of the raid on the Emerald Grove. Now, Ashara and her group had clamed the ruins as their own, taking shelter in the blacksmith's basement after freeing Zevlor from his chains and patching him up.

His gaze flicked to Karlach, her broad frame illuminated faintly by the glow of her infernal engine. She was fiddling absently with her makeshift prosthetic, the sharp, crude spike lashed to her forearm with leather straps. It was a pitiful solution, but in her words, "So long as I can kill goblins with it, it doesn't have to be pretty."

Despite her ordeal - and the raw pain that lingered beneath her tough exterior - her high spirits remained frustratingly intact. Astarion couldn't decide if he found it admirable or maddening. Ashara on the other hand, had been fascinated to learn of Karlach's unusual physiology, almost wearing the tiefling out with questions. In the end, Onyx had stepped in to temper her enthusiasm and allow Karlach breathing room.

Astarion couldn't help but feel there was almost a paternal nature in the way the huge wolf treated Ashara. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly how old - or rather young - she really was.

Ashara's knife stilled, her work complete. She turned to face them, her eyes sharp and reflective as polished sapphires. "Are you still sure you want to do this?" Her voice was low, almost reverent, as if she were asking for something far greater than their consent.

Astarion folded his arms, raising a brow. "Maybe I'd be able to answer that if I knew what 'this' was."

"I already told you," Ashara replied, her tone maddeningly calm. "We're going to kill the goblins in the grove."

Karlach grinned, her teeth flashing in the dim light. "Sounds good to me. So long as you're not making any deals with devils, I'm in."

Ashara's lips quirked into a sly smile. "No devils, I promise."

Astarion narrowed his eyes at her, his distrust thinly veiled. After a long moment, he shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "Well, I didn't have anything else planned for tonight."

Ashara's grin widened before she turned back to the stone. Without hesitation, she drew the blade across her palm, the sound of tearing flesh faint but sharp. Blood welled up, dark and viscous, and she pressed her hand against the center of the carved circle.

Her voice rang out, strong and clear. "Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt. Your servant summons thee."

Astarion stiffened as an unnatural silence fell over the clearing. The air turned biting cold, and he instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword. The stone beneath Ashara's hand began to ripple, as though it were water disturbed by an invisible breeze.

As she removed her hand, tendrils of thick, blue smoke seeped from the circle, curling and twisting like living things. Frost crackled across the grass, spreading outward from the stone in jagged, intricate patterns.

A shape began to coalesce in the mist - a skeletal visage with glowing blue eyes that burned like cold fire. Astarion's throat tightened as the skull of an immense wolf solidified, its icy gaze sweeping over them with the weight of something ancient and incomprehensibly powerful. When it spoke, its rattling voice seemed to echo not just in the clearing, but within the very marrow of his bones.

"Name thy Pack."

Ashara's voice didn't waver. "Ashara of High Forest, Onyx of Icewind Dale, Astarion of Baldur's Gate, and Karlach of Avernus."

As each name was spoken, the skull turned its gaze upon them. When those frozen eyes met Astarion's, it was as though death itself had locked its sights on him. The chill reached into his bones, and his breath caught. The eerie light from the apparition reflected off Ashara's hair, making it glisten like the feathers of a raven.

Beside him, Karlach whispered, her voice low and strained. "You as freaked out by this as I am?"

Astarion forced a smirk, though his teeth ached from clenching them. "I'll let you know once my teeth stop chattering."

The skulls gaze lingered on them for another heartbeat before it spoke again.

"Name thy Prey."

Ashara straightened, her bloodied hand dripping as she pronounced, "Dror Ragzlin and the horde he leads. They desecrated a sacred grove and slaughtered innocents - refugees, druids, children. Their blood cries for vengeance, and nature demands balance."

The skulls jaw opened wider, releasing a cloud of frosty breath. "Then vengeance will be had this night. Go forth with the might of Fenrir at thy side."

Shapes began to emerge from the swirling smoke - spectral wolves, their translucent forms shifting and rippling as though caught between worlds. They were massive, their eyes cold and unblinking, and they moved with silent menace. Astarion counted eight of them, each nearly as large as Onyx but far less welcoming. The clearing was now a battleground of shadows and ghostly light.

Ashara bowed low to the ground, her voice low but firm. "I thank thee, my lord."

The apparition of lingered a moment longer, its glowing eyes surveying its chosen hunters. Then it dissipated, leaving only the spectral wolves and the sharp chill of its presence behind.

Astarion exhaled shakily, the tension in his chest loosening but not disappearing entirely. They had summoned something far beyond mortal understanding, and for the first time since meeting them, he wondered if he'd made a mistake in joining Ashara's little 'pack'.

The grove was a tapestry of shadows and flickering torchlight, its silence fractured only by the distant raucous laughter of goblins carousing in the lower levels. Ashara moved with practiced grace, her boots brushing soundlessly against the dirt path. Beside her, Astarion mirrored her movements, his form sleek and poised as a predator's. Two spectral wolves padded alongside them, their translucent forms shimmering faintly in the gloom.

Ashara glanced sideways, catching Astarion's gaze before he quickly looked away, his mouth tightening in a faint scowl. She bit back a smile, amused by his discomfort. Of course he was rattled - any sane person would be after seeing Fenrir.

She remembered her own first encounter, the way her knees had threatened to buckle under the weight of his gaze. That bone-deep dread never truly left her, but now, it was tempered with purpose.

Ahead, two goblin guards patrolled with lazy indifference, their weapons resting carelessly in their hands. Ashara's smile faded, her expression sharpening. She crouched slightly, raising her bow and nocking an arrow in one smooth motion. Astarion followed her lead, mirroring her movements with silent precision. They loosed their arrows at the same instant, the twang of bowstrings barely audible over the rustling leaves.

The projectiles flew true, striking the goblins with soft, wet thuds. The guards crumpled silently, their bodies hitting the ground like discarded rags. Ashara nodded in satisfaction, allowing herself a brief moment to admire the clean, efficient kill.

Astarion's skill with the bow had been a pleasant discovery, born of necessity when he unearthed a shortbow buried beneath debris near the grove's gate. It wasn't much, but he wielded it with a confidence that made her wonder what he could do with a finer weapon. She resolved to find one for him as soon as possible.

Lowering his bow, Astarion leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "So. Fenrir seems... intense. How exactly did you find yourself under his patronage? And, for that matter, who even is he?"

Ashara stifled a laugh at his relentless curiosity, shaking her head as they moved further into the grove. The path sloped downward, the glow of torches painting jagged shadows against the walls of the cavernous interior. The sounds of revelry grew louder - a chaotic mix of jeers, laughter, and the occasional crash of overturned mugs.

"Most people only know Fenrir as a myth," she began, her voice low and steady. "A long-forgotten god who roamed Toril long before the likes of Helm, Lathander, or Mystra. His favorite form was that of a colossal wolf. He was the living embodiment of primal magic - wild, untamed, chaotic."

"Was?" Astarion pressed, his steps silent as they crept closer to the sounds of revelry.

They reached the edge of the torchlit levels, peering down into the chaos below. Goblins and bugbears lounged around makeshift tables, shouting and cackling as two ogres wrestled in the center of the cavern. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, spilled ale, and charred meat.

Ashara's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene. "Not anymore. Legend says he went mad after losing his mate. He rampaged across Faerûn, leaving devastation in his wake as he hunted her killers. The destruction was so catastrophic that he earned a new name - World Eater."

Astarion shot her a sharp look, his lips parting as if to interject, but she pressed on. "It took the combined might of Silvanus, Mystra, and Jergal to imprison him, deep in the frozen wastes of Cania - the eighth circle of hell."

"Lovely," Astarion muttered, his voice dry as he darted a glance at one of the spectral wolves pacing beside him. Its glowing eyes seemed to pierce through him, unnervingly intelligent.

Ashara suppressed a smile. "But you can't cage something as wild and powerful as Fenrir forever. He found a way to send fragments of his soul back to Faerûn, seeking to atone for the harm he caused. He searches for those he deems worthy, granting them the ritual of the Wild Hunt to fight against corruption and evil."

Astarion's gaze flicked to the wolf at his side, one brow arching. "These ghostly hounds of his," he said, gesturing faintly, "they're what? Pieces of his fractured soul?"

Ashara shook her head. "Not those. They're just manifestations of his power. The soul fragments gained a sentience of their own and became known as... the Fenris Guard."

Astarion's head snapped toward her, his jaw dropping. His voice, sharp with disbelief, rose above a whisper. "You're telling me that giant, obtuse furball of yours is the soul of a god?!"

She winced, placing a finger to her lips. "Keep your voice down," she hissed. "And yes, Onyx is a part of Fenrir's soul."

Astarion stared at her for a long moment, various emotions flickering across his face before settling on bemusement. "And there I was treating him like a glorified pack mule."

"You're lucky he likes you." Ashara chuckled, the sound soft and brief. "Fenrir may have a fearsome reputation, but he's surprisingly tolerant and even friendly once you get to know him. He's more involved in mortal affairs than the other gods, which doesn't exactly endear him to them."

"Then why," Astarion asked, his voice tinged with scepticism, "have I never heard of him?"

Ashara shrugged, the motion fluid and unconcerned. "He's not supposed to be able to have any influence outside of his prison, so he doesn't like to draw too much attention. The others have their temples, statues and adoring worshippers. He just has a few faithful followers that wander the realms, quietly doing what needs to be done."

"And you?" Astarion pressed. "How did you become one of his faithful?"

Before she could answer, a faint flare of blue light illuminated the sky above, casting fleeting shadows across the grove. She smiled grimly, drawing her bow again. The signal. She glanced at Astarion, her smile deepening. "I freed a giant, obtuse furball from a cage."

Astarion's lips curled into a grin. "I suppose that's simpler than a ritual sacrifice," he quipped, his gaze hardening as he nocked an arrow alongside her.

Ashara couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound quickly drowned out by a sudden eruption of shrieks and explosions tearing through the night. The signal's second phase had begun. With a nod to Astarion, she raised her bow, her eyes fixed on the ogres below.

The string sang as she released it, and the arrow flew true, striking one of the ogres square in the shoulder. Astarion's shot followed immediately after, piercing the other ogre's throat. The massive creature staggered, clutching futilely at the shaft, before collapsing into a heap.

Below them, chaos erupted. Goblins scrambled for cover as the two spectral wolves leapt down from the ridge with unnatural grace. Their ghostly forms rippled with energy, each step leaving a faint frost behind. They moved like shadows, tearing through the goblins with silent efficiency. Blades and clubs swung wildly but passed through the wolves as if striking smoke. The goblins' screams were quickly silenced by sharp, snapping jaws.

Ashara darted to the side, her feet barely touching the ground as she loosed another arrow, catching a goblin archer mid-draw. Astarion matched her movements, his every shot calculated and precise. They moved as a deadly pair, their reflexes making them seem more like wraiths than mortals.

"Keep moving," Ashara said, her voice barely audible over the din of battle. She fired another arrow, her sharp eyes tracking targets with unerring focus. The goblins below were thinning, but more sounds of fighting echoed deeper in the grove.

Astarion nodded, loosing an arrow into a bugbear that had charged the spectral wolves. The creature collapsed with a guttural cry. "After you," he said with a flourish, already moving toward the sound of more combat.

Ashara risked a glance at him, impressed despite herself. His skills with a bow rivaled her own, and his smirk suggested he knew it.

They navigated the uneven terrain with ease, slipping between shadows as they advanced. The deeper they moved into the grove, the more the chaos seemed to intensify. Ashara spotted Karlach in the center of the fray, a beacon of ferocious energy. Onyx was at her side, lunging at any enemy that came too close, his teeth flashing like silver. Around them, six spectral wolves wove through the battle, sowing terror among the goblins and bugbears.

Ashara's sharp gaze caught the moment a spectral wolf yelped in pain as a blast of magic struck its side. The wolf staggered, its form flickering like a flame caught in the wind. A second firebolt hit it, and with a mournful howl, the wolf exploded into a cloud of blue smoke. Ice crystals erupted outward, catching a cluster of goblins in a deadly frost. They screamed, clutching at frostbitten limbs as they fell.

"Magic can hurt them," Ashara muttered, her expression darkening.

"Duly noted," Astarion said, his eyes narrowing as he picked off a goblin mage from the ridge. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen again."

Ashara fired an arrow at another caster, her shot silencing the goblin mid-chant. Below, Karlach was a whirlwind of destruction, swinging her axe in one hand and jabbing her spiked prosthetic into the chest of a bugbear with the other. Onyx lunged at a goblin trying to flank her, his massive jaws snapping down with a sickening crunch.

The battle's tide was turning, but the chaos deepened as a booming voice rang out across the grove.

"Release the worgs!" Dror Ragzlin's roar carried over the din, full of fury and desperation.

Astarion glanced at Ashara, his expression half-amused, half-concerned. "Do we have to be concerned about that, or—?"

Ashara tilted her chin toward the commotion behind him. Astarion turned just in time to see a dozen worgs barreling into the battle - but not toward them. The massive beasts charged the goblins with unbridled ferocity, their snapping jaws and guttural growls adding to the confusion.

The goblins' panic was almost comical. One bugbear bolted past them, a worg snapping at its heels as it shouted, "Bad dog! Bad dog! You're supposed to be on our side!"

Astarion barked a short laugh. "Well, that's what you get for crossing the wrong god's soul."

Ashara's focus remained on the battlefield, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. The goblins were breaking, their ranks scattering as they tried to flee. Most were run down by either the spectral wolves or the worgs, their screams fading quickly into the night.

Her attention snapped to the far side of the clearing, where Dror Ragzlin fought like a cornered beast. Three spectral wolves circled him, but he wielded a heavy, jagged blade that glowed faintly with enchantment. Each swing sent crackling energy through the air, forcing the wolves to retreat before darting back in. One wolf lunged, but Ragzlin's blade struck true, and the creature dissolved in a burst of smoke and ice.

Ashara's jaw tightened. Slinging her bow over her shoulder, she drew her sword. "He has an enchanted weapon," she said grimly.

"Lovely," Astarion replied, already unsheathing his own blade. "Shall we?"

They moved in tandem, their steps silent and purposeful as they approached Ragzlin. His eyes snapped to them, narrowing with fury as he bellowed, "You! You traitors!"

Ashara's voice rang out, cold and steady. "Dror Ragzlin, the Wild Hunt will claim you this night for the crimes you have committed."

With a roar, Ragzlin lunged at Ashara, his blade arcing toward her with murderous intent. "I will bring the Absolute your heads!"

Astarion leaned casually against the splintered remains of a broken cart, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. The night was heavy with the smell of blood and charred flesh, a macabre perfume clinging to the grove. He took his time cleaning his blade, each slow pass of the cloth leaving behind a gleaming surface that reflected the muted torchlight. His eyes, however, were fixed on the slack-jawed visage of Dror Ragzlin's severed head sitting on the battered table beside him.

"You know," he began conversationally, tilting his head as if expecting an answer, "it's never a good idea to turn your back on a very large and very angry direwolf in the middle of a battle."

The head, of course, said nothing. Its lifeless eyes stared blankly into the void.

Astarion sighed dramatically, as though disappointed, flicking a speck of dried blood from his sword. "I mean really, what were you thinking?"

Ashara walked by, brushing her hands on her leather armor, her gaze flicking to him with mild exasperation. "Astarion, stop talking to a severed head and help us shift this pile of stones."

He arched an elegant brow, gesturing theatrically. "But we're having such a lively discourse."

Karlach, kneeling beside a mound of rubble piled against the cliffside, paused to glance up, her lips quirking into an amused grimace. "You've got issues, mate."

Astarion smirked back, unrepentant. "I have an abundance of issues, darling, which is precisely why I take whatever fun I can get."

He nudged the head with the tip of his sword, watching as it tipped and rolled off the edge of the table. With a sudden burst of inspiration he called out, "Here, boy, fetch!" before kicking the head with all his might.

It sailed through the air and landed a few yards away. A worg lounging nearby perked up, its ears twitching. With a guttural growl, it bounded after the grisly object, tail wagging like an overeager dog.

Onyx, lying nearby and licking at a wound on his foreleg, lifted his head and let out a low growl of disapproval. "We're not keeping them," he muttered, "It takes too much energy convincing them not to attack you."

Astarion pulled a face, wrinkling his nose. "Gods, who'd want them anyway? Foul creatures."

Onyx huffed, his tail thumping lazily against the ground. "Useful, though."

Astarion's lips curled into a sly smile. "Not nearly as useful as a soul fragment from a forgotten god..."

Onyx froze mid-lick, his eyes narrowing in clear annoyance. After a moment, he gave what could only be described as a wolfish shrug and returned to tending his wound. "True."

Irritated by the wolf's calm dismissal, Astarion pushed off the cart and sauntered over to Karlach and Ashara. Both were hard at work pulling stones from the rubble, their faces streaked with dirt and determination. He tilted his head, eyeing their progress with detached interest.

"There had better be treasure buried behind this mess," he drawled.

Karlach didn't look up. "Of a sort," she said, her voice tinged with effort. "Wyll hid some kids in a cave beyond this tunnel right before the battle. I'm just hoping the gobbos didn't find another way in."

A flicker of unease rippled through Astarion, but he buried it beneath a layer of practiced indifference. Folding his arms, he leaned against a nearby rock and said lightly, "Unless they had access to water, they're probably dead of dehydration by now."

Karlach's head snapped up, her expression thunderous. "You gonna help, or just stand there pissing me off?"

The raw anger in her eyes gave him pause. With a theatrical sigh, he knelt down beside her and Ashara, his long fingers prying at the stones. "Fine, fine. You didn't have to ask so nicely."

Together, they worked in tense silence, the occasional grunt of effort breaking the quiet. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they unearthed a narrow tunnel leading into the cliffside. The opening was barely wide enough for a grown adult to squeeze through.

Karlach straightened, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed the opening. "I'm too big for that. But you two scrawny elves should manage just fine."

Astarion bristled, drawing himself up. "Scrawny!"

Ashara, indignant, added, "Elves!"

Both Astarion and Karlach turned to stare at her. Astarion raised a bemused brow. "You do know you're a moon elf like me, don't you?"

Ashara flushed, the tips of her ears reddening as she looked away. "Sorry, I forgot."

Karlach tilted her head, intrigued. "Pretty important detail to forget..."

Ashara fidgeted, her fingers picking nervously at the dirt. "I was raised as a human. I didn't know I was an elf until after my adoptive father d-died. Later, I met some wood elves who were... condescending when they found out I didn't know anything about my heritage."

Astarion scoffed, his tone dry. "I'm sure they were."

Ashara's voice tightened, her discomfort clear. "I didn't like them much, so I decided I didn't care to be thought of as an elf."

Without another word, she dropped to her knees and began wriggling through the narrow tunnel. The darkness swallowed her quickly, her voice drifting back faintly. "I'll check it out."

Karlach whistled low, her gaze following Ashara's retreating form. "Wow..."

Astarion shrugged, brushing dust from his hands. "Unsurprising. Wood elves can be arrogant pricks at times."

Karlach smirked. "Probably why I thought you were one at first."

Astarion opened his mouth to retort, but a sharp cry from within the tunnel froze him in place.

"Astarion! Get in here, quick!" Ashara's voice was sharp with urgency.

Without hesitation, Astarion dropped to his knees and slid into the tunnel, the cold stone pressing against his ribs as he edged forward.

Each breath echoed faintly, the sound bouncing back in hollow whispers that gnawed at his nerves. When the passage finally opened into a cavern, he paused, squinting against the weak moonlight filtering through cracks in the rock.

The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and decay. Water trickled down the walls, carving jagged paths through the stone. Crates and boxes lay scattered, some smashed open, their contents spilling out like abandoned secrets. But what drew his attention most were the bodies. Goblins lay sprawled across the cavern floor, their weapons discarded and their lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

Astarion closed his eyes, his hand tightening on the hilt of his dagger. He steeled himself for what he was sure would come next. Dead children. It was inevitable, a brutal truth in this world. He'd seen countless bodies over the centuries, their stillness no longer disturbing him as it once had. But no matter how detached he became from death, a child's lifeless body always unsettled him. A weakness he had never been able to cast off entirely.

Drawing in a measured breath, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Ashara kneeling beside a body. The tiefling woman wore bright, colorful clothing now darkened with a bloodstain across her chest. Astarion recognized her instantly: Alfira, the bard who had sung so sweetly after Wyll helped her with her composition.

But something struck him as odd. Unlike the goblins, whose corpses were left carelessly where they fell, Alfira had been carefully arranged. She lay on her back, hands folded over her lute, as though in quiet prayer. Moss dotted with tiny flowers framed her head like a delicate green halo, a tender tribute that seemed almost out of place in this blood-soaked cavern.

Ashara reached out tentatively, her fingers hovering near Alfira's arm. Before she could touch her, a blur of motion launched from the shadows, slamming into her with surprising force and a shrill cry.

"Don't touch her! Leave her alone!"

Astarion reacted instinctively, his dagger flashing in his hand as he sprang forward. He froze mid-step, however, when the "attacker" came into view - a small, dark-haired tiefling boy, fists clenched and pounding against Ashara's arm with all the fury his tiny frame could muster.

Ashara stared down at the child, her expression a mix of surprise and confusion. She grasped his shoulders firmly but gently, pushing him back just enough to stop the assault. "Hey! Stop that, I need that arm for later."

The boy glared up at her, his tear-filled eyes a volatile blend of fear and defiance. "She's resting! Mol says we need to let her be at rest!"

Astarion relaxed his grip on the dagger, arching a brow. "Mol's still alive? Why am I not surprised."

The boy froze, his gaze snapping to Astarion. Recognition flickered across his face, softening his expression. "You were one of the nice people who saved me from the harpies."

Astarion tilted his head, lips quirking into a faint sneer. "Oh... that was you, was it? I vaguely recall a child surviving the chaos that day. What was your name again?"

"Mirkon," the boy replied, his voice wavering.

Ashara's tone softened as she met his gaze. "Are there any more children down here, Mirkon?"

Mirkon sniffed, his small hands balling into fists. "Just me and Mol. Goblins got in through the other tunnel. We buried the others near the stream - where it's soft." His voice cracked, and his gaze drifted to Alfira. "The bard lady was too big. We couldn't move her from the rock."

Astarion caught the way Ashara's eyes shimmered, tears threatening to spill as she released Mirkon's shoulders. The boy turned back to Alfira, adjusting a patch of disturbed moss near her neck with a reverence far beyond his years.

Intrigued despite himself, Astarion crouched beside Ashara, watching the boy's careful movements. "Did you make this for her?" he asked softly, surprising himself with the gentleness in his tone.

Mirkon nodded, his small fingers trembling. "I couldn't find any proper flowers. Mol says it's too dangerous to go outside and get some." He glanced up at Astarion, his expression solemn. "But graves are supposed to have flowers, aren't they?"

Astarion's throat tightened. He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes... they are."

Ashara placed a hand on Mirkon's shoulder, her voice warm with encouragement. "But this looks just as nice. You did a good job, Mirkon."

The boy smiled shyly at her, pride flickering through his tear-streaked face. Then he turned back to Astarion, his expression shifting to something brighter, hopeful. "Have you come to save us again?"

Astarion's heart clenched at the innocent trust shining in the boy's eyes. He glanced at Ashara, who was watching him intently, her expression unreadable.

"Well..." Astarion began, his tone breezy despite the unease in his chest. "We killed all the invaders, so I suppose we've already saved you, in a manner of speaking."

Mirkon's eyes widened, his face lighting up with a mix of awe and relief. "All the goblins are gone now? It's safe to go out?"

Astarion leaned back slightly, keeping his expression light. "Safe might be a bit of a stretch, but you don't have to worry about goblins or bugbears anymore, at least."

The boy stared at him for a moment, tears brimming once more. Before Astarion could react, Mirkon threw his arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. The unexpected embrace froze him in place, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air as if they didn't belong to him. His mind scrambled for a response, but none came.

"Ashara," he said, his voice strained and almost panicked as he closed his eyes. "There's a small child hugging me."

"I can see that."

His eyes snapped open, glaring at her. "Get it off me. Now."

Ashara reached out and tapped Mirkon lightly on the shoulder. "Mirkon, I don't think Astarion likes being hugged."

The boy pulled back reluctantly, his red-rimmed eyes wide with curiosity as he sniffled. "Why don't you like hugs? Are you like Donni?"

Astarion avoided the boy's gaze, focusing instead on smoothing the creases in his jerkin with meticulous care. "I have no idea who Donni is," he said, his tone arch, "but I'm quite certain Ashara here adores hugs."

Mirkon's gaze swung to Ashara, who gave him a soft, encouraging smile and opened her arms wide. "I love them," she said warmly.

Without hesitation, Mirkon threw himself into her embrace, wrapping his small arms tightly around her neck. Ashara's arms encircled him, pulling him close as his quiet sobs broke the heavy silence. Astarion watched the scene, a faint prickling of something uncomfortably close to guilt brushing against his conscience. He pushed the feeling aside with a practiced ease, straightening and brushing dust from his knees.

"I'm going to see if I can find Mol," he announced, already turning away.

Ashara glanced up briefly, her arms still wrapped protectively around Mirkon, and gave him a slight nod. He turned and strode deeper into the cavern, his footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive stillness.

The flickering light from a torch illuminated a patch of freshly turned soil. Small clumps of moss and fragile flowers were arranged in careful patterns, marking what were unmistakably graves. Astarion froze, staring at them blankly. A cold wave of unease surged through him, twisting his stomach, but he forced the sensation down, locking it away with the rest of the emotions he had no use for.

At the far end of the cavern, a makeshift shelter caught his eye, cobbled together from broken boards and strips of tattered canvas. Scattered around it were the remnants of past meals - gnawed bones, empty jars, and the faintest trace of smoke where a fire might once have burned. Despite the signs of habitation, an eerie silence hung over the place, oppressive and thick. Astarion's steps slowed, his chest tightening with a sense of foreboding.

As he reached the shelter, he hesitated. A sinking dread coiled in his gut, clawing at his resolve. Steeling himself, he pushed back a flap of canvas, and the sight within made him draw a sharp breath.

Mol lay on a makeshift bed of fur and straw, her small body still beneath a tattered blanket. One of her eyes was covered by a haphazard bandage, while the other stared hollowly at the dark ceiling above. She was frozen in a lifeless gaze, the spark of cunning and resilience that had once defined her snuffed out.

Astarion knelt beside her, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek. Her skin was cold, the chill seeping into his fingertips. He sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, and pulled back the blanket covering her. The yellowed bandages wrapped around her chest told a grim story, the putrid stench of infection confirming it. She had been dead for at least a day, maybe longer.

Gently, Astarion brushed his hand over her face, closing her unseeing eye. The action, simple as it was, made a wave of sadness crash over him, unbidden and unrelenting. This time, he didn't fight it. He sat on the ground beside her makeshift bed, running a hand over his face as if to wipe away the weight of his emotions. But they lingered, heavy and suffocating.

"Damnit..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. There was no one here to see him falter, no one to witness the cracks in his carefully crafted facade. For a brief moment, he let himself feel it all - the grief, the anger, the crushing guilt.

His mind conjured the image of the children cowering in this dark, damp cave, hearing the echoes of battle above. He imagined their terror when the goblins found them, the screams that must have rung out. The thought of their final moments brought a sickening wave of nausea, and with it came another memory, one he tried so hard to bury. The terrified cries of two Gur children as he dragged them from their beds under Cazador's orders. Their fear, their pleas, their tears - it all came rushing back, hitting him like a blade to the chest.

Rage flared, molten and consuming, directed not at the goblins, but at Cazador. At Durge. At every monstrous figure who had perpetuated the cycle of cruelty and death that now seemed so endless. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he stared down at Mol's lifeless form.

"I'll make him pay for this," he whispered, his voice trembling with the force of his anger. "I'll make them all pay. I promise."

Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, forcing the anger and sadness back down, burying it deep. He straightened his posture and wiped a hand over his face, erasing any trace of emotion. His mask was firmly back in place as he turned and made his way back to Ashara.

When he returned, she was still cradling Mirkon, the boy's small face buried against her shoulder. She glanced up at him over the top of the boy's dark curls, her expression questioning. He met her gaze and shook his head slowly, the meaning clear in his eyes.

Ashara's face fell, her shoulders sagging as she rested her cheek against Mirkon's head. She held the boy tighter, her sorrow reflected in the way she closed her eyes, as though willing herself to hold it together.

After a while, Ashara rose, her hand still resting lightly on Mirkon's shoulder. The boy clung to her fingers as though they were the only tether keeping him steady in the world. Astarion cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "We should go," he said, his voice quieter than usual.

Ashara smiled gently at Mirkon. "Come on, Mirkon. Let's go see our friends. They'll be happy to meet you."

The boy hesitated, his small face scrunching in thought. "What about Mol? She said she wanted to spend the day in bed and didn't want me to disturb her, but I don't think she'll be mad if I tell her we can leave."

Astarion exhaled slowly, a breath that felt heavier than the moment called for. His gaze darted to Ashara, who met his eyes with a silent shake of her head. He forced a tight smile, though it felt brittle at the edges.

"Mol is..." His words faltered, but he quickly recovered. "She's still not feeling well, but she told me to take you out for some fresh air and a proper meal. She'll join us later."

Mirkon seemed to accept this, nodding slowly. "Okay. But can we bring her some food too? She hasn't eaten much..."

Ashara's hand tightened on the boy's shoulder. "Of course. Now, let's get moving, little one." She stood and guided him toward the tunnel, kneeling to crawl through first. Mirkon followed closely, casting a hesitant glance back at the shelter before disappearing into the passage.

Astarion lingered for one last look at the dismal cavern. His gaze flicked to the patch of graves, to the makeshift shelter, then back to the tunnel. His fists clenched again before he ducked into the narrow space, following the others.

When he emerged on the other side, the fresher air carried a welcome sense of escape, though his relief was short-lived. Mirkon had stopped abruptly, cowering behind Ashara's legs. His wide eyes were fixed on Onyx, who approached with deliberate, measured steps, his golden gaze locked on the boy.

Astarion leaned casually against the rocky wall, brushing dirt from his jerkin. Folding his arms, he watched with detached curiosity, wondering how Ashara would handle the situation.

The massive wolf stopped a few feet away, his head lowering as he studied the trembling boy. Mirkon clutched Ashara's hand tightly, his small body pressed against her for protection.

"It's okay, Mirkon," Ashara said, her voice steady and soothing. "Onyx is a friend."

What happened next left even Astarion momentarily stunned. Onyx, the embodiment of primal ferocity and lethal grace, dropped to his belly and rolled onto his back, paws flailing in the air. His tail thumped enthusiastically against the ground, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted like a playful puppy.

Karlach let out a delighted laugh, dropping to her knees beside the wolf. "Oh, who's a good boy, then?" she cooed, rubbing his chest with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Onyx's panting tongue flopped out further, and Astarion resisted the urge to snicker at the absurd display. But it worked - Mirkon let out a small, tentative giggle, his fear melting into cautious curiosity. He peeked out from behind Ashara's legs and took a tentative step forward, his small hand outstretched.

Onyx rolled back to his feet slowly, lowering his head and stretching his nose toward Mirkon's hand. The boy flinched at first but then, emboldened by Ashara's quiet encouragement, placed his hand on the wolf's snout. His small fingers traced the fur along Onyx's head, his touch growing more confident with each stroke. The wolf leaned into the touch, his eyes half-closing in contentment.

Ashara beamed at the boy. "See? He's just a big old softy."

Mirkon's grin stretched across his face, his earlier sadness momentarily forgotten. Ashara climbed onto Onyx's back with practiced ease, then reached down to offer Mirkon her hand. "Here, let's get you up."

The boy hesitated, then took her hand. He gasped as she lifted him onto the wolf's back, settling him in front of her. She wrapped her arms securely around him, steadying his small frame.

Astarion pushed off the wall, brushing the dust from his sleeves as he fell into step beside them. Karlach joined on the other side, her axe resting across her shoulder. Together, they began the slow walk out of the grove.

The carnage was mercifully obscured in the dim torchlight, the bodies reduced to vague, indistinct shapes that didn't seem to trouble Mirkon as he clung to Onyx.

Sidling closer to Onyx's head, Astarion smirked, his voice light as he drawled, "That was a beautiful sight. Truly, a shining example of a ruthless and dignified warrior in his prime."

Onyx huffed, his eyes flicking toward Astarion before returning to the path ahead. "Dignity is a small price to pay to see a scared child laugh."

Astarion's grin widened, the sharp edge of his humor returning. "Would you do that for me sometime? Preferably when I have paint and a canvas handy."

Onyx's ears flicked as if to dismiss the comment. "You're an artist?"

"No," Astarion admitted, a faint chuckle slipping through his otherwise sardonic tone. "But to immortalize that ridiculous display, I'd happily pay for lessons."

Onyx let out another huff, clearly unimpressed, and turned his attention back to the path ahead.

Astarion's grin lingered as they continued walking, his mood lighter despite the lingering shadows of grief trailing behind them. For now, at least, there was something resembling peace.

Chapter Text

The forest clearing was bathed in the eerie luminescence of pre-dawn, when Astarion, Ashara and Onyx returned to the ritual site, five spectral wolves trailing behind them.

A faint mist curled around their ankles like restless spirits as Ashara dropped to one knee, her head bowed low, her ebony hair spilling over her shoulders like a cascade of black silk. Her voice, steady but reverent, carried through the silence. "Lord Fenrir, the hunt is complete. I return thy power and thank thee for thy favor."

The runes around the carved circle began to glow, and once again Fenrir's haunting visage appeared in the centre, wreathed in smoke and a cold flickering light as his voice echoed through the air.

"Thou hast done well. Vengeance has been wrought and souls laid to rest."

One by one, the spectral wolves stepped into the swirling smoke pouring from the rockface, their translucent forms dissipating like mist under the morning sun. Their departure was elegant and final, a wordless goodbye. Astarion's crimson eyes tracked them, captivated. The pull was primal, a nagging desire he couldn't quite suppress.

Before he could think better of it, he stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the leaf-strewn ground. He raised a hand, his pale fingers trembling slightly as he asked loudly, "I don't suppose you'd consider letting one or two of those stick around, would you?"

The air froze, as if the forest itself had taken a sharp breath. Fenrir's glowing eyes snapped to him, their intensity like twin suns bearing down on his head. Astarion swallowed hard, his instinct to flee warring with his determination to stand his ground.

In front of him, Ashara stood and twisted her head to hiss, "What are you doing?"

Ignoring her, Astarion took another step forward. His movements were measured, calculated to appear confident despite the fluttering in his stomach. He offered Fenrir his most charming smile, the one that had gotten him out of trouble - and into worse trouble - countless times. "It's just that they're quite handy in a fight," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the departing wolves, "and I have a rather powerful individual on my tail that I need protection from."

Onyx, standing silently beside him, tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing. "We have already promised you protection."

"Yes, yes, I know," Astarion replied, waving a hand dismissively. "But it never hurts to have a backup plan. Besides, I can't stay in your shadows forever, relying on you two like some coddled fledgling."

His crimson eyes flicked back to Fenrir, who hadn't moved but somehow radiated an increasing intensity. "So, Fenrir... do you mind if I call you Fenrir? 'My Lord' has always left a rather bitter taste in my mouth." He tilted his head, his tone sliding into a disarming casualness. "How does one go about earning your favor - specifically, the spectral hounds-of-death variety?"

The clearing fell silent, save for the soft rustling of leaves above. Fenrir's skull tilted slightly, the smoke around it swirling in lazy circles as if it were considering him. Ashara groaned quietly and covered her face with one hand, her shoulders slumping in mortification.

Finally, Fenrir spoke, his voice a guttural rumble that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. "Onyx..."

Onyx flattened his ears against his head and gave Astarion a look of pure reproach that seemed to say 'now you've done it', before turning to face Fenrir.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Who is this upstart pup?"

Astarion made an indignant sound in his throat, but Onyx's response came quickly, measured and deliberate. "Astarion of Baldur's Gate. He is... a vampire spawn newly escaped from his sire. Ashara offered him temporary sanctuary within our pack."

Astarion noted the slight pause before Onyx admitted what he was, and his brows furrowed in irritation. So even here, the truth of his nature warranted caution. Fenrir's gaze returned to him, and though the skull lacked flesh, Astarion swore it narrowed its non-existent eyelids.

"I see..." Fenrir said, his tone inscrutable.

Astarion's lip curled, his irritation surfacing before he could stop it, mingling with the sting of old wounds. "Let me guess. Being a vampire automatically disqualifies me from earning your so-called favor, doesn't it?" His voice was bitter now, his mask slipping just enough to reveal the cracks beneath. "Stupid of me to think you'd be any different from any of the other gods I've begged for help."

Ashara's hand dropped, her sharp gaze flicking to him with an odd mix of curiosity and sympathy. Astarion cursed himself silently for revealing more than he intended.

Fenrir's reply, when it came, was unexpected. "It is not thy nature that precludes thee, vampire. Rather, thy impudence."

Astarion blinked, surprised. "Oh," he said, then tilted his head and offered a sly, disarming smile. "So... you're saying I have a shot at being one of your 'faithful few' if I'm a good boy then?"

Ashara's palm slapped against her face with a sound so loud it echoed. Onyx exhaled slowly, his eyes closing as though praying for patience.

The weight of Fenrir's gaze didn't waver, and the silence stretched for an agonizing moment before the wolf god spoke again, his tone heavy with skepticism. "While not impossible... thou wouldst be the first of thy kind to gain my favor."

Astarion's grin widened, reckless. "Well... I'm always up for a challenge."

Onyx opened his eyes and sighed, his voice heavy with resignation. "Astarion... now would be a good time to stop talking."

Before Astarion could reply, Ashara grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve. "That's enough," she whispered, her voice urgent. "We need to go. Now."

He resisted, turning his head to glance at her with a raised brow. "I'm not done yet."

"Yes, you are," she snapped, heaving at his arm. "The message runes have a time limit."

"Do they?"

Her grip tightened, her voice rising in frustration. "Honestly, I have no idea. I've never spoken to him this long before."

As she hauled him backward, he twisted to shout one last time to Fenrir. "We'll talk later, darling. Can't wait to discuss terms and conditions!"

Ashara squeaked, horrified. "You can't just call an all-powerful wolf god 'darling'!"

He leaned closer to her as they retreated, his grin positively wicked. "I don't see any lightning bolts coming to smite me, so I'd say he probably liked it."

Fenrir's voice rumbled one last time, sending a shiver through the clearing. "Onyx... remain here. I desire to have words with thee."

Astarion raised a brow, feigning innocence. "Oh dear... Do you think he's in trouble for letting riff-raff into the pack?"

Ashara paused and frowned, perplexed. "What are riff-raff?"

Astarion rolled his eyes, his tone dripping condescension. "It's another word for people who are disreputable or undesirable, darling. The lowest in society."

Her brow furrowed, genuine confusion evident. "Then why are you calling yourself that?"

For a moment, her earnestness struck him silent. He blinked, his heart skipping uncomfortably. Quickly, he masked it with a haughty smile. "Sorry, I forgot sarcasm was lost on you. If anything, I've improved the quality of your pack substantially."

Ashara's irritation returned in full force as she resumed pulling him away. "Whatever. Onyx can handle himself. Let's go."

Astarion relented, chuckling softly to himself as she dragged him into the forest shadows.

Onyx stood motionless, his amber eyes fixed on the spot where Ashara and Astarion had disappeared into the dark embrace of the forest. The faint rustle of leaves marked their fading presence, and with it, Onyx felt the weight of his solitude grow heavier. He resisted the urge to follow, knowing that duty demanded his presence here.

They had left him to face Fenrir's ire, and he couldn't help but envy the vampire's carefree attitude as he had been dragged away.

He let out a slow breath, his chest rising and falling as he turned to face the glowing skull. The smoke swirling around it seemed thicker now, charged with a menacing energy that made the fur along his back prickle. His ears flattened instinctively as he lowered his gaze in deference.

Fenrir's voice rumbled, low and foreboding, like an earthquake building beneath the surface. "Onyx, my faithful servant. My most trusted soulshard and defender of all I hold dear..."

The words, though ostensibly kind, struck Onyx with the weight of a predator circling its prey. He winced internally, recognizing the ominous prelude. Fenrir's praises often foreshadowed a reckoning.

The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. Onyx's ears flicked back nervously, and his tail instinctively tucked between his legs. The glowing skull flared, its ethereal light carving stark shadows across the clearing. When Fenrir spoke again, his voice was thunderous, shaking the very air around them.

"Why, in all the bloody nine hells, is my daughter running around with a gods-damned vampire spawn?!"

The reverberation of Fenrir's outrage rattled Onyx's teeth and he swallowed hard, carefully lowering himself into a seated position. He curled his tail neatly around his paws, presenting an appearance of calm he did not feel.

Clearing his throat, he spoke with measured tones. "She demonstrated a compassionate impulse and rescued Astarion from a cruel fate. He sought her protection and has been traveling with us ever since. The vampire has proved himself a useful - if somewhat disruptive - companion."

"I don't care." Fenrir's growl cut through the air like a blade. "Get rid of him."

Onyx hesitated, his mind racing for a tactful response. "Ashara seems to have taken a liking to him..."

"She's not having a vampire as a companion!" Fenrir snapped, his tone edged with incredulity. "Get her a hook horror or something else less... less...whatever that was back there."

Onyx's lips twitched, but he quickly suppressed the smile. "She has made her choice, my lord."

A sharp, pointed glare burned through the glowing orbs of Fenrir's skull. "He hasn't bitten her, has he?"

"No," Onyx replied quickly. "He has only fed on me so far."

"Good. Keep it that way."

Onyx dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Understood, my lord. But I do not believe Astarion poses any danger to Ashara. He seems... content to simply aid us in exchange for safety."

Fenrir scoffed, the mist swirling violently in response. "Maybe not a physical danger, but vampires are cruel, selfish, power-hungry opportunists. If he ever finds out what she is, or figures out her connection to me—"

"He won't," Onyx interjected firmly. "She doesn't even know herself. The secret of her birth is still only known to the Fenris Guard."

Fenrir's presence seemed to still, the oppressive weight of his gaze easing fractionally. "Still... I don't want my daughter being corrupted by a creature like that."

Onyx hesitated before speaking, his voice thoughtful. "My intuition tells me that this vampire has the potential to evolve beyond his nature, given the right environment. It may be that Ashara will influence him far more than he will her."

The massive skull tilted slightly, as if considering his words. "Hmm... the possibility is intriguing. And I suppose, even if he turns around and stabs her in the back, at least she will have had a valuable lesson on the duplicity of mortals and the sting of betrayal."

Onyx's jaw tightened at the callous remark, but he kept his expression neutral.

"So..." he ventured cautiously, "Astarion can stay?"

Fenrir huffed, the sound reverberating like a distant avalanche. "Yes, yes, fine. She can keep the spawn. But I want regular updates on the situation. And if he bites her even once, he goes. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Onyx replied with a nod.

A long silence followed, and Onyx's fur prickled with unease. He wasn't sure if more was expected of him. Fenrir finally broke the quiet, his tone thoughtful. "Onyx. Do you think the archaic syntax and having people address me as 'my lord' these days is a bit... much?"

Onyx's ears flicked forward in surprise, and he blinked rapidly, scrambling for an appropriate response. "Lord is a title of respect that even mortals use among nobility. However, the common tongue has... shifted somewhat in the last thousand or so years."

Fenrir's spectral glow dimmed slightly as he seemed to ponder the observation. "Hmmm..."

Onyx tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "Why do you ask?"

Fenrir's voice grew abrupt, almost curt. "No reason. From now on, you can occasionally address me as sir."

Onyx's jaw opened, then closed, his thoughts a jumble of disbelief and bemusement. Finally, he settled for a cautious, "As you wish... sir."

The god gave an approving grunt before dismissing him with a flicker of light. Onyx stood slowly, the tension in his muscles easing as the oppressive presence began to fade, replaced with an almost anticlimactic silence. With a shake of his fur and a resigned sigh, he turned toward the forest, wondering - not for the first time - how he could have been born from the essence of a being so... erratic.

Ashara descended the crumbling stone steps to the lower levels of the ruined blacksmith's shop, each footfall echoing in the quiet space. The firewood bundle in her arms was unwieldy, its rough bark biting into her fingers, leaving them numb and tingling. Her shoulders ached from the weight, but she pressed on, her mind half-focused on the task and half-wandering back to the earlier events.

Onyx padded just behind her, his steps soft and deliberate, a steady presence at her back. Ashara glanced over her shoulder, her curiosity simmering beneath her fatigue. She wondered what Fenrir had said to him after she and Astarion had been dismissed.

Onyx had been tight-lipped since their reunion, his amber eyes giving nothing away. He would speak when he was ready - he always did - but that didn't stop the questions from bubbling in her mind. She couldn't shake the suspicion it had something to do with Astarion. Her lips quirked into a small smile at the thought of the vampire's brazen defiance before Fenrir.

The audacity of it still amazed her. Even now, hours later, she found herself torn between mortification and admiration. She hadn't known many people - her sheltered life ensured that - but she couldn't recall ever meeting someone quite like him. There was an unpredictability to Astarion, a sharp-edged humor that danced on the edge of danger. For someone like her, who had lived a life of cautious restraint, his reckless charm was exhilarating.

The first of the lower levels opened before her, the faint light from above casting the sleeping forms of her companions in soft relief. Karlach lay curled on the stone floor, the fiery core in her chest casting a warm, golden glow that flickered faintly, painting her scarred features in light. It gave her an almost celestial appearance, despite the rough bedroll tangled around her legs.

Nearby, Mirkon was bundled tightly in his own bedroll, his small frame trembling slightly even in sleep. Ashara's chest tightened at the sight of him, his face still streaked with the tears he had shed after she and Zevlor had gently broken the news of Mol's death.

Zevlor lay closest to the hearth, his face pale and lined with exhaustion. His treatment at the hands of the goblins had left him battered, and though the worst of his wounds had been tended, he still carried the weight of his ordeal. The hearth fire flickered, its embers casting soft shadows that danced along the cracked stone walls. Though morning light filtered weakly through the cracks above, the room remained dim, a haven of quiet amid the chaos of the past night.

Descending to the lowest level, Ashara stepped into the forge room. The air here was cooler but carried the dry, comforting scent of stone and soot. A massive forge loomed at one end, its brick sides darkened by years of use. Setting down the firewood with a soft thud, she began stacking the logs into the forge's maw, her movements methodical. She retrieved a flint and steel from the nearby workbench and coaxed a spark into life, feeding it carefully until the coals began to glow. The warmth spread slowly, curling around her like a gentle embrace.

Onyx settled beside the forge, his massive frame curling against the warm bricks. He exhaled a contented sigh, his golden eyes half-lidded as he watched her work. The rhythmic crackling of the fire filled the silence as Ashara retrieved cuts of meat from a bundle she had prepared earlier, laying them on metal sheets she had scavenged from the workbenches. The sizzle of meat hitting hot metal was a welcome sound, one that began to ease the tension knotted in her shoulders.

Her gaze drifted toward the far corner of the room, where Astarion's tent was pitched against the stone wall. Even though they were indoors, he had insisted on his own space, his social energy tempered by a quiet need for control over his surroundings.

Despite only knowing him for a day, Ashara had come to expect his curious presence whenever she worked, his sharp eyes watching her with a guarded interest. Yet the tent remained still, its flap closed, and no sardonic quip or teasing comment emerged to break the quiet.

She frowned slightly, the prickle of unease creeping up her spine. While it was likely he was simply sleeping, Ashara couldn't ignore the feeling coiling in her chest. Her instincts rarely led her astray, and currently they were whispering that something was not quite right with the energy around her.

Her eyes drifted toward his tent again, its fabric hanging ominously still. She hesitated, her hands faltering in their work. "Astarion?" she called out softly, almost apologetically. "Are you still awake?"

No response.

Her unease sharpened and she rose, dusting her hands on her thighs, and crossed the short distance to his tent. She paused outside, her hand brushing against the edge of the canvas. "Astarion?" Her voice was louder this time, but still gentle, a thread of concern weaving through the syllables.

Ashara frowned, lingering for a moment longer, her hands unconsciously clenching into fists at her sides. She was about to turn away when a faint, pitiful sound reached her ears - a whimper. Her heart jolted.

Her ear pressed against the fabric, and she strained to listen. Heavy, labored breaths, interspersed with gasps of pain, made her stomach knot.

"Astarion, I'm coming in - please don't be mad at me." Her words tumbled out in a rush as she pushed open the flap.

The scene inside struck her like a physical blow. Astarion was on the ground, his pale hands clutching his head, his body curled in on itself. Sweat dripped from his brow, glistening in the dim light as he shivered violently.

His head snapped up at the intrusion, panic flashing in his crimson eyes. In an instant, a dagger materialized in his hand, trembling but still aimed directly at her. He pressed himself back against the tent wall, his voice a venomous snarl. "Stay back!"

"Astarion..." Her voice faltered at the raw fear in his eyes. She stepped forward, hands raised in a calming gesture, but he flinched, the blade jerking in her direction.

"You're not killing me - not yet," he rasped, his voice trembling but edged with defiance. "There's still time... there has to be."

He doubled over suddenly, a violent cough racking his body. Ashara stepped forward instinctively, but the blade in his hand jerked toward her, a feeble threat. Flecks of blood spattered the ground, and when Astarion pulled his hand from his lips, his crimson eyes fixated on the smear of red staining his pale fingers.

"No," he whispered, his voice breaking. "This can't be happening. Not again... not now."

Ashara's breath caught, the sight of his terror sparking off her own fears. "Astarion, please - what's happening?"

He coughed again, his strength faltering, though he still clutched the dagger. His hand trembled violently as he jabbed it toward her once more. "I said stay back!" he hissed. "I'm not... I'm not letting this happen. I'll bargain, beg, sell my soul if I must - but I won't let this thing take me."

His outburst collapsed into another fit of coughing, the weapon slipping from his grip. Ashara moved instinctively, snatching the dagger before he could recover. Astarion reached for it with a desperate lunge, but his strength failed him, and he crumpled back against the tent wall.

"Go on, then," he spat bitterly, his voice laced with despair. "Get it over with."

Ashara tucked the dagger into the waistband of her trousers and knelt cautiously, her hands open and unthreatening. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just tell me what's happening. Let me help."

Astarion let out a hollow laugh, the sound sharp and cutting. "Help? What do you think you can do? Isn't it obvious? I'm turning." His voice cracked, and his gaze flickered away, as if admitting the truth was more painful than the affliction itself. "This happened before... it was stopped. But unless you've got another Githyanki relic hidden away, you'll shortly be sharing this tent with a mindflayer."

Ashara's stomach twisted. She turned sharply and yelled out of the tent, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Onyx! Get over here now!"

A shuffle of movement, a low growl, and Onyx's massive frame filled the entrance. His sharp gaze swept over the scene, settling on Astarion's crumpled figure. The vampire shrank back even further, his breaths ragged.

"The transformation is starting!" Ashara's voice cracked with desperation as she turned to Onyx. "Please, we have to help him."

Onyx growled low in his throat. "Ashara, step away from him."

"No," she snapped, defiance hardening her tone. "There has to be a way to stop this."

Onyx's piercing eyes locked onto Astarion, who clutched his head and groaned, another tremor wracking his body. The wolf's ears flicked forward, and he closed his eyes, his expression twisting with concentration.

"The tadpole..." Onyx rumbled after a moment, his voice resonant with grim authority. "It's responding to a telepathic command from something ancient. Powerful. It's trying to trigger ceremorphosis."

Ashara's breath caught, her chest tightening as she glanced between the two. "Can you stop it?"

Onyx's eyes opened slowly, gleaming with resolve. "I might be able to block the voice."

A faint spark of hope flickered in Astarion's eyes as he stood, but before the words could fully leave his lips, another violent coughing fit overtook him. He doubled over, clutching his chest, and gasped for air. The sound was raw, each breath scraping like broken glass in his throat.

"Whatever you plan to do, now might be a good ti—" His voice broke mid-sentence, and his eyes rolled back as his body went slack, crumpling forward with all the grace of a marionette whose strings had been severed.

Ashara lunged, catching him just before he hit the ground. The unexpected weight sent her stumbling back a step, her arms tightening instinctively around his limp form. The heat radiating from his fevered skin and the slight tremors shaking his frame sent a wave of dread coursing through her.

Her gaze darted to Onyx. "Did you do that?"

Onyx nodded, his golden eyes half-lidded as though in deep concentration. "Yes. He's agitated and fear makes him talk too much. I need to focus, and his body needs rest."

Ashara frowned, shifting Astarion's limp form. "You could've warned me," she muttered under her breath as she half-lifted, half-dragged him toward the bedroll shoved against the tent wall. His shivering made the task harder, his body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. With care, she lowered him onto the thin mattress, adjusting his arms and smoothing the fabric of his shirt where it clung to his damp skin.

For a moment, she knelt over him, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Sweat gleamed on his brow, catching the faint light like dew on a fragile web.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest. Despite only knowing him for such a short amount of time - and despite his barbed remarks, his maddening self-assuredness - she had already grown to like this strange vampire.

Shaking herself free of her thoughts, Ashara rose and slipped outside, her movements brisk and purposeful as she grabbed a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. When she returned, she settled on the edge of the bedroll and carefully began dabbing at the sweat beading on his forehead.

His damp curls clung stubbornly to his face, and as she smoothed them back, her gaze fell to the puncture marks on his neck - twin crescents etched deep into his skin, faintly puckered. The savagery of them twisted her stomach. She could almost hear the snap of teeth breaking flesh, the guttural snarl of hunger, and Astarion's cry of pain. Her fingers brushed against the marks, unthinking, and she flinched at the thought of what he must have endured.

The thought of him being forced into such a transformation - violently reshaped into something unnatural - sent a wave of sorrow coursing through her. No wonder he feared the mindflayer tadpole's grasp. He had already lost his humanity once.

A rustle drew her attention, and Ashara glanced up to find Onyx watching her intently. His eyes, fierce yet filled with an uncanny understanding, locked onto hers.

"Why did he think I wanted to kill him?" she asked quietly, her voice tinged with frustration and sadness. "After the kindness we've shown him, why is he still so... scared?"

Onyx shifted closer, his massive form crouching to fit within the tent. He settled beside her, his muzzle brushing her shoulder in a gentle nuzzle. "Do you remember that fox we found trapped in a snare a few winters back?"

Ashara's lips curved in a faint smile. "I remember it bit me after I freed it."

Onyx huffed, a sound that was part laugh, part sigh. "And that proves my point. Your intention was to help it, but it was so blinded by pain and fear that it couldn't see you as anything other than a threat."

She shook her head, recalling the fox's wild eyes and its trembling body. "It was snapping at me in one breath and screaming in terror in the next. Every time I tried to soothe it, it acted like I was trying to murder it. Even when I used magic to speak to it, it took ages for it to trust me."

Onyx tilted his head toward Astarion, his gaze thoughtful. "Remind you of anyone?"

Ashara let out a soft laugh, tinged with melancholy. "As a matter of fact, it does."

Her expression sobered as she glanced back at Onyx "But he's not an animal. I thought people were supposed to be more intelligent and reasonable than beasts."

Onyx huffed another quiet laugh. "That is somewhat debatable, but generally speaking they usually are. However, certain circumstances can strip a person down to their rawest self. Pain and fear don't leave room for logic or trust. They replace it with survival. And if someone's instincts have been shaped by cruelty, then fear becomes their foundation, driving every thought, every action."

Ashara sighed, her fingers stilling for a moment on the cloth. "People are complicated."

"Indeed they are." Onyx's tone held both amusement and weariness.

His expression turned serious, his voice taking on a weighty cadence. "Astarion is no longer in immediate danger. I've managed to create a barrier around his mind, shielding it from the voice that was commanding the tadpole. For now, he is safe."

Ashara let out a shaky breath of relief but caught the somber edge to his tone. "What is it?" she pressed.

Onyx hesitated, then spoke. "The tadpole... it's unusual. There are traces of arcane tampering, enhancements beyond its normal purpose of ceremorphosis. It's been altered to serve a greater purpose."

Ashara frowned. "Do you think this has to do with the Moonrise Towers that the goblins mentioned?"

"It's a possibility," Onyx admitted. His gaze darkened, thoughtful. "I suspect there's a far greater scheme at play here - something more intricate than just another cult."

Ashara's jaw tightened. "Then we'll need to uncover what's going on. For Astarion's sake... and everyone else's."

Her gaze drifted back to Astarion's face, the sharp edges of his features now softened by the stillness of unconsciousness. Despite the tension hanging thick in the tent, a wave of tender concern washed over her. She reached out almost without thinking, and began stroking his head, her fingers brushing through his curls, untangling them gently.

"Ashara, stop that." Onyx's voice cut through the moment, sharp and commanding.

She flinched, her hand retreating as if burned. "Sorry!" she stammered, her cheeks flushing with guilt. "I just wanted to—."

"I know you mean well," he interrupted, his voice softer but still firm. "But there is a line between actions that are necessary to care for him, and those that are not. It is not your place to act in a way he would not welcome if he was awake."

Ashara swallowed hard, glancing back down at Astarion's pale face. The tender gesture that had felt so natural now seemed misplaced, invasive even. "You're right," she murmured, her tone tinged with regret. "I wasn't thinking."

"I know," Onyx said, his gaze steady. "But trust is fragile, especially with someone like him. Do not break it by crossing his boundaries."

Just then, Astarion stirred, his movements sluggish, as though surfacing from the depths of a murky pool. His eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, his crimson eyes darted between Ashara and Onyx. Fear ignited in his gaze, sharp and immediate. His hands flew to his face, feeling for something unseen.

Relief softened his features when he found nothing amiss, but confusion quickly replaced it, knitting his brow. "What happened?" His voice was hoarse, trembling with residual fear. "How am I still...?"

"Onyx put up a mental barrier around you," Ashara explained gently. "Whatever was trying to command your parasite can't reach you anymore."

Astarion's brows furrowed, his gaze flicking to Onyx. "He can do that?" There was incredulity in his tone, the sharp edge of disbelief cutting through his words.

Onyx inclined his head with measured calm. "I can, though the barrier will need to be reinforced periodically."

Astarion's eyes flicked to the bowl of water and the damp cloth in Ashara's hands. His face twisted into a smirk, laced with mischief. "Mopping my fevered brow, were you? How perfectly romantic."

Ashara blinked, her brow scrunching in genuine puzzlement. "How is wiping sweat off your head romantic?"

Astarion opened his mouth, clearly ready to elaborate, but stopped himself mid-thought. He snapped his mouth shut and let out a theatrical sigh. "Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to."

Ashara's gaze flicked to Onyx, who had turned his head and was now scratching furiously at an imaginary itch near his ear. Her eyes darted between the two, suspicion prickling at the edges of her thoughts. She felt a strange sense of self-consciousness, as if there was a joke she'd missed entirely. Brushing it off, she rolled her eyes and pressed on.

"It wouldn't kill you to thank Onyx for saving your life you know."

Astarion tilted his head, a sly grin curling at the corners of his lips. "It might," he quipped. "I've no idea what else he's capable of, and I'm not sure I want to take the risk."

Without thinking, Ashara reached out and dropped the damp cloth onto his face. A muffled chuckle escaped from beneath the fabric as he pulled it off and sat up, his movements slower than usual, but more stable. He turned to Onyx with a half-smile that somehow managed to look both contrite and insincere.

"I am, of course, eternally grateful that you took the initiative to protect yourself from a potential mindflayer."

Ashara frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's not why we helped you," she said, her tone carrying an edge of irritation.

Astarion arched an elegant brow, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "Oh, isn't it? So, you're telling me the prospect of coming face to tentacle with a soulless monster played absolutely no part in your decision?"

She leaned closer, her gaze locking onto his with unyielding intensity. "No."

The honesty in her tone startled him. For a heartbeat, his smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he leaned back, letting mockery coat his words like armor.

"Then you're an even bigger fool than I thought," he said, his voice laced with scorn. "Honestly, how have you survived this long with such poor self-preservation instincts?"

Ashara's face reddened, the warmth of anger rising like a tide. She stood abruptly, her movements jerky with frustration, and glared down at him.

"Stupid fox," she muttered under her breath as she turned on her heel and stormed out of the tent, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

As she stomped across the room, a thought struck Ashara with the force of a thunderclap, sending her heart racing. "Karlach!" she blurted, urgency sharpening her voice. "She's infected too!"

Onyx's head snapped toward her, his ears perking sharply. Without a word, he surged up the steps to the upper level, his powerful strides eating up the distance. Ashara hurried after him, her boots scuffing against the stone as she struggled to keep pace.

As they reached the top, the sight before them stopped them both in their tracks. Karlach was on her knees, clutching her head, flames licking dangerously high around her horns and shoulders. Zevlor stood over her, his face pale with concern, one arm wrapped protectively around the trembling form of Mirkon. The boy clung to his legs, his wide eyes brimming with fear.

Zevlor's gaze darted to Ashara and Onyx, relief breaking through the worry on his face. "I was just about to call you," he said, his voice tight.

Onyx didn't waste a second. He crossed the room in two great bounds, his immense form towering over Karlach. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes, his breath steadying into a slow, deliberate rhythm. Ashara stood back, watching as the air around Onyx seemed to hum with latent energy. Gradually, Karlach's flames began to subside, their once-chaotic flicker dimming to a soft, smoldering glow. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she sat back on her heels, her hand dropping limply to her side.

"Holy shit," Karlach breathed, her voice hoarse but alive with relief. "I thought I was done for then. Doesn't get any easier the second time round." She looked up at Onyx, a crooked, grateful smile spreading across her face. "I'm guessing I have you to thank for that, big guy."

Onyx nuzzled her shoulder in a gesture both reassuring and faintly amused. "Indeed. I am thankful to have reached you on time. You would not be nearly so endearing as a mindflayer."

Karlach barked a laugh, her flames flickering faintly with the motion. She turned her head and spotted Mirkon, still clinging to Zevlor. "It's okay, kid," she said, her voice softer now. "I'm alright. See? No squid parts here."

Mirkon nodded hesitantly but didn't let go of Zevlor, who exhaled deeply and muttered, "Thank the gods."

Ashara crossed her arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "The gods had nothing to do with it."

Karlach smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Well... one of them kinda did, eh, Onyx?" She winked at the wolf, her grin widening.

Onyx lifted his head sharply, fixing Ashara with a glare that could have melted steel. "Just who haven't you told about me?"

Ashara shrugged, the corners of her mouth tugging downward in a guilty grimace. "Uh... it might have come up once or twice?"

Karlach, still catching her breath, leaned back on her hands with a thoughtful expression. "So... does this mean I'm stuck with you guys now? Not that I'm complaining, but I don't know where you stand on flaming, one-armed tieflings crashing the party."

Onyx tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made Ashara wonder what he saw beneath the surface. "You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish," he said finally. "Though you may change your mind when I inform you that I can remove that tadpole from your brain."

The room seemed to still as his words hung in the air. Karlach froze, her jaw going slack as she stared at him. "Are you serious?" she whispered, her voice caught somewhere between hope and disbelief.

Onyx inclined his head, his golden eyes calm and certain. "Entirely."

For a moment, silence hung in the air, thick with possibility. Karlach's flames flared again, this time in a burst of exhilaration. "Well, I'll be damned," she muttered, her voice breaking into a laugh. "Guess Fenrir's my new favorite god."

Chapter Text

The forge room radiated heat, casting wavering shadows across the stone walls. The air smelled of molten metal, charred venison, and damp earth. The group sat cross-legged on the floor near the forge, their voices muffled by the crackle of the fire as they ate. Astarion, however, couldn't bring himself to sit. The flickering light made his pale skin gleam as he paced, restless as a caged predator.

"So let me get this straight," he began, his tone edged with incredulity. "Not only can you silence the voice of this Absolute, but you can also remove our tadpoles? How very convenient." His voice dripped with suspicion, the mockery in his words carefully measured.

Onyx, crouched beside the forge, met his gaze with a steady nod. "I can remove Karlach's, yes."

The words lit a fuse in Astarion's chest."Why only hers?" His voice sharpened as he sneered, "Let me guess - I've offended the wrong god?" He lashed out with his foot, kicking at the forge's wall. Pain shot up his leg, white-hot and immediate, and he hissed through clenched teeth, a stream of curses slipping past his lips.

Ashara looked up from her plate, her eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Well, that was a stupid thing to do."

Still clutching his foot, Astarion shot her a venomous glare. "You don't say."

Onyx rose to his full height, his calm voice a sharp contrast to Astarion's volatile energy. "I could remove yours too," he said, his tone heavy with measured patience. "But you'd simply be trading one commanding voice for another."

Astarion stilled mid-step. A flicker of understanding crossed his face, the realization sinking like a stone in his gut. "Cazador," he whispered, the name leaving his lips like a ghost. "He'd be able to reassert control over me, wouldn't he?"

Onyx nodded solemnly. "Yes. From what you've told me, a vampire lord's dominion over his spawn is rooted in blood and soul, deeper than the magic of these tadpoles. While I might be able to block his commands, I wouldn't want to bet your freedom - or your sanity - on it."

For a moment, Astarion's mask slipped, his hand drifting to his throat as if feeling the phantom grip of a chain. Bitterness crept into his voice, hardening it. "So keeping this thing in my head and staying close to you is my only option for survival, is it?"

Ashara brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, her tone measured. "At least until we know more about these tadpoles and who created them. Whoever altered them might have a way to let you keep it without risking ceremorphosis."

Karlach lowered her mug of ale, her fiery hair catching the forge's glow as she wiped her mouth. "Whoever made these things, probably isn't going to help us out of the kindness of their heart."

Ashara glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I wasn't planning to ask nicely."

Karlach laughed, a deep belly laugh that echoed warmly off the walls as she raised her mug in a toast. "Knew I liked you."

Their shared grin sent an unexpected pang through Astarion's chest. He turned and perched on the edge of the forge wall, his gaze falling to his hands. The firelight traced the fine lines of his fingers, catching on the faint scars etched there. The ache of jealousy and loneliness knotted in his stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

The sharp voice of Onyx broke through his spiraling thoughts. "There is another solution," the wolf said with unnerving ease. "We could kill Cazador."

Astarion's breath caught, his pulse faltering. Hope - fragile and dangerous - flared to life in his chest. "You'd do that for me?" The words escaped before he could stop them, laden with disbelief.

Ashara shrugged as if he'd asked for a spare coin. Reaching for another slice of venison, she slid it onto her plate with calm precision. "Of course. I'd already decided to do it before I pulled you from the river. Knowing now what he's done to you? All the more reason. But," she continued, her tone growing practical, "it might take some time to reach Baldur's Gate, and we could find another solution along the way."

She spoke so casually, so assuredly, that it left Astarion speechless. He blinked at her, trying to reconcile her resolve with his own gnawing doubt. His gaze fell back to his hands, while emotions churned inside him - gratitude, anger, hope - forming a maelstrom he could scarcely control.

Karlach broke the silence, her tone brimming with anticipation. "So, when can we get the little wriggler out of my skull then?"

Onyx turned his attention to her. "Once we reach Rosymorn Monastery. It's nestled in a valley along the mountain pass leading to Baldur's Gate. There will be clerics there capable of the precision and power needed to extract the parasite. I can suppress the worm's resistance to the process, but it requires skilled hands and divine magic to heal the brain."

He glanced at Astarion, his tone turning wry. "However, as the monastery is dedicated to Lathander, it might be best if you remain outside its walls."

Astarion let out a hollow laugh, his mouth curling in a sarcastic grin. "Ah, yes. We wouldn't want to tempt fate and upset the dear, undead-hating sun god, would we?"

Zevlor, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke. "If we're heading toward Baldur's Gate, I would ask for your help in searching for survivors along the way. Some refugees managed to escape the attack. I saw them scatter in the chaos."

Ashara inclined her head, her voice steady. "Of course."

Astarion echoed her words under his breath, his tone sour. "Of course." His hands clenched into fists, the ember of hope now a flickering flame, defying the darkness that had long claimed him. But hope, he knew, was a dangerous thing - fragile as glass, and just as easily shattered.

The days that followed passed in a blur, the monotony of travel broken only by conversation and the rhythmic crunch of boots against dirt and stone. The world seemed to stretch endlessly before them, a patchwork of rocky trails and sprawling forest.

Zevlor and Mirkon rode atop Onyx's broad back, the wolf's massive form a steady, silent sentinel among their group. Beside him, Ashara, Karlach, and Astarion walked side by side, their pace unhurried but purposeful.

Conversation wove through the air, often carried by Karlach's booming, unapologetic voice. The Tiefling shared her stories with a raw honesty that demanded respect.

"Worked for this bastard named Gortash for years," Karlach said, the words rolling out as she shoved her hands into her belt. "Thought he was just a slick operator, y'know? Trusted him with my life. Imagine my surprise when he sold me to Zariel."

Ashara glanced at her, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Zariel?"

Karlach snorted, her breath clouding in the cool air. "Yeah, the big boss herself. Archduchess of Avernus. Fancy title for a monster that sees the Blood Wars as one big, endless meat grinder." She flexed her remaining arm, her gaze far away. "I served for ten years. What else could I do? Fought in that endless hellscape. Kept my head down. Never thought my escape ticket would be that damn nautiloid."

Ashara listened intently, nodding in quiet understanding. Despite everything - her missing arm, her scars, the ever-present threat of the infernal engine in her chest - Karlach radiated a strength that seemed impossible to extinguish. It wasn't lost on Ashara, and she felt a growing admiration for the Tiefling's indomitable spirit.

She also made a mental note to find Gortash once they reached Baldur's Gate - and to ensure his life ended painfully.

Astarion, by contrast, was an enigma. He moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate and silent, his crimson eyes always scanning the horizon for unseen threats. He offered little about his past, his words few and far between. When he did speak, it was usually to insert a dry remark or a sardonic observation, though even these grew less frequent as the miles stretched on. He seemed content to listen, his sharp mind cataloging every detail, every story shared.

Meanwhile, Zevlor and Mirkon forged a bond that felt as natural as the rising sun. The older Tiefling had taken the boy under his wing with a quiet, steadfast care that warmed the group in unspoken ways. Mirkon, shy and skittish at first, began to open up under Zevlor's patient guidance. His curiosity sparkled in his wide eyes, and soon enough, his voice joined the conversations, eager and full of questions.

Ashara found herself drawn to his bright mind, often pointing out plants and creatures as they traveled. "This one," she said, crouching by a low bush with pale, star-shaped berries, "is harmless now, but the seeds are poisonous if eaten in large quantities. Always avoid them."

Mirkon leaned closer, nodding earnestly. "How can you tell they're ripe?"

She plucked a berry, showing him the faint golden blush near its base. "See this? That's your clue. If they're green, they're still growing. But remember what I said - no eating."

He grinned, his shyness momentarily forgotten. "Got it."

Ashara's sharp gaze flickered upward briefly, catching a flash of white hair in the corner of her eye. Astarion had paused nearby, pretending to study a tree's bark but clearly listening. She smirked inwardly and raised her voice just enough to carry.

"Tracking prey is another skill you'll need," she said, gesturing to the faint indentations in the soil. "Look for hoofprints like these. They mean a deer passed this way not too long ago. If the edges are sharp, it's fresh. Blurred, and it's been a while."

Mirkon nodded eagerly, and Astarion tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering toward the marks before returning to his feigned disinterest. Ashara resisted the urge to comment, letting him absorb the lesson in his own way.

The days passed like this - stories shared, silences respected, and lessons woven into their journey. Each step brought them closer to Rosymorn Monastery and the uncertain future that awaited them.

The third day of travel brought them to a grim scene at the foot of the mountain pass. The inn - Waukeen's Rest - once a beacon of respite for weary travelers, now stood as a husk of blackened beams and ash, its charred skeleton clawing at the sky. The air was heavy with the stench of burnt wood and death, lingering like an unwelcome guest. Fresh graves, hastily marked by battered shields, dotted the entrance to the courtyard like silent sentinels.

Ashara slowed her pace, taking in the destruction. The shields bore the unmistakable crest of the Flaming Fist, their once-proud sigil marred by soot and ash.

Karlach stopped beside her, crossing her arms as she studied the graves. "These guys usually serve as city guards in Baldur's Gate," she remarked, her tone heavy with curiosity. "Wonder what they were doing all the way out here?"

Astarion, trailing behind with an almost lazy gait, smirked faintly. "Dying, apparently."

Karlach shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood. "You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"

Ignoring her, Astarion's gaze swept across the wreckage with predatory precision. Onyx had let Zevlor and Mirkon dismount and was prowling the area, his nose close to the ground. The massive wolf's ears flicked as he sniffed, his movements deliberate. Astarion followed his lead, his boots crunching against debris as he crouched beside a cluster of charred beams.

"Well," he called back to them, his tone flippant but laced with intrigue, "it appears drow raiders are to blame."

Ashara approached, her brow furrowed. "How can you tell?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Astarion gestured to a half-burned corpse sprawled nearby. "The dead drow raider over here is a pretty good clue, wouldn't you say?"

The figure's twisted form was clad in ash-covered grey leather armor, its veined design resembling overlapping leaves. Ashara knelt beside him, the scent of burnt flesh clawing at her senses. She examined the body with a detached curiosity, noting the intricate craftsmanship of the armor. "Drow raiders this far from the Underdark," she murmured. "Strange."

Karlach and Zevlor joined them, the tiefling frowning as she surveyed the scene. "Even stranger," Karlach added, planting her hands on her hips. "What would Drow even want with this place? Not exactly their usual target."

Zevlor's expression darkened, and he glanced at the body thoughtfully. "If his head is still intact," he began slowly, "we could ask him and find out."

Astarion straightened, a sardonic grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, how delightfully macabre. You know Speak With Dead? Isn't that a bit off-brand for a paladin?"

Zevlor's lips tightened, his voice low. "Not for one who took an Oath of Vengeance." He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face as he added, almost inaudibly, "It often seems the dead have more use for me than the living these days."

Ashara caught the flicker of despair in his eyes, the weight of his guilt and loss. She rested a hand on his arm, her touch light. "I think Mirkon would disagree with you there," she said gently.

Zevlor blinked, his expression softening. He offered her a faint smile before stepping toward the corpse. "Keep the boy away," he said over his shoulder. "I don't want him to see this."

Onyx nodded wordlessly and padded over to Mirkon. The wolf nuzzled the boy, his massive head lowering to Mirkon's eye level as he spoke in a low rumble. Whatever he said made the child's face brighten, and he eagerly followed Onyx away.

Zevlor watched them go before turning back to the task at hand. Kneeling beside the corpse, he whispered, "Cum Mortuis in Lingua Mortua."

A sickly green glow ignited in his eyes, mirrored in the corpse's hollow sockets. The body twitched unnaturally, rising a few inches off the ground as if suspended by unseen threads. Ashara suppressed a shiver as the spell took hold.

Zevlor's voice was steady, his words deliberate. "Where are you from?"

The corpse's mouth opened with a creak, a voice like broken glass rasping from its unmoving throat. "... from... Sshamath... before... the Absolute..."

Zevlor's eyes narrowed. "Why were you at the inn?"

"... raid... retrieval... for the Absolute..."

Ashara stepped closer, curiosity sharpening her tone. "What were you trying to retrieve?"

The corpse's head lolled, its voice rasping like wind through dry leaves. "... Grand... Duke... Absolute... demands him..."

Karlach's breath hitched, and her usually bold demeanor faltered. "Shit," she muttered, stepping closer. "He must mean Duke Ravengard. He's the top brass in Baldur's Gate - or at least he was before I left. He's also Wyll's father..."

Urgency sharpened her tone as she leaned toward the corpse. "Where were you trying to take the Duke?"

"... take... to Moonrise... Towers..."

Astarion's grin returned, a glint of dark amusement in his eyes. "Well, well. What a happy coincidence."

Zevlor ignored him, his voice careful. "You have only one question left."

Ashara considered for a moment before speaking. "What does the Absolute want with the Duke?"

Unable to give an answer, the Drow's broken frame sagged as the glow faded from its eyes, the magic dissipating like smoke in the wind. The body dropped back to the ground with a dull thud, lifeless once more. Whatever further answers it held, they had died along with it.

Ashara straightened, her mind churning. The weight of the Drow's cryptic answers lingered in the air like an unanswered prayer, and she couldn't shake the ominous feeling that Moonrise Towers would hold more than they bargained for.

Leaving the ruined inn behind, the road stretched ahead, winding through the gentle slopes of the foothills, dotted with wildflowers and grasses swaying in the soft afternoon breeze. Onyx padded ahead with Mirkon clinging to his fur, the boy's laughter drifting back to the group like a faint echo of innocence. The rest of them followed, their steps falling into an unspoken rhythm, but the tension from the encounter at Wakeen's Rest lingered in the air, unspoken and heavy.

Astarion broke the quiet, his voice carrying an edge of sardonic amusement. "So, the Absolute has its sights set on the elite of Baldur's Gate. Ambitious little cult, aren't they?" He glanced at Karlach, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't know Wyll was a Duke's son. How delightfully scandalous."

Karlach's face softened slightly, though her brow furrowed at the mention of Wyll. "He only told me," she admitted. "That night after Mizora paid him a visit and punished him, he was feeling pretty low. I wanted to thank him for sticking his neck out for me, and we got to talking. He let slip he was Ravengard's disgraced son."

Ashara tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Why was he disgraced?"

Karlach hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "Turns out daddy dearest wasn't a fan of his career choice."

Ashara's puzzled expression deepened, and Astarion filled the gap with a lazy flick of his hand. "He was a warlock. Their powers are often derived from patrons who are... shall we say, of dubious moral character."

"Wyll's certainly was," Karlach added, her tone hardening. "Mizora's a devil - one of Zariel's personal lapdogs. And what a conniving little bitch she is. I've taken shits that are more pleasant than her, but at least those can be buried after."

Onyx, who had been weaving lazily along the path, let out a rumbling laugh, his sharp teeth flashing as he stumbled over a loose rock. He recovered with a shake of his head and shot Karlach a toothy grin, to which she responded with a playful smirk before continuing, her voice darkening. "Mizora tricked Wyll into hunting me on Zariel's behalf - convinced him I was a rogue devil. When he realized I was just a tiefling with an infernal engine for a heart and a serious overheating problem, he broke his contract and refused to kill me."

Astarion snorted, his pale fingers brushing absently at his collar. "And that heroic act earned him a set of horns when Mizora transformed him into a devil himself. Ironically poetic, if you think about it."

Karlach whirled around, her flames flaring dangerously along her body. The air around her shimmered with heat, and her tail lashed like an agitated cat's. "Wipe that smirk off your face, you miserable bloodsucker," she snarled. "Wyll was the best out of all of us. He didn't deserve any of this. Not Mizora, not that bastard Durge."

Astarion bristled, his posture stiffening. His crimson eyes narrowed as he spat out, "And yet this wonderful hero was still perfectly happy to see me shipped off to Baldur's Gate in a cage."

Karlach's voice rose, molten with anger. "He didn't want that any more than I did!"

Before the argument could escalate further, Onyx's voice boomed, deep and commanding. "That's enough! The two of you, calm down right now."

The force of his words reverberated through the air, silencing both of them. Karlach's flames dimmed, the heat around her dissipating, though her fists remained clenched. Astarion regarded her with a mix of suspicion and something softer, less certain.

He stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "What do you mean?"

Karlach exhaled heavily, the fight draining out of her. Her expression softened into something pained, the weight of her memories visible in her eyes. "He tried to convince Durge and the rest to let him go after Gandrel and bring you back."

Astarion's face shifted, shock flickering across his features before he quickly masked it behind disbelief. "Why on Toril would he do that?"

"Because being turned into a devil made Wyll appreciate that not everything is as black and white as he once thought," Karlach replied, her voice quieter now. "He argued that you hadn't hurt any of us, despite having plenty of opportunities. But Durge overruled him. The Gith and the Sharran backed that scaly freak up, and the wizard..." She trailed off, her lip curling. "Well, Gale just seems to go along with the majority."

Astarion rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone dripping with disdain. "Heavens forbid he risk his steady supply of artifacts to actually stand up for himself."

Ashara watched their exchange closely, her mind turning over Karlach's words. She remembered Karlach mentioning a wizard from Waterdeep who consumed enchanted artifacts to sustain a mysterious condition. It added another layer of intrigue to the fragmented story of their former companions.

Karlach's voice softened, tinged with weariness. "In my experience, people will do almost anything to survive. You should know that better than any of us, Astarion."

Astarion fell silent, and the tension in his frame relaxed, his usual arrogance melting into something more subdued. They continued walking, the rhythmic crunch of gravel filling the silence until he spoke again, his voice quiet and almost uncertain. "I'm... sorry, about Wyll. I didn't realise he... I'm sorry."

Ashara glanced at Astarion, catching the flicker of sincerity in his expression as Karlach nodded, her tone softening. "Yeah, me too."

Ashara observed the exchange with a mixture of concern and curiosity. Beneath Astarion's flippant exterior and Karlach's fiery temper, she saw the first threads of understanding forming - a fragile bridge that perhaps one day might lead to friendship. The thought was something that left a warm feeling in Ashara's chest, and she found herself strangly eager to see what the future might bring for all of them in the days to come.

The air carried the chill of the mountains, crisp and thin, biting at the exposed skin of Astarion's neck as the group approached the edge of a wide valley the following morning.

Below them, the dawn rays painted the tableau in soft hues, the golden beams illuminating the sprawling ruins of Rosymorn Monastery nestled in the shadows of jagged peaks. The monastery's once-pristine rooftops shimmered faintly in the distance, catching the light like tarnished mirrors, but even from afar, the scars of destruction were evident.

Astarion narrowed his eyes, the sharp contrast of beauty and ruin unsettling him. He folded his arms as he tilted his head in mock contemplation. "I'm no expert," he drawled, his sharp tone cutting through the morning stillness, "but aren't monasteries usually a little more... intact?"

Onyx, walking ahead, stopped and sniffed the air, his amber eyes scanning the horizon. "I fear some recent tragedy has befallen it," he rumbled gravely.

Karlach squinted down at the ruins, her jaw tightening. "Well, there goes my doctor's appointment." She glanced at Onyx, her voice laced with suspicion. "What are you betting Durge and his cronies had something to do with it?"

Onyx shook his great head, his fur rippling like dark waves. "I think perhaps the culprits may be Githyanki on this occasion. I noticed evidence of their script carved into some rocks a little further back. And the ground around here is scorched with dragonfire."

Ashara stepped forward, her brow furrowed as she studied the crumbling remains ahead. "Shall we go and see if there are any survivors?"

Astarion arched a skeptical brow, gesturing vaguely at the ruins. "And can I safely come along without incurring any divine wrath?"

Onyx's glance back at him held the barest trace of humor. "Probably."

"Reassuring," Astarion muttered, but he followed nonetheless, his fingers twitching instinctively toward the hilt of his dagger.

As they neared the monastery, the scale of the destruction became horrifyingly clear. What had once been a proud sanctuary was now a wasteland of splintered beams, crumbled stone, and twisted metal. The air smelled of soot and something acrid, sharp enough to sting his nostrils. Broken statues of Lathander lay scattered, their marble faces shattered and gazing blankly at the sky.

Karlach let out a low whistle, her tail flicking behind her. "Gods... It looks like the whole place was smashed with a giant hammer."

Ashara ran her fingers along a piece of jagged stone, her expression grave. "What kind of power or weapon could do this?"

Astarion said nothing, though unease churned in his stomach. The sheer scale of the devastation unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and he fervently hoped that whatever - or whoever - had done this was long gone.

Much to his dismay, Ashara still insisted they search the rubble for survivors. With an exaggerated sigh, Astarion joined the effort, though his focus strayed more toward anything valuable that might have survived the carnage. He poked aimlessly through debris, plucking up a tarnished necklace here, a carved trinket there. His fingers brushed against an ornate goblet half-buried in dust and stone, its intricate design glinting faintly. He crouched, tugging at it with little success.

Just as he managed to loosen it, a pale, thin arm shot out from the rubble, seizing his wrist. Astarion flinched, his instincts taking over. He wrenched his arm free with an angry hiss, his dagger flashing into his hand in a single fluid motion.

The hoarse rasp of a voice stopped him mid-strike. "Help me... I beg you, please."

Astarion narrowed his eyes, warily peering through the crack in the stones. What met his gaze was not another feral beast or monster, but the face of a young Githyanki, barely more than a teenager. The youths mottled, yellow skin was marred with dirt and streaks of dried blood, and his wide, desperate eyes locked onto Astarion's with a silent plea.

"Why should I?" Astarion asked, his voice cool and detached, though he didn't sheathe his dagger.

The gith's lips trembled, his voice cracking as he spoke. "They left me here to die. They said I was weak... useless. Please, I don't want to die."

Astarion's gaze drifted to the bloodied claw marks on the stones, evidence of frantic attempts to dig free. He looked at the gith's hands, their fingertips raw and torn. Something about the scene stirred an unwelcome memory - a tombs suffocating embrace, his own nails clawing at stone as his voice grew hoarse from screaming.

A wave of dizziness struck him, memories rushing unbidden like water through a shattered dam. The year he'd spent entombed alive for defying Cazador played out in jagged flashes behind his eyes.

Astarion quickly closed his eyes, willing the wave of nausea to pass. When he opened them again, the young gith's terrified face came back into focus. Resolve settled over him like a cold flame.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice quieter, the edge softening.

"Vaarl," the gith whispered, his words trembling. "I'm... was, a trainee for crèche Y'llek."

Astarion smirked faintly, though it lacked his usual mockery. "Well, then consider yourself the luckiest gith in what's left of crèche Y'llek."

Vaarl gave a miserable, hollow laugh. "I don't feel very lucky right now."

"You will soon," Astarion replied, standing and calling out to the others. "Over here! I found a survivor."

As the group hurried toward him, Astarion glanced down at the gith once more. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, and Astarion felt something strange - an echo of his own survival, fragile yet defiant, mirrored in the boy's desperate gaze.

Onyx wasted no time, his massive claws tore into the earth with relentless efficiency, sending sprays of dirt and debris flying with each powerful swipe. His focus was singular, the muscles in his shoulders rippling as he carved away at the rubble trapping Vaarl. Beside him, Karlach, Ashara, and Zevlor worked with grim determination, hauling away stone after stone to widen the gap. Even Mirkon pitched in, his small hands clutching at the lighter rocks, his face pinched with concentration.

Astarion, standing slightly apart, observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes. His gaze traced the angles and weight of the rubble, mentally piecing together its fragility like an intricate puzzle. "Use those stones," he said, pointing to a cluster of larger, sturdier rocks. His voice carried an uncharacteristic authority, cutting through the grunts and scraping sounds of labor. "Prop up these sections of rubble, or they'll collapse on him the moment Onyx creates a space."

The others glanced at him briefly, then followed his direction without question. Karlach grunted as she shifted one of the heavier stones into place, the heat from her infernal core causing faint wisps of steam to rise from the damp earth beneath her hands. The reinforced structure held, allowing Onyx to carve out a wide enough gap for the trapped gith to crawl free.

Ashara was the first to reach into the space, her hands steady as she grasped Vaarl's trembling arms and pulled him the rest of the way out. The young gith's body was a tapestry of bruises and small wounds, his thin frame covered in dirt and dried blood. He lay still on the ground, his chest heaving as though he couldn't believe he was breathing open air again.

Zevlor knelt beside him, offering a canteen of water. Vaarl grabbed it with trembling hands, lifting it to his parched lips. He drank greedily until Ashara's firm voice cut in. "Slowly," she cautioned, her tone gentle but insistent. "Small sips, or you'll make yourself sick."

The gith froze for a moment, then nodded, forcing himself to take measured sips. His voice, though hoarse, was filled with gratitude as he looked at them. "Thank you. I thought I'd never get out of there."

Astarion folded his arms, leaning casually against a nearby stone. "Feeling luckier now?" he asked, arching a brow.

Vaarl managed a weak grin, his lips cracked but genuine. "Very."

Ashara's expression shifted, her concern hardening into purpose. "What happened here? How long have you been trapped?"

Vaarl's shoulders sagged as he exhaled shakily. "I don't know. I think it's been three days. One minute I was being beaten by my sa'varsh for refusing to fight another student to the death. The next, there was this blinding light, a deafening roar, and everything started to shake. We ran to escape the debris, but I tripped. I don't remember much after that... until I heard the survivors evacuating."

He looked down at his bruised hands, his expression one of shame and sorrow. "Some of the other trainees found me and told me the sa'varsh was dead. They laughed at me for getting myself trapped and left me here to join the other warriors. Everyone was setting out to hunt the hshar'lak and the istiks who defied Vlaakith and stole something important."

His head snapped up suddenly, his eyes wide with alarm. "You're not the same istiks, are you?"

Ashara tilted her head. "Depends... What's an istik?"

Onyx, still shaking dirt from his fur, rumbled an answer. "It roughly means outsider. A slightly derogatory term for anyone who isn't Githyanki."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with dry amusement. "You speak Githyanki? - Wait, never mind. Of course you do. Because you 'know much about many things,' don't you?"

The wolf's muzzle curved into a toothy grin. "You're learning fast."

Vaarl glanced in surprise at Onyx and a look of awe flickered across his face. "Is that wolf... talking? I didn't know they could do that here."

Ashara's voice drew Vaarl's attention back. "We've only just arrived. We didn't even know the Githyanki had taken this place over."

Karlach, her tail flicking in annoyance, shot Vaarl a hard look. "We were hoping to have spoken to the original occupants, but I guess your people slaughtered them all."

Vaarl winced, his expression clouded with shame. "They probably did... but I wasn't here then." He hesitated, his hands curling into fists. "I... don't know what to do now. My crèche abandoned me, and I have no idea how to find another." He looked up nervously, his gaze darting toward Astarion. "Can I maybe join you? I promise I won't get in the way."

Astarion and Ashara responded in unison.

"No," Astarion said sharply.

"Of course," Ashara said at the same time.

Vaarl looked between them, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and hope. "Which is it?"

Astarion turned sharply to Ashara. "May I have a word?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed her arm and led her a short distance away, his movements as sharp as his tone. Once out of earshot, he whirled on her, his expression a mask of exasperation. "We are not picking up any more strays."

Ashara crossed her arms, meeting his glare head-on. "Says who? I don't remember putting you in charge today."

"I'm in charge when common sense is required," Astarion retorted, his voice low but heated. "Trust me, the last thing we need is a gith trailing along with us."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, her tone turning cool. "He's practically a kid. Seems harmless enough to me."

"Ha!" Astarion barked, his laugh devoid of humor. "I'm fairly certain the word harmless has never been applied to Githyanki. They're born with a sword in their hand and taught to hate everyone who isn't one of them. Unless you're keen on waking up in the night with your throat slit, I say we give him some supplies and send him on his merry way."

Ashara's gaze narrowed. "I half-expected you to suggest we kill him here and now."

Astarion's lips twisted into a dry smirk. "That was my first thought, but I'm feeling generous today for some reason."

"What a coincidence," Ashara said with a bright smile. "So am I."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and began walking back to the group. Astarion reached out in frustration, his fingers brushing her arm as he hissed, "Ashara, no-gods dammit!"

Vaarl looked up at Ashara with a hopeful gleam in his eyes as she approached. "You're welcome to travel with us," she said, her voice steady but warm. "At least until we reach another settlement. If you want to search for your people after that, it's entirely up to you."

Vaarl blinked, momentarily stunned. Then his battered face lit up as though she'd handed him the moon itself. He reached out, his thin fingers curling around Ashara's hand in a gesture of pure gratitude. "Oh, thank you! I didn't think I'd find someone else who showed compassion and kindness like... Orpheus."

Karlach, who had been adjusting the straps on her prosthetic, straightened. "Who's Orpheus?"

Vaarl's eyes widened with enthusiasm, his previous exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "He's the true prince. We're forbidden to talk about him. They say Vlaakith knows if you even think his name, but I found his book... Part of it, anyway. I read it all the time. He's unbelievable. He's so strong, and - and wise. And he rides a comet. A comet!"

Ashara blinked, slightly bemused. "That sounds... like a difficult thing to do."

"Not for Prince Orpheus," Vaarl said with utter conviction, as though speaking of a divine truth.

Astarion sighed dramatically, his pale hand gesturing lazily to the ruins around them. "Wonderful. We've picked up a delusional hero worshiper. This day just keeps getting better."

Zevlor, choosing to ignore Astarion's remark, stepped forward and clapped Vaarl gently on the shoulder. "Come on, lad. Let's get you on your feet and fill your belly with a good hot meal."

Vaarl nodded, but when he tried to stand, his legs wobbled beneath him. Zevlor and Ashara moved quickly, each supporting him on one side. Together, they guided him toward Onyx, whose massive frame waited patiently near the path.

Ashara placed a hand on Vaarl's back as they walked. "Onyx may not be a comet or a dragon," she said with a faint smile, "but he's still a worthy mount for someone as resilient as you."

Vaarl reached out to stroke Onyx's thick fur, his fingers trembling but steady enough to feel the warmth of the wolf's coat. "He looks more comfortable to ride than a dragon."

Astarion muttered, just loud enough to be heard, "My arse says otherwise."

Without missing a beat, Onyx's tail flicked around and smacked him lightly over the head. Astarion stumbled forward a step, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. "Really?" he snapped indignantly at the wolf.

Onyx simply grinned, his golden eyes glinting with amusement.

Ashara helped Vaarl climb onto Onyx's broad back, steadying him as the young gith settled himself into place. The group began their descent from the ruins, Ashara giving Mirkon a piggyback ride as the child clung to her shoulders, giggling at the sight of Astarion still rubbing his head.

Karlach broke the momentary quiet. "Now what? Is there anywhere else nearby that might have a healer? I'd really like to get this thing out of my head sooner rather than later."

Onyx nodded, his voice thoughtful. "There's a small trading town in one of the valleys near here. It's set back a little from the main path, but used to be a popular rest stop for travelers taking the mountain pass to Baldur's Gate. At least it was the last time I traveled this road."

Astarion turned his gaze on Onyx, skepticism painted across his face. "And when, exactly, was the last time you traveled this road?"

Onyx tilted his head slightly, as if recalling a distant memory. "About a hundred years ago."

Astarion blinked. "A hundred years? You've been alive that long?"

Onyx's golden eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. "No. I've been alive for eight hundred years."

Astarion froze, his jaw dropping. "You're what?!"

Karlach let out a low whistle. "Holy shit..."

Ashara, walking ahead without breaking stride, shrugged lightly. "I don't know why you're so surprised."

Zevlor chuckled, adjusting the sword at his side. "I assumed he was older. Stories of the Fenris Guard date back thousands of years."

Onyx nodded solemnly. "I am the most recent soulshard to be created."

Vaarl, perched atop Onyx's back, tilted his head in confusion. "Um, I don't mean to be rude, but... what's a soulshard?"

Astarion glanced up at him, his voice tinged with wry amusement. "You're riding on the back of a god's soul."

Onyx corrected smoothly, "Part of a god's soul."

Vaarl's mouth fell open slightly, his astonishment palpable. Then, after a beat, a grin spread across his face. "Cool."

Onyx rumbled a deep laugh, his amusement rippling through the air as the group pressed onward, while the shadows of loss and destruction faded away behind them, swallowed by the vast, rugged landscape of the mountain pass.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low, its pale light spilling across the jagged peaks of the mountain pass like a silvery quilt. Astarion moved through the rocky terrain with the quiet grace of a shadow, his steps careful but confident as he followed the faint tracks winding between the stones. The mountain goats had been a lucky find - a delicate scatter of hoofprints in the dirt leading deeper into the valley. His senses sharpened as he went, every shift of wind and rustle of leaves drawing his attention.

He'd taken these nocturnal hunts as an opportunity to test himself. Listening to Ashara's lessons with Mirkon had proven unexpectedly fruitful, her tips on tracking prey lodged firmly in his mind. While the boy asked endless questions, Astarion had absorbed the knowledge in silence, weaving it into his own instinctual understanding of predators and prey. Tonight, he intended to put that knowledge to use.

The tracks led him to a small valley nestled between towering cliffs. The air was still here, the scent of wild grasses mingling with the faint musk of animals. In the cover of some low, dense bushes, a small herd of mountain goats lay curled together, their forms blending into the shadows. Astarion's lips parted in a quiet exhale of anticipation, his muscles coiling like a spring as he prepared to pounce. He imagined the thrill of the chase, the satisfying rush of warm blood on his tongue.

Then, the silence shattered.

A blur of motion lunged from the shadows, and a deafening bleat of distress erupted as a massive form snatched one of the goats. The rest of the herd sprang to life, scattering in a chaotic flurry of hooves and terrified cries, disappearing into the rocky wilderness like smoke in the wind.

Astarion froze mid-step, his body tense as his eyes locked on the predator before him. It took him only a second to recognize the hulking figure tearing into the goat. Relief surged through him, immediately followed by irritation.

"Are you following me?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the stillness.

A low chuckle echoed from behind a nearby rock, followed by a familiar voice. "Not unless you're a goat."

Ashara stepped into the moonlight, her silhouette framed by the pale glow. She held her bow loosely in one hand, her sapphire eyes catching the light as she approached. Astarion's annoyance deepened as she stopped beside Onyx, who was now thoroughly dismantling the unfortunate goat, his powerful jaws crunching through flesh and bone with ease.

Astarion's skin prickled at the sound, and he folded his arms, glaring at the wolf. "You could've at least let me feed before you wasted all that blood."

Onyx raised his muzzle, dark and dripping with gore, and regarded Astarion with a calm that bordered on infuriating. "Wouldn't you prefer to drink from a well-fed wolf?"

Astarion scoffed, though he couldn't entirely deny the logic. "I would... but I still want to experience the thrill of a hunt every now and then. I don't want to grow complacent."

Ashara walked up to him, her expression neutral but her lips twitching with suppressed amusement as she shrugged. "Next goat we find, I promise it's yours."

Astarion gestured toward the empty valley with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. "Any prey will be half a mile away now, thanks to all that racket."

Onyx returned to his meal, the sound of bones crunching filling the air as he devoured every last scrap. When he finished, he licked his chops and padded over to them. "Then we travel half a mile to find it," he said simply.

Astarion groaned, the dramatic sound echoing faintly off the cliffs. "Have fun with that. I've been out here nearly all night and now have nothing to show for it. I'm heading back to camp - and to bed."

He turned sharply on his heel, his boots scraping against the stones as he stalked away. The uneven terrain tugged at his legs, the strain of the night beginning to wear on him.

Astarion so focused on his own irritation that it took him several moments to notice the soft thud of paws alongside him. Glancing around, he found Onyx walking beside him, his massive form moving with deceptive silence.

His sharp gaze traveled upward, and he saw Ashara perched atop the wolf's broad back, looking down at him with a faint smile.

"You'll get there quicker on wolfback," she remarked, the challenge in her tone unmistakable.

Astarion halted, his irritation warring with exhaustion. Part of him bristled at the idea of accepting their help after they'd ruined his hunt, but another part - his aching feet, specifically - reminded him of the rocky ground he still had to navigate. Onyx seemed to sense his hesitation and crouched low, his golden eyes watching Astarion expectantly.

With a reluctant sigh, Astarion muttered, "Fine," and swung himself onto Onyx's back as the wolf rose and set off at an easy lope.

The ride back to camp was quieter than Astarion would have liked. The rhythmic thud of Onyx's paws against the rocky ground echoed in his ears, a dull counterpoint to the thoughts churning in his mind. The stars above blinked coldly, indifferent to his turmoil, and the chill of the mountain air only deepened the unease coiled in his chest.

He had been more on edge with each day that passed. Memories from the recent past kept bubbling to the surface - memories of the last time he'd traveled with a group. He kept holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable moment when everything fell apart. When he was cast out. Betrayed.

No matter how genuine or sincere Ashara seemed, Astarion couldn't shake the fear that her trust in him was fragile. The others could influence her, convince her that he had no worth, no value. He could see it in the way she listened so attentively to Zevlor's Hellrider tales or how she leaned in with fascination as Vaarl spun intricate stories of Githyanki culture and his precious Prince Orpheus. Even Karlach, despite her rough edges, commanded respect with her indomitable spirit and easy laughter.

And then there was him. What could he possibly offer her that the others couldn't? His charm? His wit? Those felt like thin veneers that would crack under scrutiny. He'd spent so long surviving through manipulation that the idea of being truly needed seemed laughable.

His stomach churned as a familiar idea crept unbidden into his mind, one that left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was still one thing he could offer her that none of the others could - his body. The thought sent a wave of nausea crashing through him, but the fear of abandonment was more potent than his disgust. Better to sacrifice himself than face rejection again.

A flicker of light broke through the trees ahead, mercifully dragging him from his dark musings. The campfire. Relief mingled with a simmering frustration; the others were there, waiting to remind him of how little he belonged. But before he could descend further into his spiraling thoughts, a deafening roar shattered the quiet, followed by Karlach's unmistakable bellow - a battle cry that tore through the night like a thunderclap.

Astarion instinctively clung to Ashara as Onyx surged forward, his powerful form weaving through the uneven terrain with alarming speed. The camp came into view in a flash of firelight and chaos.

The flames of Karlach's infernal engine bathed the scene in a hellish glow, her massive axe carving arcs through the air as she faced down an enormous cave bear. Its fur bristled with rage, and its claws raked the ground as it charged. Zevlor and Vaarl stood to one side, shielding a wide-eyed Mirkon, their crossbows loosing bolts that thudded into the bear's dense hide with little effect.

Ashara and Astarion leapt off Onyx the moment the wolf skidded to a halt. Astarion's eyes darted around, taking in the scene with a growing sense of alarm. He saw Karlach leap forward, only for the bear's massive paw to strike her mid-charge. She flew through the air, a streak of fire, and hit the ground hard with a grunt of pain.

Onyx snarled, his body a grey blur as he lunged at the bear, the two colossal predators colliding in a violent tangle of claws and fangs. Astarion's sharp eyes caught the glint of blood spraying across the firelit camp as the two creatures tore into each other with primal ferocity.

Ashara sprinted to Karlach, ignoring the searing heat of her engine as she hauled the Tiefling to her feet. Astarion saw her wince, her skin blistering where it met Karlach's molten flesh, but she didn't falter. She dragged Karlach back toward the group, depositing her beside Zevlor and Vaarl before turning to assess the chaos.

Astarion, still trying to process everything, shouted, "What in the sweet hells is going on here?!"

Karlach wiped blood from her mouth and shot him a glare. "What's it bloody look like, mate? This damned bear just up and attacked us out of nowhere!"

Astarion turned his gaze to the clash of predators, watching as Onyx and the bear fought like demons for supremacy. Onyx was taking a beating, but the bear was faltering, its movements sluggish as crimson streaks matted its fur.

In a burst of speed, Onyx finally lunged underneath the bears head, clamping his jaws around the it's throat, and shook violently. A sickening crack echoed through the camp, and the beast's massive body collapsed, lifeless.

Onyx released the corpse and backed away, his flanks heaving with each labored breath. One of his ears hung ragged, blood trickling down its length.

Astarion opened his mouth to comment, but his words caught in his throat as a strange light swirled around the bear's corpse. Green and gold tendrils of energy wrapped around the body, distorting its form. The massive shape shimmered, shrinking and reforming before their eyes.

An elf emerged from the glow, tall and muscular, clad in druidic armor adorned with leaves and engraved bark. His scarred face was twisted with fury, his piercing eyes blazing as he clutched at his wounds. "Look at you," he spat, his voice like thunder. "Camping amidst the Oak Father's creations, as if you hadn't just defiled his most sacred ground."

Ashara stepped forward, her posture calm but wary. "Who are you? Why did you attack us?"

The druid drew himself to his full and impressive height, his presence commanding despite his injuries. "I am Halsin, First Druid of the Emerald Grove - a place that stood for generations. It was our link to Silvanus. Now it's nothing but blood and ashes, thanks to you. I am here to visit nature's fury upon you."

Ashara's brow furrowed, her confusion evident. "I thought Silvanus would be happy I avenged the grove."

Astarion's mind raced, pieces clicking into place. "I think he may be confusing us with someone else," he called out, his tone sharp. "Specifically, a back-stabbing dragonborn someone else."

Ashara stepped closer, her hands raised in a gesture of peace. "We had nothing to do with the attack on the grove."

"Lies!" Halsin bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at Karlach. "This one was there, with the others who found me imprisoned in the goblin camp and promised to aid me." His voice grew bitter as he addressed her directly. "When I met you, I thought we were destined to be allies. But you made that impossible."

Karlach stared at him, shock and anger flashing in her eyes. Astarion glanced between them, his mind already piecing together the implications. This confrontation was far from over.

The druid began to chant, his voice weaving ancient words of power. Thorny vines erupted from the ground around his feet, twisting and writhing as they shot toward Ashara like a nest of vipers. Their jagged thorns gleamed wickedly in the campfire's flickering glow. Astarion barely had time to react before Onyx roared and leapt into their path, shielding Ashara with his massive body.

The vines coiled around the wolf's legs and torso, their barbs slicing into his flesh with a sickening sound. Onyx snarled in pain, his golden eyes blazing as the thorns pierced deep, crimson staining his fur.

Ashara's scream pierced the air, raw and desperate. "Onyx!" She dropped to her knees, her fingers digging into the soil. Her face was a mask of determination, her eyes burning with resolve. The earth beneath Astarion's feet shuddered, and he gasped as a pulse of energy rippled outward, surging through the ground like an invisible tide.

The terrain responded to her touch. Rocks burst upward, jagged and sharp, as though the mountain itself were springing to her defense. Halsin's chanting faltered as he was forced to leap aside, rolling across the dirt to avoid being impaled. His expression was a mixture of shock and fury, his hands glowing with emerald light as he prepared another spell.

Astarion, heart pounding, stepped forward, his voice sharp and desperate. "Look, will you just calm down for a moment and let us explain?!"

Halsin's glare was the only answer he received before the druid unleashed another attack, a barrage of needle-sharp thorns that streaked through the air like a deadly hailstorm. Astarion yelped and threw himself behind the nearest rock, the sharp projectiles embedding themselves in the stone with alarming force.

He crouched low, his breath coming in quick gasps. "All right," he muttered to himself, brushing dirt from his jerkin, "so much for diplomacy."

Peering around the edge of his cover, Astarion's eyes widened at the sight of Onyx. The vines wrapped around the wolf were beginning to shimmer, an icy frost spreading along their lengths. With a guttural roar, Onyx flexed his massive frame and shattered the vines into a storm of frozen shards. The fragments sprayed outward, glinting like glass in the firelight. Astarion ducked just in time to avoid being hit, the sharp edges whistling past his ears.

The wolf wasted no time, bounding toward Halsin with terrifying speed. The druid turned, his hands already moving to cast another spell, but Onyx was faster. The wolf barreled into him, his sheer weight and momentum knocking Halsin off his feet and slamming him into the ground.

Pinned beneath Onyx's immense weight, Halsin thrashed wildly, but the wolf's massive paws pressed down on his arms, pinning them in place. Onyx's snarls filled the gorge, his fangs bared just inches from the druid's face.

"No!" Ashara's voice rang out, firm and commanding. She stepped forward, her hands still glowing faintly from the energy she had channeled into the earth. "Don't kill him!"

Onyx didn't move, his golden eyes locked on Halsin's, blazing with unspoken warning. "I wasn't planning to," the wolf growled, his voice low and resonant. "But I needed to restrain him."

Halsin continued to struggle, his movements frantic but ultimately futile. Without the use of his hands, he was unable to summon the power for anything beyond minor spells. His eyes burned with fury, though there was a flicker of fear beneath the surface.

Astarion stepped out from behind his cover, brushing fragments of ice from his shoulder with exaggerated care. "Well, this has been quite the spectacle," he remarked dryly, his sharp gaze flicking between Onyx and the pinned druid. "Now that we've reached a stalemate, might we consider having an actual conversation?"

Halsin's jaw clenched, his hazel eyes blazing with fury, but he didn't respond. Astarion couldn't tell whether it was anger, fear, or pride that held his tongue, but he suspected it was a toxic mixture of all three.

Ashara approached cautiously, her palms outstretched in a gesture of peace. Her voice softened, though it trembled with urgency. "Halsin, we don't want to hurt you. We're not your enemies. Let us explain what's really happening."

Halsin's struggle slowed, his gaze shifting from Onyx's snarling face to Ashara's imploring one. His breathing was labored, and the anger in his expression dimmed, replaced by wariness. The tension in the air was palpable, a taut thread ready to snap, but Ashara's calm presence seemed to hold it together.

"Please," she said softly, "just listen."

Halsin's body eased, the tension in his shoulders softening as the rigid lines of his face melted into something less severe. His piercing gaze moved from one member of the group to the next before he nodded, his voice a low rumble. "Very well."

Karlach stepped forward, the flames of her engine dimming to a low ember as she faced the druid. Her expression was steady, but her voice carried the weight of bitterness and regret. "It's true, I was there with the others. I genuinely thought we were there to rescue you, but I guess Durge decided you were useless when he found out you couldn't cure us."

Her jaw tightened, and she took another step closer, her boots crunching against the rocky ground. "He made a deal with the drow leader. Told me he was just stringing her along to lure her to the grove where we'd have the upper hand. And like a wet-eared kid, I believed him. Right up until the moment he opened the gate and let the goblins swarm over the grove like rats."

Karlach's fist clenched at her sides, her flames flickering faintly before she quelled them. She took another step closer, her eyes locking with Halsin's. "I fought tooth and nail to protect the people in the grove and wound up with this for my trouble." She raised her prosthetic arm, the spike glinting in the firelight.

Halsin's eyes flicked to the metallic limb, his gaze softening as understanding dawned. When Karlach added, "Most weren't as lucky," his expression darkened with the weight of shared loss.

Halsin's lips parted as though to speak, but Zevlor stepped forward, his presence calm and commanding. "You know me, Master Halsin," he began, inclining his head respectfully. "You offered your grove as a sanctuary for my people, something I will be forever grateful for. Karlach speaks the truth. She turned against those who betrayed you - betrayed us. And these two here" - he gestured to Ashara and Astarion - "rescued the child and I from the goblin's clutches. They avenged the destruction of the grove and its people by wiping out the invaders."

Halsin's body seemed to deflate entirely as he took in their words, the rage in his features melting into something softer, tinged with grief and shame. His eyes lingered on Karlach, and he inclined his head. "I have been on the dragonborn's trail for days now, but I lost his party somewhere in this pass. When I came across your camp and saw you, I allowed my grief and rage to overwhelm me. Please, forgive me."

Karlach shrugged, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's all good. I'd have reacted the same way."

A voice piped up from the back, cutting through the gravity of the exchange. "Are we still fighting him, or is that it?" Vaarl's tone was laced with confusion, his expression a mixture of caution and curiosity.

Ashara turned her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her voice. "That's up to him, I guess."

Halsin's attention shifted to Ashara, who stood with her hand resting lightly on Onyx's flank. "You can tell your beast to release me," he said evenly. "I no longer mean you any harm."

Ashara gave Onyx a subtle nod, and the wolf huffed, stepping back and freeing Halsin's arms. The druid rose slowly, brushing dirt from his armor before bowing deeply. "Allow me to make amends for my rash actions."

He approached Onyx, his movements slow and deliberate as he raised a hand toward the wolf's torn ear. Onyx growled low in his throat but stayed still, his golden eyes fixed on the druid. Halsin murmured, "Te Curo." A gentle green light enveloped the torn flesh, knitting it back together with an almost imperceptible hum.

Onyx flicked his ear, testing it, and grumbled in what Astarion could only interpret as approval.

Halsin turned to Karlach next, his gaze falling on the claw marks raking across her shoulder. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the injury.

Karlach hesitated for only a moment before nodding, rolling her shoulder toward him. Halsin hovered his hands over the wound, his voice low as he chanted another healing incantation. The claw marks began to close, the raw skin smoothing until it was as though the injury had never existed.

Once finished, Halsin placed a hand over his own chest and closed his eyes. A faint green glow radiated outward as he mended his wounds. When the light faded, he looked at them once more, his tone grave but sincere.

"You would have been well within your rights to kill me after I attacked you without cause," he said solemnly. "I am grateful for your restraint, and will forever be in your debt."

He bowed deeply, the gesture one of genuine contrition. When he straightened, his voice was steady but resolute. "Now, I must continue on my way."

Astarion tilted his head, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't tell me you're still going after the bastard," he drawled, his voice laced with incredulity. "I would think nearly being mauled to death by a wolf might give you pause."

Halsin turned to him, his expression unreadable but resolute. "I am. He must answer for his crimes."

Astarion clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Well, that's a rather noble death wish, isn't it? I've seen his party fight. Alone, you'll be ripped to shreds faster than Onyx can tear through a goat."

The tension hung in the air, taut as a bowstring. Ashara stepped forward. "If Durge came through here, then it's a safe bet we're all heading in the same direction: Moonrise Towers. You are welcome to join us if you want."

Astarion felt a prickle of alarm skitter down his spine at her words, sharp as the thorns that had nearly skewered him earlier. He stepped forward, his expression incredulous. "Now hold on a minute. He was ready to tear us to pieces less than five minutes ago, and now you're offering him a seat by the fire? Your survival instincts truly leave a lot to be desired."

His voice carried a sharp edge of mockery, but underneath it was an undercurrent of genuine unease. The group had grown too large already for his liking, and the thought of another noble crusader joining their ranks made his stomach churn.

Ashara's gaze flicked to him, her brow lifting in mild amusement, but it was Onyx who turned to address him. The wolf's golden eyes gleamed, his deep voice cutting through Astarion's protest like a blade. "You are currently enjoying our protection because of her 'survival instincts', Astarion. You held a dagger to her throat, and yet here you are, alive and well."

Astarion opened his mouth to respond but faltered, his usual sharp retorts drying up under Onyx's unwavering stare. The truth of the wolf's words stung more than he cared to admit. He clicked his tongue and fell silent, his arms crossing defensively as he cast his gaze toward the ground.

Halsin's voice, calm and unassuming, filled the void. "I do not wish to be a burden to you," he said, his tone laced with quiet sincerity. "My quest for vengeance is my own. However, if Moonrise Towers is your destination, then allow me to pass on what knowledge I have of that place."

Ashara gestured toward the campfire. "Then come join us by the fire," she said, her eyes flicking to Astarion in a silent challenge.

As Halsin moved toward the fire, Onyx's voice rumbled behind him. "There is one more thing you can do for us, Halsin."

The druid turned, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "What is it?"

Onyx's gaze was steady. "You have a reputation as an experienced healer. Would you be willing to assist me in removing an Illithid tadpole from a flaming tiefling?"

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Halsin stared, his expression shifting from surprise to intrigue.

"You are no druid, and yet you are also not a beast, are you?" he asked, his voice tinged with wonder.

Onyx's lips pulled back in what might have been a grin - or a warning. "No."

Halsin's thoughtful expression softened further as he addressed Onyx. "I will not be able to help you until after I have rested. Come morning, though, I would be curious to see what you have in mind. I have been researching ways to cure this infection and would be glad to aid you in any way I can."

Before anyone else could respond, Karlach's eyes lit up with excitement. "Does this mean surgery's back on the table?" she asked, her voice a mixture of hope and anticipation.

Onyx turned to her, his golden gaze steady, his voice deadpan. "We don't have a table. You'll have to settle for a flat rock."

Chapter Text

The clamor of Giant's Hollow surrounded Astarion and Ashara as they made their way through its labyrinthine streets. The town clung to the cliffside like a precariously balanced spider's web, its rocky outcrops connected by creaking wooden bridges and narrow stone staircases. Beneath them, the valley stretched out, a stark contrast to the crowded heights above - windswept moorlands dotted with the skeletal remains of forests and the crumbled shadow of an ancient fort, a grim reminder of a bygone era.

Astarion walked with an elegance that seemed out of place in this rough-hewn setting, his boots clicking against the stone as he kept a sharp eye on their surroundings. The town wasn't a bustling trading hub in the way Onyx had described from his memories, but it was far from deserted.

Dwarven miners trudged by in sooty clothes, humans haggled with merchants over supplies, and the occasional elf or gnome darted through the crowds. It was the kind of place where life was hard and people didn't have time for pleasantries.

Astarion adjusted the collar of his jerkin, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of disdain and calculation. "Quaint," he muttered under his breath, though the word dripped with derision. "And by quaint, I mean miserably provincial."

Ashara walked beside him, her shoulders hunched as though she were bracing for a blow. Her hands twitched near her sides, occasionally curling as if to grab hold of Onyx's absent fur. Each clang of a hammer or barked laugh from a nearby dwarf made her flinch, her head snapping toward the source like a startled hare. The tension radiating from her was palpable, and it was beginning to wear on Astarion's nerves.

"For pity's sake!" he hissed, halting mid-stride to glare at her. "Stop jumping like a frightened cat at every sound. You're attracting more attention than a bard on fire."

Ashara's lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes darted to the nearest group of dwarves, who were beginning to glance in their direction. "I can't help it," she snapped. "Towns make me nervous. Why people would want to live piled on top of each other like this is beyond me."

Astarion exhaled dramatically, the kind of long-suffering sigh he had perfected over centuries. "Oh, my dear, sweet, sheltered little hermit," he said, his tone dripping with exaggerated pity. "You are in for quite the shock when we reach Baldur's Gate. Now there is a true hive of chaos."

He gestured to the crowd with a flourish. "Until then, might I suggest standing up straight and feigning an air of confidence? This sort of town thrives on instinct. If they sense fear, they'll eat you alive."

"What?! They're cannibals here? Onyx never mentioned that!"

Astarion halted mid-step, turning to scrutinize her. For a moment, he wasn't sure if she was being serious. "We've already established sarcasm is entirely lost on you, but please tell me you at least know what a metaphor is."

Ashara's shoulders relaxed slightly, and a playful glint entered her eyes. She stuck her tongue out at him and rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair. "Yes, I know what a metaphor is. I was just messing with you."

He clapped his hands together once, the sound startling a passing human merchant who muttered something rude under his breath. "There! That's the look I want you to keep on your face at all times. That lovely blend of superiority and irreverence. Make people believe you're entirely unaffected by them or their insignificant opinions."

Ashara hesitated, then straightened her posture, her expression sliding into an approximation of the confidence he demanded. It was stiff, awkward, but a start. Astarion inclined his head approvingly.

"Better," he murmured. "Now, let's see if you can maintain it for longer than two minutes."

Ashara huffed, though the corner of her mouth quirked up despite herself. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Astarion purred, resuming his stride. "Now, do keep up. The sooner we find these supplies and whatever scraps of information Onyx seems to think this backwater town holds, the sooner we can leave."

They pressed on, weaving through the throng. Astarion's keen eyes darted over market stalls laden with pickaxes, bolts of rough cloth, and jars of unidentifiable pastes. Voices called out in thick accents, hawking goods or exchanging gossip. The stench of sweat and molten metal clung to the air, making Ashara wrinkle her nose.

A dwarf leaning against a crate watched them pass, his gaze lingering on Ashara's every move. She tensed, but Astarion placed a firm hand on her elbow, steering her away with calculated nonchalance.

"Not like that," he murmured. "You just gave him the satisfaction of knowing he unnerved you. Next time, either glare him down or act as if he's beneath your notice."

"Does everything have to be a game of appearances with you?" she muttered back, though her muscles relaxed slightly under his grip.

"Yes," he replied smoothly. "And it's a game I'm quite good at. Now, shall we find a tavern before you combust from overstimulation?"

"Speaking of which... Do you think Karlach will be okay?" Ashara's voice was subdued as they continued down the path.

Astarion scanned the street ahead, his gaze catching on a swinging wooden sign - The Raven's Roost. He inclined his head toward it and steered Ashara in its direction. "I don't think Onyx would let his favorite hot-water bottle get hurt. And if this Halsin fellow is as capable as he claims, then I suspect that by the time we return, Karlach will be lounging by the fire, chugging ale, and showing off a stuffed tadpole like a trophy."

Ashara's lips twitched with a faint smile. "I hope so. If it works... we might have a viable cure to help the other infected too."

Astarion pushed open the tavern door, its hinges creaking in protest, and ushered her inside. The air within was thick with the scent of smoke and stale ale, the dim light casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls. He guided her to a table near the corner, his voice softening as he replied, "Those who want a cure, at least."

Ashara's brow furrowed as she settled into the seat opposite him. "Who wouldn't?"

He leaned back, one arm draped casually over the chair, his grin sardonic. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps those who find the prospect of power enticing? Those who might relish the chance to bend others to their will? Myself included, naturally."

Her eyes narrowed. "You want a parasite squirming in your skull?"

He shrugged, the motion deceptively elegant. "Not particularly. But it's a preferable alternative to crawling back into the shadows and enduring Cazador's leash again."

Her expression darkened, the tension in her shoulders returning. "That won't happen," she said firmly. "The shadows, maybe, but not him. I won't let it."

A flicker of warmth ignited in his chest at her conviction, but he smothered it quickly. "How noble of you," he drawled, though the edge in his tone lacked its usual sharpness. "All I'm saying is if there's a way to have both freedom and daylight, I'll take it."

Ashara hesitated, her discomfort evident, but Astarion ignored it, focusing instead on the barkeeper's wary glances cast their way. There were questions to ask, and supplies to gather. Whatever Ashara's thoughts on his motives, they could wait. For now, he had a role to play.

"I'm going to have a chat with the barkeep," he said, his voice low and measured, his eyes still roving over the crowd for potential threats. "See if anyone has heard rumors of any tiefling refugees from the Emerald Grove. While I'm gone, remember - head up, chest out... actually, no." His gaze flicked over her slender frame, and he smirked. "Best skip that one in your case. Just... try not to look edible, all right? And scowl. Act mean if anyone talks to you."

Ashara's mouth quirked into a lopsided frown. "Wouldn't being nice to them be more effective?"

He turned fully to her now, raising a brow. "In a backwater town like this? No. Kindness is a sign of weakness, one they'll exploit the moment they see it. Trust me, darling, I know these places."

Ashara frowned but nodded, her expression a mix of skepticism and begrudging acceptance. "Personally, I think your outlook is too pessimistic," she muttered. "But you have more experience in these matters than I do, so... I'll let you take the lead."

Astarion's brows arched in mock offense. "That sounds suspiciously like you're just hiding behind me... again. I thought I was the one needing protection?"

Her eyes sparkled with reluctant humor, and she shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "If we're attacked by another rampaging bear, I'll happily throw myself in front of you and take charge. Until that happens - yes, I'm hiding behind you."

He couldn't help the smirk that curled his lips. "Try not to trip on my skirts, darling."

Ashara blinked, her brows knitting in confusion. "Huh?"

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Astarion turned and strode toward the bar, leaving her to her confusion.

As he leaned casually against the counter, his posture the picture of nonchalance, Astarion couldn't help but wish Onyx were here. The image of the massive direwolf by his side, radiating an aura of barely restrained violence, would certainly have made things simpler. A being like Onyx didn't need words to command respect.

However, Onyx was back at camp, overseeing Karlach's procedure with Halsin, while Zevlor kept an eye on Mirkon and Vaarl. It had been Onyx, of all beings, who had suggested this excursion, insisting they gather information and supplies for their growing group.

Astarion's lips twitched in a faint smile as he recalled the direwolf taking him aside before their departure. Onyx's amber eyes had locked onto him with an intensity that Astarion was sure they would burn right through his skull, though the wolf's words had been unexpectedly soft. "Watch over her, she can be anxious without me," the wolf had growled.

The memory stirred a mix of emotions - gratification at the trust being placed in him, and a flicker of unease. He wasn't fully sure he was up to the challenge of shepherding someone as guileless as Ashara.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, noting how awkwardly she sat at the table, her posture stiff and uncertain. Astarion felt an unexpected pang of protectiveness. This time alone with her was an opportunity he hadn't expected, a chance to deepen their bond without the others' constant interference. And he intended to make the most of it.

The barkeep, a burly man with a perpetually sour expression, looked up from polishing a glass. "What'll it be?"

Astarion rested an elbow on the bar, his tone breezy. "A pint of your finest... whatever it is you serve here. And perhaps a bit of conversation, if you're in the mood."

The barkeep raised an eyebrow, his thick fingers stilling on the glass. "Information costs coin, same as the ale."

"Oh, I've no doubt it does," Astarion replied, his voice dropping to a silky purr. "But one likes to know what one is paying for first."

The barkeep's mouth twisted into a humorless grin. "What do you want to know?"

"I've heard whispers of tiefling refugees passing through these parts." Astarion gestured vaguely, as if discussing the weather. "Acquaintances of mine, you see. I'm rather keen to know if they've been spotted."

The man leaned against the counter, his expression as impenetrable as stone. "Might've seen them. Might not've. Hard to remember."

Astarion sighed, pulling a coin pouch from his belt and letting it fall onto the bar with a satisfying thunk. He flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I know how this goes. I jog your memory with coin, you tell me things are still a little fuzzy, I offer more, and you miraculously recall everything. So, how about we skip the foreplay and get straight to the perfect recall?"

The barkeep narrowed his eyes, his face betraying nothing but a faint glimmer of greed. "Start putting coin down, and I'll let you know when to stop."

Groaning theatrically, Astarion began plunking coins onto the bar one by one. He took his time, letting the clink of metal draw out for maximum irritation. The barkeep didn't flinch, his hand darting out to sweep up the pile as soon as it was deemed sufficient. He pocketed the money with practiced ease and began pouring a pale amber liquid into a glass.

"Tiefs ain't welcome in this town," he said gruffly, not bothering to look at Astarion. "Which is why, when a bunch of 'em came through, they were told to seek shelter at the fort instead."

Astarion's gaze flicked toward the door, his mind already calculating. "You mean that dismal-looking ruin in the valley below?"

The barkeep grunted in affirmation, his gaze sliding toward the doorway as though ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "The very same. Don't know if they're still there. Don't much care. But if it's tiefs you're after, that's your best bet."

Astarion tilted his glass in a mockery of a toast, the gleam of firelight dancing along its surface. "How thoughtful of you to provide such... charming accommodations. Do let me know if that remarkable memory of yours recalls anything else."

He set the glass down, untouched, his smile fading as soon as the barkeep turned his attention to another patron. Internally, he cursed the oversight of not checking the ruins on their way into town. The coin spent here could have bought them an extra bundle of provisions - or at least a decent bottle of wine.

Astarion turned, ready to share his information with Ashara, only to pause mid-step. She wasn't alone.

A human man sat a little to one side of her, the picture of a self-styled rogue. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he wore a leather doublet polished to an almost unnatural sheen, though its frayed edges betrayed its age. Vanity, not practicality, had clearly dictated his choice of attire.

The serpent-shaped silver pin holding back his blonde hair glinted in the dim light, a detail that struck Astarion as both ostentatious and overcompensatory. The rapier at his side hung low, more a peacock's feather than a weapon meant for true combat. Men like him preferred their prey to be lulled by words, not steel. And judging by the smug curve of his lips, he thought himself quite the predator.

Astarion's gaze flicked to Ashara. Her posture was rigid, her arms folded tightly over her chest as though shielding herself. A faint crease had formed between her brows, and her lips parted slightly, as if she were on the verge of speaking but unsure of what to say. The tension in her stance sent a pang of alarm through Astarion's chest, but he quelled it quickly, taking a step closer to eavesdrop.

"You know," the man was saying, his tone a low purr meant to disarm, "it's rare to find someone as... captivating as you in a place like this. I'd wager you're not from around here, are you?"

Ashara shook her head, her voice steady but wary. "No. My friend and I are just passing through. We're here for supplies."

"Ah, travelers," the man murmured, leaning in as though sharing a secret. "That explains the wildness in you. Untamed, unspoiled." His gaze swept over her appraisingly, and Astarion's jaw clenched at the unabashed leer. "I imagine you've turned a few heads in your time."

Ashara blinked, her expression blank but genuine. "I haven't seen anyone turning their heads. Though I suppose people do glance at me occasionally..."

The man chuckled, the sound a little too polished, a little too rehearsed. "And why wouldn't they? The attention you draw. It's... magnetic."

"Magnetic?" she repeated. "I don't think so. Most people have been avoiding me."

"They're intimidated, no doubt," the man said smoothly, his voice taking on a coaxing quality. "A strong, striking woman like you - most men don't know how to handle that. But me? I know exactly what to do with a challenge."

Ashara tilted her head, her expression a blend of puzzlement and polite curiosity. "I'm not sure I understand. Are you saying you're... good at fighting strong women?"

The man's confident veneer cracked, and a shadow of irritation crept into his smile. "Not fighting, darling. More like... taming. I've a talent for making even the wildest creatures... purr."

Astarion felt his fists curl involuntarily at the overt implication, his nails biting into his palms. The man's oily confidence grated against his nerves like sandpaper. He took a step forward, ready to intervene, but before he could speak, Ashara's expression brightened with sudden excitement.

"Purr? Oh, you must mean cats!" Her voice lifted with genuine interest, her eyes alight. "Have you ever tamed a Crag Cat? They're beautiful, but I suppose they wouldn't be very useful in a place like this. Do you work with animals often?"

The man's smirk froze in place, his expression rapidly shifting from suave to utterly baffled. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish out of water, clearly struggling to recalibrate.

Astarion bit back a laugh, his irritation melting into something far more satisfying - amusement. He leaned against the bar, crossing his arms as he watched the exchange unfold, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely contained mirth. Ashara's clueless response had thrown the man entirely off balance, his calculated flirtation crumbling under the weight of her earnest misunderstanding.

He rallied quickly, though, leaning in as if to close the distance between them might lend weight to his words.

"Animals? No, not quite." His voice dropped to what he clearly thought was a seductive lilt. "I was referring to you. I imagine someone as fiery as you has... needs. Needs only a man of certain talents can fulfill."

Astarion felt a sharp pang of disgust coil in his chest. The line was too familiar, dredging up memories of similar words he had whispered to unsuspecting targets, back when charm was his weapon and his survival depended on its sharpness. Hearing it now, from the other side, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Ashara, meanwhile, pursed her lips into a thin line, her expression thoughtful. "Needs? If you're talking about food or supplies, then I've already got enough. I do need to find a good shortbow for my new friend, though. Would you be able to help me with that?"

The man chuckled, clearly mistaking her obliviousness for coyness. "Not exactly. Though I can show you something that would make your trip worthwhile." He reached out, letting his fingers brush lightly against her arm. "I'm quite the hunter myself, you see. And once I've caught what I'm after, I'm known to be... very thorough."

Ashara glanced down at his hand with mild irritation, casually sliding her arm out of reach. Her movement was small but deliberate, her patience clearly wearing thin. The man either didn't notice or didn't care, his grin widening as he pressed on.

"You know," he continued, his voice taking on a silkier, more dangerous edge, "if you're not busy, I could show you some of my hunting techniques. One-on-one. Somewhere a little more... private."

"I'm not really planning on staying here long," Ashara replied, her tone polite but firm. "I can't go anywhere with you - I have to get back to my companions soon. Besides, I don't even know your name."

Astarion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. The man's confident facade was starting to crack, and Ashara - completely unaware of the innuendo - was effortlessly unraveling him. The man, however, wasn't deterred. If anything, his frustration seemed to harden into something darker.

"Cassius," he said, his grin stiffening into something colder, more forced. "That's the name people call me around here. And I can promise you, darling, by the end of the night, you'll be screaming it."

Ashara tilted her head again, her confusion deepening. "Why would I do that?"

Cassius's face darkened, his cheeks flushing an angry red as he reached for her arm. "Now listen here, you little wench—"

Astarion's lip curled. That was enough.

He moved before he even realized he had decided to act. In two fluid strides, Astarion closed the distance, standing between Ashara and Cassius.

The man's gaze snapped to him, his expression darkening, but Astarion met it with a lazy, predatory grin that spoke volumes.

"Do carry on," Astarion said smoothly, his voice laced with mock encouragement. "I'd hate to interrupt such a fascinating display of verbal gymnastics."

Cassius scowled, his irritation now fully directed at Astarion. "And who the hell are you?"

"An interested party," Astarion replied. "Please, continue. I'm simply dying to see how you intend to explain yourself."

Cassius sneered, but when he turned back to Ashara, his tone had lost its practiced charm, replaced by something sharper, uglier. "Don't play coy, sweetheart - it doesn't suit you."

Ashara's eyes narrowed, a flicker of steel in her voice as she said, "I don't appreciate being called 'sweetheart.' I suggest you explain yourself clearly or move along."

The man's mask slipped entirely, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Fine. I'm saying I can give you pleasure like you've never experienced before - the kind only a real man knows how to give, unlike this lanky fairy."

The insult barely registered before Astarion's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Well," he drawled, "this 'lanky fairy' is currently debating whether you're worth the effort of killing." His voice was light, almost conversational, but his gaze was as cold as frostbite. He stepped forward with blinding speed, one arm draping over Cassius's shoulder in a mock-friendly gesture that masked the movement of his other hand.

A blade pressed lightly against Cassius's neck, the pressure just enough to let him feel its bite. "And I must say," Astarion murmured, his voice low and intimate, "you're making a very compelling argument for it."

"You see," Astarion continued, "this fine young woman happens to be under my protection. And you, my dear, are about two sentences away from having that rapier shoved somewhere profoundly inconvenient."

Cassius's skin turned ashen, the blood draining from his face as the implications of Astarion's words - and the cold kiss of the blade at his throat - sank in. His bravado crumbled, replaced by a mixture of fear and fury.

"You've got no idea who you're dealing with, elf," he spat, though the quaver in his voice betrayed him.

"Oh, I know exactly who I'm dealing with," Astarion said, his smile never wavering. "A petty predator dressed up in cheap charm and borrowed manners. Now, I suggest you slink back to whatever hole you crawled out of before this becomes... messy."

The human's eyes darted around the room, gauging the growing interest of the tavern patrons. Their murmurs filled the smoky air, a low hum of curiosity tinged with unease. His lip curled in disdain as he spat out, "Bitch isn't worth the trouble."

Astarion's chuckle was low and mocking as he eased the dagger away from the man's neck with deliberate slowness, the faint whisper of steel against leather underscoring his reply. "Oh, I assure you, she's worth more than you could ever afford."

Cassius surged to his feet, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his rapier. Astarion tilted his head, his smile deepening into something sharper, more predatory, and let his fangs glint ever so slightly in the dim light. "Go on," he whispered, the words a silken dare, "I'm just itching for a decent bloodbath."

The tension crackled like a bowstring pulled taut, but after a moment, Cassius's bravado faltered. His mouth twisted into a snarl, and he spat, "You haven't heard the last of me." He turned on his heel, shoving past a few curious onlookers on his way to the door.

Astarion sheathed his dagger with a flick of his wrist and turned to Ashara, who stood watching the man's retreat with a calm but thoughtful expression. She tapped a finger against her lips, her brows knitting slightly.

"He was... odd," she said at last. "I know he was using a lot of metaphors, but I couldn't figure out what he wanted."

Astarion arched an elegant brow, his grin tugging wider. "Oh, sweet Ashara," he drawled, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You're either more innocent than I thought or far cleverer than you let on. Either way, that was utterly delightful."

She frowned, clearly unsure whether to take his words as a compliment, but before she could reply, he gestured toward the door with a flourish. "Come now, darling. Let's not linger. I'm sure your admirer will be sulking in some alleyway, plotting his next attempt at mediocrity."

She allowed herself to be ushered outside, the tavern's warm, smoky air giving way to the crisp bite of an overcast afternoon. The cobblestones were warm underfoot, and the faint breeze carried with it the scent of baking pies and the metallic tang of the nearby forges. Children darted between stalls, their laughter mingling with the clamor of bartering voices.

Ashara glanced sideways at Astarion, her arms still loosely crossed as she mulled over the encounter. "Why do people talk around things like that?" she asked suddenly, her tone carrying a trace of irritation. "Why not just say what they want?"

Astarion slid his hands into his pockets, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd with practiced ease. "Some people," he said lightly, "rely on ambiguity because it allows them to slither away when things don't go their way. Like that one just did. A vague proposition is easier to deny than a direct one."

Ashara exhaled slowly, the corners of her mouth pulling into a faint frown. "Let's just take what we have and leave," she muttered. "I don't want to deal with any more... misunderstandings."

Astarion chuckled, the sound rich and warm. His crimson eyes gleamed with mischief as he replied, "Darling, with you, misunderstandings are half the fun."

As they headed towards the outskirts of town, Astarion relayed the information he had gleaned from the barkeep. "Our tiefling friends were directed to the fort," he said, gesturing toward the valley below. The ruins stood stark against the backdrop of rolling moorland, jagged and foreboding in the afternoon light. "Not exactly the height of luxury, but it's where we'll need to look."

Ashara nodded thoughtfully, her gaze scanning the stalls as they passed. Astarion watched her out of the corner of his eye, his mind turning. For all her bluntness, there was a disarming charm in her straightforwardness. It was rare to meet someone so unpracticed in the games of subtlety and deceit.

His gaze lingered as Ashara stopped at a weapons stall, her eyes lighting up at the sight of a finely crafted shortbow. A faint smile tugged at his lips. He leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed, watching as she haggled with the vendor, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Perhaps misunderstandings really were half the fun, he thought, his smile deepening as sunlight caught in her ebony hair. He made a mental note to adjust his approach when dealing with her. If he intended to flirt - and oh, he did - he resolved to be more direct in the future. Directness might not come naturally to him, but with Ashara, it might just be worth the effort. For now, though, there were supplies to gather, refugees to find, and plenty of daylight left to burn.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting the ruined fort in hues of gold and burnt orange as Ashara and Astarion approached. Long shadows stretched from the crumbled walls and overgrown vines that twisted around the stone in nature's attempt to reclaim the structure. The outer sections of the fort were little more than rubble, but the central areas stood defiant, their weathered stones suggesting recent repairs. Birds wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the otherwise quiet evening.

They paused before a massive oak door, its wood darkened and splintered with age. Astarion pushed it open with a grunt, the rusty hinges groaning in protest. Beyond, a narrow staircase led into the bowels of the fort, its stone steps worn smooth by time and countless footsteps. The faint scent of damp stone and woodsmoke wafted up to meet them.

As they descended, the faint traces of recent habitation began to reveal themselves - a discarded blanket here, a bundle of firewood stacked neatly against a wall there, and burning torches lighting their path. But the deeper they went, the more unsettling the absence of people became. The silence felt heavier, broken only by the soft echoes of their steps.

Astarion glanced around uneasily, his crimson eyes scanning the dim corridors. "I don't like this," he murmured, his voice low but sharp with suspicion. "Surely there should be a guard posted or something?"

Ashara slowed her pace, her eyes flitting over the abandoned surroundings. "Maybe they're hiding," she suggested quietly. "If they're the same refugees who were attacked before, I wouldn't blame them for being cautious."

"Maybe..." Astarion trailed off, the uncertainty in his voice mirroring the growing tension in her chest.

As they continued, his foot nudged against something, and he glanced down. A small stone sculpture of a rat sat on the floor, its smooth surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He stooped to pick it up, curiosity flickering across his features, but Ashara's voice called him over before he could comment.

"It's locked," she said, standing in front of another large wooden door. She turned to him, her brow raised expectantly. "Can you...?"

Astarion grinned, his earlier unease slipping into his usual sardonic confidence. "Say no more," he said with a flourish, kneeling before the lock. "Stand aside and watch the master thief at work."

From his belt, he pulled a neatly rolled set of lockpicking tools, unfurling it with a practiced motion. He selected one of the finer picks and set to work, the metallic scrape of his tools filling the quiet corridor.

Ashara leaned against the wall, watching him work. The dexterity of his hands was mesmerizing, the movements precise and almost delicate. As she observed, a question bubbled to the surface. "I never asked," she began hesitantly, "but why does a vampire even need to be a thief?"

Astarion paused briefly, the tool in his hand catching the faint light. He glanced up at her, his smile tinged with bitterness. "Let's just say that Cazador had expensive tastes which his spawn were required to fund, by whatever means they could. So, if I ever needed coin for fine clothes or a room in a tavern to... entertain guests, then I either had to earn it or steal it."

His mention of earning money piqued her curiosity. "How did you earn money?" she asked, her tone light but inquisitive. "I can't imagine there are many jobs available for someone who only works at night."

The snap of a breaking lockpick echoed sharply, and Astarion froze, his body going rigid. For a moment, he simply stared at the lock, his hands still. Ashara felt a prickle of unease and took a small step closer.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked softly.

Astarion's voice was tight when he finally answered. "No."

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he reached for another tool. "No," he repeated, his tone quieter this time. "You didn't say anything wrong. Just... trust me when I say you're better off not knowing."

Ashara's lips curved into a faint grin, though it was laced with uncertainty. "Why? I already know you're a criminal and have killed people, and I still don't think any less of you."

Her light-hearted attempt at reassurance had the opposite effect. Astarion paused again, but this time it wasn't hesitation that stilled him. Slowly, he turned his head, his crimson eyes meeting hers with a look that made her breath catch. The faintest glimmer of sadness softened his usual sharpness, a vulnerability so brief it might have been a trick of the light.

"You would," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, "if you knew the kind of things I had to do to survive."

Ashara opened her mouth to argue, but Astarion cut her off, his tone cooling as he focused on the lock again. "Besides," he said lightly, "I think I'm entitled to keep a few secrets from you."

Ashara quirked a brow, tilting her head as a teasing smile tugged at her lips. "A few? You keep a ton of secrets from me. You're more mysterious than an Invisible Stalker."

A faint smirk curved Astarion's lips, though he didn't look up from the lock. "And twice as deadly, I hope."

She chuckled, leaning lightly against the wall, her arms crossing loosely. "Probably not. They're pretty tough to fight."

"Oh?" Astarion raised a brow, finally sparing her a glance. "And I'm not?"

Ashara shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I don't know, I've never sparred with you."

A glint of amusement danced in Astarion's eyes as he finally turned his head to meet her gaze. "Well," he drawled, "we must rectify that once we're back. It would be... illuminating. Though while we're on the subject of shedding light on things, there is something I've been meaning to ask you."

Ashara leaned back casually against the wall beside the door, her arms crossed as she waited. "Go ahead."

"Back when we were fighting that druid," Astarion began, his voice dipping into curiosity, "how did you cast that earth spell? I've never seen anything like it. You didn't use any incantation or casting gestures. The ground just seemed to... respond to your touch."

Ashara hesitated, her fingers brushing against the cool stone of the wall. "I don't really know," she admitted, her voice quieter. "I've always had this connection to nature - different from druids and mages, though. I met a wizard once who tried to explain the Weave to me. He seemed really shocked when I told him I didn't feel any connection to it."

Astarion paused mid-motion, his crimson eyes flicking to her in genuine surprise. "I don't blame him... That is extremely rare. Even Wild Magic requires some kind of link, however unstable."

Ashara shrugged again, her nonchalance at odds with the weight of the subject. "Onyx is the same. I think it has something to do with our connection to Fenrir. His magic predates the Weave."

Astarion tilted his head, considering her words with an intensity that made her shift slightly under his gaze. His crimson eyes narrowed just enough to make her uneasy, though not uncomfortably so. "Interesting..." he murmured, the word trailing off like a thread left dangling.

Ashara squirmed slightly under his intense gaze, feeling as though he were peeling back layers she hadn't meant to reveal. Desperate to break the tension, a thought popped into her head, and she seized it. "Wait a second... If vampires can't enter homes without an invitation, what's the point of learning to pick locks? Seems kind of redundant, doesn't it?"

Astarion blinked, his focus momentarily broken by the unexpected question. He arched a brow, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "Not every door has a home behind it," he replied smoothly, his voice carrying a note of triumph as the lock clicked open beneath his fingers.

Standing with practiced elegance, he pushed the door ajar and gestured theatrically toward the darkness beyond. "Case in point... this one would be considered to be situated in a public area."

Ashara chuckled, shaking her head. "This is why I like talking to you," she said, stepping toward the doorway. "I get to learn all sorts of interesting things I'll probably never use."

Astarion narrowed his eyes at her, his expression a playful blend of suspicion and mock offense. "Was that sarcasm or just plain insulting?"

Grinning slyly, Ashara pushed the door open wider, letting the dim torchlight spill into the space beyond. "Both," she teased before slipping through the threshold, her boots barely making a sound on the worn stone floor.

Astarion followed close behind, shaking his head but unable to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. "Charming," he muttered, though there was no mistaking the amusement in his tone.

The chamber beyond opened up before them, its cavernous expanse lined with worn stone pillars that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling above. Dust motes swirled in the faint moonlight that filtered through cracks in the ceiling. Faded tapestries clung stubbornly to the stone walls, their colors long drained by time. The hall had likely been a dining room once - perhaps a place of feasting and revelry - but now it was deathly still, filled with an eerie sense of foreboding.

Ashara stepped cautiously, her gaze sweeping over the peculiar statues scattered around the space. They were life-sized, their craftsmanship exceptionally detailed. Elves, humans, orcs, and other figures stood in various poses, some damaged and crumbling.

Ashara barely glanced at them, her focus drawn instead to the faint flicker of torchlight emanating from beneath the door at the far end of the chamber. Her boots echoed softly against the cold stone as she crossed the room, each step carrying a subtle sense of urgency. Behind her, she could hear Astarion's soft footfalls pause, and when she glanced back, she saw him standing stock still, his gaze fixed on one of the statues.

"Astarion?" she called softly, her tone curious but edged with impatience.

He didn't respond immediately, his expression darkening as he studied the frozen figure - a young elf woman with her arms raised defensively, her face twisted in silent horror. Something about the statue made his lips press into a thin line, but before Ashara could ask what was wrong, she reached the door.

Spying a rusted key already inserted into the lock, she grinned faintly. "Convenient," she muttered under her breath, her fingers wrapping around the key. It turned with a satisfying click, and as she began to pull the door open, Astarion's voice rang out sharply behind her.

"Ashara, wait! Don't open that door!"

She froze, turning in surprise to see Astarion sprinting toward her, fear etched across his face. "Why, what's wro—"

Her words were cut off as something slammed against the door, flinging it into her with brutal force. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, her breath knocked from her lungs. She barely had time to recover before a grotesque creature emerged from behind the door, its leathery wings unfurling with a rustling sound.

It stood nearly four feet tall, its gnarled, reptilian body covered in patches of mottled scales and feathers. Its serpentine neck twisted as its beady, malevolent eyes locked onto her, and its beak opened to reveal rows of jagged teeth. The creature let out a shrill, piercing screech that reverberated through the hall, its spiny tail lashing behind it.

Ashara's stomach dropped as recognition dawned. "Cockatrice," she hissed under her breath, her mind racing. The statues scattered around the room suddenly made horrifying sense. She cursed herself for not realizing it sooner. "Don't let it bite you!" she yelled as she scrambled to her feet.

"I wasn't planning to!" Astarion shot back, his voice laced with sarcasm even as he drew his sword.

The cockatrice lunged, its talons scraping against the stone floor as it leapt at Ashara with terrifying speed. She dove to the side, the creature's beak snapping shut inches from where she had been. Rolling to her feet, she drew her weapon and turned to face it, her heart hammering in her chest.

Astarion darted to her side, his sword gleaming in the dim light as he slashed at the creature. The cockatrice screeched and twisted, its movements unnervingly swift as it evaded the blade. It lunged again, this time at Astarion, who sidestepped with practiced grace. His blade struck out, nicking the creature's wing, but it retaliated immediately, its spiked tail whipping toward him.

Ashara leapt forward, swinging her sword to intercept the tail, the force of her strike sending vibrations up her arms. The creature hissed, its attention flicking between the two of them as it reared back, its wings flapping wildly, and darted behind a statue of a snarling orc.

Its movements became a blur, the scaly monster weaving between the frozen statues like a hunter using the cover of a forest. The torchlight flickered wildly, shadows leaping across the walls as it disappeared behind a pillar, only to reappear on the opposite side of the room.

The cockatrice struck again, this time aiming for Ashara. She managed to deflect it with a swift swing of her blade, but the force of the attack sent her stumbling back. Before she could recover, Astarion lunged, his blade finding purchase along the creature's wing. It screamed, its movements becoming more erratic, and for a moment, it seemed they had the upper hand.

And then a second screech split the air.

Ashara's stomach dropped as another cockatrice burst from behind a toppled pillar, its wings outstretched as it zeroed in on Astarion. He spun too late. The creature struck with terrifying precision, sinking its beak into his calf. Astarion cried out, stumbling as the venom began to take hold.

The gray pallor of stone began creeping up his leg, spreading like frost over glass. Ashara's heart seized, but she had no time to react. The first cockatrice reappeared, screeching as it dove straight for her. She swung her blade wildly, managing to force it back, but the second creature was already moving again, circling like a vulture.

"Astarion, stay still!" she shouted, her voice cracking with panic as she tried to position herself between him and the cockatrices.

"I don't think that will be a problem," he bit out, his movements slowing as the petrification spread up his thigh. His sword clattered to the ground as his hands braced against the wall, his legs no longer responding.

Before she could reach him, pain lanced through her thigh. She gasped, stumbling as she looked down to see the first cockatrice's beak embedded in her flesh. It released her with a snap, hissing as it backed away. Horror washed over her as she watched the stone begin to creep up her own leg, freezing her muscles with terrifying speed.

"No, no, no!" she gasped, her voice shaking as she tried to take a step, only to find her leg immobilized.

A loud creak echoed through the chamber, drawing Ashara's gaze toward the far door. It swung open with deliberate slowness, and the sound of measured footsteps followed. A familiar voice, smug and dripping with satisfaction, filled the room.

"Well, well," the voice drawled. "Looks like you decided to take me up on my offer of a good time after all."

Ashara's heart sank, the voice sparking recognition like a dagger to the gut. Her gaze shifted toward the figure entering the room, her breath catching as the final wave of petrification climbed toward her chest. She didn't need to look at Astarion to know he recognized the voice too.

"Oh, for fu—" Astarion began, but his words cut off abruptly as his lips turned to stone, freezing his expression in a mix of frustration and defiance.

Ashara's vision darkened as the stone claimed her fully, and the last thing she heard was the mocking laughter of Cassius echoing through the chamber.

Chapter Text

The stone dungeon was swathed in darkness, the faintest orange torchlight casting a feeble glow across damp walls. A sickly, rotting stench permeated the air and assaulted Astarion's nostrils as he slowly regained consciousness.

He immediately became aware of an intense pain in his arms and the feel of coarse rope biting into his wrists. Looking up, he saw he was suspended from a metal hook in the ceiling, forcing him to stretch on his tiptoes, his heels hovering above the slick floor.

His body still felt stiff and sore from the cockatrice venom, and he was dismayed - but unsurprised - to see that his weapons and armour were missing. Clearly, whoever had used the antidote on him had also helped themselves to his gear.

Spinning himself round, Astarion was relieved to see Ashara alive and well, slowly shaking off the lingering effects of petrification. He was less thrilled to see her chained to the wall, arms splayed, her wrists cuffed high and tight against the clammy stone.

His muscles screamed with the effort of holding himself steady, but Astarion masked his discomfort with an arch of his brow and a biting tone. "Well..." he drawled, his voice a blend of sarcasm and irritation, "that could have gone better."

Ashara gave him a pained look. Her face, streaked with grime, betrayed a flicker of guilt. "How was I to know they had a cockatrice kept down here?"

Astarion let out a theatrical sigh, his crimson eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "Oh, I don't know," he said, his words dripping with condescension. "Maybe the highly detailed statues dotted around the place might have been a bit of a clue?"

Ashara shot him a sidelong glance, her expression hovering between sheepishness and defiance. "I just thought they had weird taste in art."

A short, harsh snort escaped him. "If you genuinely think an orc berserker in frozen battle stance qualifies as art, I must seriously question your judgment."

"I've never been to an art exhibition," Ashara retorted. "So I wouldn't know."

Astarion smirked, the gesture a touch strained by the discomfort pulling at his shoulders. "Yet another thing to add to the list of experiences I need to introduce you to."

"Let's focus on getting out of here first, shall we?" Ashara grunted, her shoulders straining against the iron manacles.

"What a splendid idea." Astarion's smirk turned sharper, his voice laced with mock enthusiasm. "And here I was quite content to just hang around."

Her withering look could have pierced steel, but she soon grew somber, her gaze dropping to the damp floor. "There were never any refugees here, were there..."

Astarion tilted his head, a dry laugh escaping him. "Only just figuring that out now, are you? Bravo."

"Then why did the barkeep tell you there were tieflings staying here?"

Before Astarion could respond, a voice echoed from the shadows, smooth and mocking. "Because you asked about them."

Cassius stepped into the torchlight, his face half-obscured by the wavering glow. His gaze slid over the pair like a butcher sizing up his next cut. "If you were looking for a priceless artifact or even a lost cat, he'd tell you to visit the fort."

Astarion scoffed, tilting his head with a disbelieving smirk. "Well, that's just plain dishonest. And after I tipped him too. Honestly, no honor among scoundrels these days."

Ashara leaned forward as much as her restraints allowed. "Why?"

Cassius took another step forward, his movements unhurried, deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. His gaze flitted briefly to Astarion, a smirk forming on his face. "She really is a dumb one, isn't she?"

"Hey!" Ashara's protest echoed in the chamber.

Astarion arched a brow. "No, he has a point. How can you not see that this was a setup?"

Her glare swung to him. "I was asking why he set us up, you jerk."

Cassius chuckled low in his throat, a sound that made Astarion's skin prickle with distaste. "Same reason a pickpocket works a crowd," he said, his tone maddeningly casual. "Opportunity. But in our case, my bandit crew and I barely ever have to leave this fort. Everything we need walks right through our doors - including entertainment."

His gaze slid over Ashara in a way that made Astarion's stomach churn, bile rising in his throat. Every fiber of his being screamed to act, but the restraints mocked him, rendering him helpless.

"You should have taken me up on my offer, girl." Cassius's voice dipped, sickeningly smooth. "You could have had a night to remember. Now I'm afraid your experience will be far less... pleasurable."

Ashara stiffened, her jaw clenching as the meaning behind his words clicked into place.

"Listen," Ashara said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "We don't need to be your enemies. Let us go, and I swear we won't speak a word about your operation here. Trust me, I never break a promise."

Cassius tilted his head, considering her words with a mocking pout. "That's real sweet. But I'm afraid you're not going anywhere." His smile turned razor-sharp. "And since you like directness, let me explain things in a way your dense little brain can understand."

He moved with a speed that startled even Astarion. In a single, brutal motion, Cassius grabbed Ashara by the collar, yanking her forward and crushing his mouth against hers.

The sound of the kiss was grotesque in the silence. Ashara's eyes widened, her body jerking in resistance, but the chains held her fast. When he pulled back, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest, she spat, her eyes burning with a fury hotter than any flame.

"Do that again, and I'll kill you," she snarled.

Astarion's voice was cold as ice, his crimson eyes gleaming with murderous intent. "Not if I gut him first."

Cassius spared him only a glance, his smirk firmly in place. "You'll get your turn soon enough." His tone was as dismissive as it was taunting. "I've a few on my crew who will be very pleased to see you, pretty boy."

Astarion's lip curled, a flash of fangs just visible as he struggled against his restraints, feeling the strain on his wrists intensify. His mind was racing, heart pounding with a grim resolve.

Cassius's gaze slithered back to Ashara, his fingers curling around her shirt collar once more, his eyes gleaming with a twisted glee. "Of course, while we all share what we loot," he said, tightening his grip, "as leader, I always get first pick of everything."

Astarion saw the way Ashara's body stiffened, a tremor running through her as the mans fingers began to tug at the laces of her shirt. Her eyes flashed up, meeting Astarion's with a silent, raw plea. The sight was like a spark to dry tinder. Astarion writhed against his restraints, his muscles coiling like a spring wound too tight.

"Get your hands off her!" he spat, seething with barely contained rage.

Cassius ignored him, grunting as he exposed the leather bandeau beneath Ashara's shirt. His expression twisted with irritation, and he yanked a small, jagged knife from his belt, bringing it toward her chest.

Astarion looked up, measuring the hook above him, and took a deep breath to brace himself. Gathering every ounce of strength left in his battered body, he swung his legs up, wrapping them around the hook.

For a moment, he was suspended upside down, blood rushing to his head as he strained against the searing pain in his shoulders. His bound wrists slipped from the hook, and with nimble precision, he transferred his grip to the hook, unwrapping his legs and lowering himself, silently, back to the floor.

Cassius's blade was poised against the leather strip across Ashara's chest, his lips curling with dark intent, when Astarion struck. He moved without thought, his instincts raw and honed, throwing his bound arms around the man's throat, locking him in a vice-like chokehold. In the same breath, he bared his fangs and drove them deep into the humans neck, tasting the hot rush of blood as he bit down savagely.

Cassius let out a strangled cry, thrashing, trying to slam Astarion against the wall to shake him off. His back hit stone with a sharp impact that sent a jolt of pain through Astarion's spine, but he held firm, tightening his grip, the taste of blood flooding his senses, drowning out everything else. He drank deeply, feeling the man's struggles weaken, the once-violent thrashing reduced to feeble gasps until the human's body sagged in his grasp and finally collapsed to the ground.

Astarion's gaze was distant for a moment, savoring the lingering taste on his lips, the rush of power from the kill still hot in his veins. He glanced down, catching the glint of Cassius's knife, and sliced through the rope binding his wrists. Tucking the knife into his waistband, he knelt and searched the body until his fingers closed around a cold, heavy key.

When he turned back to Ashara, the thrill of victory dimmed, fading as he saw her expression. She was slumped as low as her restraints would allow, her head bowed, gaze fixed on the ground. Her face was pale and her eyes looked hollow, as if she'd retreated somewhere unreachable, lost in a place he couldn't see.

"Ashara?" Astarion murmured, taking a cautious step toward her. "It's alright now. The bastard's dead."

She didn't respond, her gaze still fixed somewhere far away. Her silence, her stillness, unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Slowly, he lifted the key and started unlocking her manacles.

The moment Ashara's wrists were free, a fierce, raw energy snapped back into her like a fire reigniting. She lunged at him with a guttural cry, knocking him off balance and driving him to the floor.

Astarion barely had time to raise his hands to protect himself as she rained punches on him, her fists connecting with frantic, unrestrained force. Pain radiated through him with each hit, her knuckles hard and merciless. Her eyes blazed, wild and unfocused, each strike driven by a primal, seething rage.

"Ashara!" he cried, wincing as her fist collided with his shoulder. "Stop it! It's me - Astarion!"

His voice finally broke through, and she froze, her fist suspended mid-air. Her eyes snapped into focus, and she blinked down at him, her expression shifting from rage to dismay as she registered his face. She glanced at her own trembling hand, horror dawning in her gaze, and she scrambled back, pulling away from him.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" Her voice was small, almost broken, as she hugged her knees to her chest, as though she could fold herself into nothingness.

Astarion sat up slowly, wincing as he rubbed at the fresh bruises forming on his arms. "I should bloody well hope not," he grumbled. "That hurt, you know."

Ashara's gaze dropped, guilt heavy in her expression. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, looking smaller than he'd ever seen her. "I thought... I thought you were still him."

He relaxed, the sting of pain fading as he looked at her. He offered her a dry, half-smile, softening his tone. "An understandable reaction. Though, I am a little offended that you'd confuse me with that hideous brute. Surely I'm far more... refined."

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and Ashara looked up at him, a faint light breaking through the shadow in her eyes. "No," she murmured. "You're nothing like him at all."

A faint twinge of shame pierced Astarion as an accusatory thought crept into his mind. That's not entirely true now is it...

He rose, dusting himself off with an exaggerated flourish before extending a hand to her. "Glad to hear it." Tilting his head toward the door, a wry smile curled on his lips. "Now, shall we see about finding a way out of this wretched place?"

Ashara looked at his outstretched hand for a heartbeat, and then, with a small, resolute nod, she slipped her fingers into his and allowed him to help her rise to her feet.

The moment they stepped outside the cell, the damp silence of the dungeon gave way to the low, murmuring echo of voices - likely more bandits - down the dim corridor.

Shadows twisted under torchlight, flickering along the jagged stone walls like dark, restless spirits. Astarion's gaze shifted forward, his every instinct urging haste, but the snatches of conversation that floated down the hall stopped him cold.

One of the bandits was laughing, his voice rough and eager. "Hope the boss hurries up. Can't wait to get my hands on those two. You know how much the brothels charge for an elf? Daylight robbery. And we get not one, but two for free tonight."

Another replied calculatingly, "The silver-haired one looks like he would fetch a pretty penny in the flesh markets."

Astarion swallowed, bile rising as the meaning behind the words twisted like a knife in his stomach. He shot a look at Ashara, who had frozen beside him, her face drawn tight, muscles taut. Her shoulders trembled, her breaths shallow.

His mind raced, cursing the timing, wondering if she'd be able to hold herself together enough to fight. But before he could even reach out to steady her, she gripped his arm with a surprising strength, her fingers digging into his skin.

"Astarion..." Her voice trembled, her eyes wild and haunted. "I need you to promise me something. Whatever happens next, whatever you're about to see... Do not run from me."

Her gaze was desperate, pleading, her words a broken whisper that unsettled him, twisting knots of dread in his stomach.

Astarion forced a dark smile, keeping his tone steady. "Darling, something tells me there won't be much running from either of us. But I'm not about to just lay on my back without a fight, and neither are you."

Ashara's grip tightened, her eyes wide and brimming with an unspoken fear. She shook her head frantically, her breaths growing uneven, her voice barely a gasp. "No, you don't understand. Don't run. If you run... I might kill you. Please, promise me, don't run."

Alarmed, he recoiled slightly, discomfort prickling beneath her grip. He tried shrugging her hands off, irritation flashing in his eyes. "What are you talking about? Let go of me."

Her grip held firm, and her voice was a ragged whisper. "Promise me."

Astarion's frustration simmered, but he relented, sighing sharply. "Yes, yes, alright. I promise. Now get off me!"

For a brief moment, relief softened her face, but it was fleeting, and a shadow of sadness replaced it as she whispered, "I'm sorry."

Before he could question her, she twisted, shoving him backward with surprising force. He stumbled, the world spinning for a brief moment before the door to the cell slammed shut in his face, and the cold sound of the key turning sent a jolt of shock through him.

A flash of anger surged through him, mixing with a sickening wave of panic. He threw his shoulder into the door, feeling the solid resistance beneath him. "What are you doing?! Open this door at once!"

Astarion heard her voice from the other side, faint and fractured. "Stay... safer in there. Remember."

Memories crashed over him, dark and suffocating. The flash of betrayal, the feeling of being locked away, helpless. He remembered Durge's heartless gaze, the binding chains, and the unforgiving face of Gandrel looming over him. Fury and fear churned in him, flooding his voice.

"No, don't you dare leave me here!" He slammed his fist against the door, voice rough, desperate. "You said we were in this together!"

His cries were met with silence, and he sank his forehead against the door, the cold wood pressing against his skin. Then, suddenly, a high-pitched - though distinctly masculine - scream echoed through the corridor outside.
Astarion's heart jolted as the scream cut off sharply, leaving a chilling silence in its wake.

Muffled shouts, chaos, and more cries soon followed, echoing through the passage. With a sense of dark foreboding, he pressed his ear to the door, straining to make sense of the carnage unfolding.

Then came a sound that chilled his blood: a howl, deep and terrifying, reverberating through the walls. His pulse quickened, and a cold suspicion began to crawl up his spine.

Without another thought, he dropped to his knees, examining the lock. The key was still there, and his gaze shifted to the gap beneath the door. Tearing a strip of cloth from Cassius's tunic, he slid it under the door and poked the key out with the tip of his knife.

Hearing the satisfying dull thunk as it landed, Astarion drew the key under the door and into his grasp with bated breath. With a quick, frantic motion, he unlocked the door and slipped into the corridor beyond.

The silence felt oppressive, broken only by his own careful footsteps. As he rounded a corner, he froze, his eyes widening at the sight before him. Two bandits lay torn in half, their bodies shredded, limbs and viscera scattered as though they'd been snapped apart like brittle branches. Blood pooled beneath them, spreading like spilled ink over the cracked stone.

He stared the massive paw prints trailing from the gore, each one nearly the width of his own chest. Astarion swallowed, his throat dry as a desert, memories of the skull-headed wolf flashing through his mind.

Shaking himself, he bent down, stripping weapons from the mangled bodies - a sword, a dagger - anything that might offer a chance of survival. As he straightened, a fresh wave of screams echoed from deeper within the fortress, the desperate cries resonating in the dark, twisted halls.

The further he went, the more the corridors resembled a nightmare. Torn limbs, shattered armor, blood splatters stretching across the walls. The air was thick with the coppery scent of death and the lingering tang of fear. Each scene was worse than the last, a tapestry of violence that left little to the imagination. The bandits had been utterly decimated, their bodies twisted and broken, expressions frozen in a mixture of terror and agony.

Finally, he found a small room, barely more than a closet, lined with chests. He opened one, the sight of his leather jerkin and familiar weapons almost a relief. He quickly donned his gear, fastening the shortsword at his hip and slinging the bow and quiver over his shoulder. He packed the remaining items - including Ashara's armor and weapons - into a canvas sack, slinging it across his back as he continued through the winding corridors.

Rounding another corner, Astarion stopped short, eyes narrowing at the sight of a bloodied dwarf crawling on his belly through a doorway. His fingers clawed desperately against the floor as he dragged himself forward, leaving a thick, red smear in his wake.

The dwarf looked up, eyes wild with terror, his hand reaching out, pleading. "Help me!" His voice was choked, raw, the desperation in it a twisted plea that made Astarion's heart skip a beat.

But before Astarion could react, the dwarf was jerked backward with brutal speed, his scream cut short by a sickening crunch that echoed down the stone corridor.

Astarion felt his body tense as he took an instinctive step back, and then he saw it - a shadow darkening the doorway, expanding, coalescing into something monstrous. A massive, hulking form crouched as it moved forward, ducking through the doorway with terrible, fluid grace, holding the upper half of the unfortunate dwarf in its pale, skeletal jaws.

It was a wolf, but not of any kind he had ever seen. It's sheer size made Onyx look like a puppy in comparison. The creature's coat was an abyss of pitch black, glistening as though dipped in shadow, each movement sending a dark shimmer over its colossal form. The skull-like head was both beautiful and terrifying, pale bone meeting dark fur at it's upper forehead, its eye sockets blazing with icy blue light that felt cold enough to burn.

The wolf's bulk filled the corridor, its ears brushing the ceiling. It's head was turned away from him initially, its attention fixed farther down the passage. Blood dripped from its jaws, trailing down its thick, muscular chest in rivulets that pooled on the floor. But as Astarion took another cautious step back, his heart skidded to a halt as those piercing, glacial eyes swiveled to him.

The remains of the corpse slid from its mouth with a dull, sickening thud, landing in a crumpled heap at its feet. The wolf's ears flattened, and a deep, rumbling growl reverberated through the floor and the walls, sending a cold shiver down Astarion's spine. He watched, frozen in place, as it took a step forward, each movement calculated, stalking towards him with deadly intent.

Astarion's mind screamed at him to turn and run, to flee from this nightmare, but he found himself paralyzed, trapped beneath the creature's unwavering gaze. Ashara's voice echoed in his memory, faint but insistent. "Don't run from me."

The pieces clicked into place, horror dawning over him.

Trembling, Astarion forced himself to stay rooted, his breaths shallow and rapid. The wolf loomed directly over him now, the heat of its breath washing over his face, each exhale thick with the stench of blood.

Its jaws opened to reveal needle sharp fangs the size of daggers. Blood from its last victim dripped onto him, sliding down his face, and he shut his eyes, every muscle locked in fear as he choked out, "Ashara... please don't eat me."

For a tense moment, there was only silence, his own ragged breathing filling the empty space between them. Then, with a heavy click, the jaws snapped shut inches from his head.

He opened his eyes to find the creature's nose hovering close, nostrils flaring as it drew in his scent. A hot gust of breath followed, an exhalation that sent a ripple of gooseflesh across his skin as the wolf slowly stepped back, its gaze still locked on his.

They stared at each other, an understanding dawning between them, and Astarion found himself in silent awe. "What... are you?" he breathed, the words barely more than a whisper.

The creature's ears twitched, and it jerked its head around, glancing back down the passage as if hearing something distant. A low growl bubbled up from its throat, and with a snarl, it turned and bounded down the corridor, its massive paws thudding against the stone as it disappeared into the shadows.

As the silence settled, Astarion's knees nearly gave out. He pressed a hand to the cold stone wall, steadying himself as his legs wobbled beneath him. His heart hammered, each beat a painful reminder that he was still, somehow, alive.

"What in all the nine hells have I allied with?" he muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the lingering tremors.

After a moment, he forced himself to push forward, his footsteps echoing in the now-haunted silence. He found no living soul left in the fortress, only bloodied remains and the twisted, frozen expressions of the bandits who had thought themselves invincible. The bloody pawprints led to the main doors, and against every ounce of self-preservation, Astarion followed them outside.

The landscape was shrouded in mist, the air thick with a damp chill. Barren grasslands stretched ahead, broken only by patches of bog and the occasional gnarled tree, twisted like skeletal fingers. Overhead, the sky threatened rain, clouds heavy and brooding. In the distance, thunder rumbled, a low, ominous warning.

He traced the massive pawprints through the mud and barren earth, watching as they led farther from the fortress, until he could see the faint line of the forest on the horizon.

Then, abruptly, the prints stopped, replaced by a set of smaller, barefoot humanoid footprints. His suspicions solidified, a dark understanding settling over him as he followed the new trail.

The tracks led Astarion to a small depression in the scrub, the tall grass swaying around him as the wind picked up. In the center, a small figure lay curled into itself, covered in mud and blood.

As he drew closer, Ashara's fragile form became more recognisable, naked and shivering violently, arms wrapped tightly around herself as soft, broken sobs escaped her lips.

For a moment, he simply stared, torn between pity and the unnerving memory of the beast she'd become. The fierce, dangerous creature he had just witnessed seemed worlds away from the vulnerable woman before him, and yet the connection was unmistakable.

With a resigned sigh, Astarion reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a cloak. He moved forward slowly, each step careful, until he knelt beside her and gently draped the cloak over her, the fabric sliding over her mud-streaked skin.

The soft touch of the fabric seemed to stir Ashara, and she uncurled slightly, her arms moving from around her shoulders to reach up and wrap around his neck instead.

Astarion froze as she pulled herself closer, pressing her face into his chest, her body trembling against him. For a heartbeat, he was struck speechless, caught between the urge to push her away and the strange impulse to protect her.

But as her shivering continued, her breaths rapid against his skin, he forced himself to focus, scooping her up into his arms. Rising to his feet, he cradled her against his chest, her weight slight but solid. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his back, as if afraid he might vanish.

He steadied himself and began walking toward the dark line of trees on the horizon, ignoring the chill in his bones as the mist around them turned into a light rain. Each step felt heavy, loaded with questions he dared not ask, not now - not yet. For now, he walked on, his gaze fixed on the sheltering darkness of the forest, where, perhaps, they could find safety.

Gradually as he walked, Ashara's trembling began to subside, her heavy breathing slowing, until eventually slipping into the gentle rhythm of sleep. Glancing down at the raven-haired head resting on his chest, Astarion felt a strange warmth blooming in his chest at the complete and utter trust she was placing in him right now. A trust he wasn't entirely sure he could accept yet - not until his questions were answered.

Ashara's eyelids fluttered open to the soft crackle of a fire and the heavy rhythm of rain pounding against the ground outside. She blinked, disoriented, the dimly lit walls of a cave surrounding her, and felt the softness of a fur cloak draped over her shoulders.

For a moment, she let herself soak in the warmth and the familiar scent of earth and woodsmoke. Then, the recent memories of her transformation surged into her mind. A strangled gasp escaped her lips as it all came flooding in - the fortress, the bandits and the terror in Astarion's eyes.

Ashara turned her head to see him silhouetted against a small fire, his head facing the cave entrance, gazing at the rain outside. She struggled to sit up, hastily pulling the cloak tighter around herself as she realized her exposed state.

Her sudden movement caught Astarion's attentions and he looked back at her, the fire casting harsh shadows across his face. There was a brief flicker of something raw in his gaze - fear, or perhaps simply wariness - but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual composed expression.

"Glad to see you're finally awake. Your armor and some spare clothes from our late hosts are in the bag beside you."

Ashara followed his gesture to the canvas sack near her and reached out for it, focusing on the rough texture under her fingers. She glanced back at Astarion to see that he had deliberately turned his back to her, facing away with a rigid set to his shoulders.

Grateful for the subtle gesture, Ashara pulled a tunic and leggings from the bag, dressing as quickly as she could. Once clothed, she moved across the cave to settle by the fire, facing him across the flames.

Astarion watched her with an intense gaze, as if he were scrutinising every flicker of her expression. She traced a finger through the dirt beside her, letting the silence hang for a moment before taking a steadying breath. "I suppose you have questions for me."

He gave her a dry, sardonic smile. "That, my dear, is the understatement of the century."

She met his gaze with a faint frown but sighed. "I may not have all the answers you want, but... go ahead. Ask."

Astarion leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied her. "Curse, warlock pact, deal-with-a-devil, magical experiment - or are you another one of Fenrir's soul fragments?"

Ashara considered his question thoughtfully, fingers pausing in the dirt. "None of those... at least, that I'm aware of. Though 'curse' is probably an accurate description, even if it's not an explanation."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, leaning back as he eyed her with suspicion tinged by something like fascination. "So... transforming into a giant skull-headed wolf just comes naturally to you, does it?"

Ashara's eyes dropped to the fire, watching the flames dance in erratic patterns. "It appears to, yes. Ever since I turned eighteen, whenever I was in mortal danger or if my emotions ran... too high, I would transform into that thing."

He gave a thin-lipped smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I can see why you're practically a hermit then. I'd imagine most people wouldn't appreciate being bitten in half if they happen to, oh let's say, mildly irritate you."

The faint edge in his voice made her pause, the realization sinking in - he was afraid of her. A pang of regret stilled her response, but then a familiar nausea bubbled in her stomach.

Shooting to to her feet, Ashara staggered out of the cave and barely managed to put some distance between herself and the fire before she bent over and retched. The remnants of the wolf's gruesome meal spilled out of her, a torrent of blood and mangled flesh hitting the ground with sickening squelches.

As she emptied her stomach, she sensed Astarion's presence beside her. She looked up, wiping her mouth and meeting his gaze with a miserable expression.

"I... I will understand if you don't want to be around me anymore," she said, her voice strained, her body trembling from the violent heaving. "But... you aren't in any danger. I only lost control because..." Her voice faltered as she struggled to find the words. "Because of what that man nearly did. And what the others were planning."

Rain pelted down on her face, cool droplets mingling with the remnants of blood and dirt. She lifted her head to the sky, letting the downpour wash her clean, trying to steady her breathing, her heart, everything.

She looked at Astarion again, her voice softer, almost broken. "Is that all people ever think of when they look at us? Is it... an elf thing to be seen as something to be... taken?"

A grim smile curved his lips, though his eyes held a haunted darkness. "In my personal experience... yes. Though I suspect those degenerates wouldn't have cared what we were, as long as we were warm bodies."

Ashara shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as though it could shield her from the memories. "This isn't the first time someone's tried to..." Her voice faded, the words too raw to finish. Her fingers dug into her arms, leaving faint indentations on her skin.

"The wolf emerged the first time it happened. Protected me when I couldn't protect myself." She swallowed hard, suppressing the roiling emotion. "I wanted to keep it controlled back there in the dungeon. I didn't want you to be afraid of me. But... when I heard the others talking like that..."

"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Ashara," Astarion interrupted, his tone surprisingly gentle. "That part of you already saved me once before."

He managed a faint, wry smile. "Though it was a... rather different experience seeing it again, knowing that you're the one behind that terrifying creature and not Onyx."

Ashara looked up, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes. He wasn't mocking her - he was grateful.

"I mean it, Astarion. Now that you're a part of my pack... now that I know your scent, I won't hurt you. No matter what happens." The words tumbled out, surprising even her with how natural they felt.

Astarion stared intently at her face, and his expression softened, an odd look of wonder in his eyes. "I believe you. I'm likely insane for feeling this way, but... somehow, I trust you." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Isn't that strange?"

Ashara brushed her soaked hair from her face, frowning slightly. "What's so strange about it?"

He stepped closer, close enough for her to see her reflection in his eyes. "Because the day that cursed Dragonborn handed me over to the Gur, I swore I would never trust anyone again. I promised myself I'd rely on no one but myself." He gave a wry smile, shrugging faintly. "And yet, here we are."

She studied him, feeling the pieces of his guarded self slowly revealing themselves. "And I swore I'd never have a friend who only had two legs." She tilted her head, offering a faint smile. "And yet, here we are."

Taking a step back, Ashara held out her hand, her voice quiet but steady. "Friends?"

Astarion seemed startled, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face, before he took her hand. "If you like."

She shook his hand firmly, her smile widening, a brief warmth replacing the heaviness in her heart. But the moment was interrupted as her stomach lurched again, and she quickly turned away to retch once more, her face paling as she bent over heaving.

Astarion peered over her shoulder with a look of mild amusement and detached curiosity. "Oh look... There's an eyeball."

Her face paled even more, and Ashara gagged, retching once more, the revulsion twisting her stomach further.

Astarion took a casual step back, waving a hand dismissively. "Well, when you're finished, do come back and warm up by the fire. I'll be inside, avoiding the remains of your... meal." He turned and strode back into the cave, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he left her to her misery.

Ashara wiped her mouth and looked up at the storm clouds above her and groaned, "Oh gods... why did I have to eat one of them?"

Chapter Text

Night had swallowed the world outside the cave, wrapping everything in darkness and the relentless patter of rain. Astarion leaned against the cool stone, his gaze fixed on Ashara, who sat huddled by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Flickers of light danced over her face, illuminating the faint tremors that shook her frame. Her teeth chattered softly, her shoulders hunched against the chill that the fire couldn't quite chase away.

A whirlwind of emotions stirred within him. He'd never known anyone quite like her - a creature capable of unspeakable violence much like him, and yet at the same time full of earnestness and genuine kindness. He found it hard to believe what she was, looking so small and vulnerable as she sat there, eyes distant, likely replaying memories she wished she could silence.

A part of him believed her assurances, the way she'd looked him in the eye and offered him her friendship, but doubt lingered. Friendship, while meaningful, didn't guarantee loyalty. Friends could be abandoned, discarded, betrayed.

Lovers, though - lovers were harder to throw away. Bonds forged in intimacy and desire had a way of holding fast, of anchoring people together even when logic dictated otherwise.

The idea of seducing her had already taken root in Astarion's mind, a familiar strategy he had honed over centuries. With Durge, it had been a calculated move that failed to yield results. But with Ashara, things might be different.

She was inexperienced, painfully so, and the thought of exploiting that innocence sent a twinge of guilt through him - a sensation he was not accustomed to entertaining. He pushed it down with practiced ease. Survival was paramount, and his charm was a weapon like any other.

Still, her history gave him pause. Her past was clearly marred with trauma, and there was no telling how she would react to overt advances, especially given the way she had loosed her wolf form on the bandits. If he misstepped, that side of her might not see him as part of the pack anymore. It might see him as prey. Astarion decided he would tread carefully. Slowly, gently. There was no need to rush.

Ashara's shivering broke his train of thought, her small, involuntary movements a reminder of her need for warmth. He recalled how she always huddled close to Onyx, seeking comfort in the direwolf's presence. An idea unfurled in his mind, almost against his will, and he sighed internally. Well, no time like the present.

Rising to his feet, Astarion walked to her side, sitting down in the space next to her and extending his cloak with one arm. She glanced up, surprise flickering in her eyes as she looked at him.

"My usual temperature isn't quite as cold as a corpse," he said, a slight smirk softening his words. "And, while I may not be a fur-covered wolf, I do have a little body heat to share after feeding... if you want?"

Ashara blinked, the surprise on her face shifting to a cautious gratitude. "Are you sure?"

He gave a theatrical sigh, rolling his eyes with exaggerated patience. "I wouldn't be sitting here with my arm outstretched like a taxidermied duck if I wasn't."

A quiet laugh bubbled from Ashara's lips, softening her guarded posture. Her hesitation melted as she leaned toward him, slowly letting herself relax into his arms. He pulled the cloak around them both, feeling the warmth of her against his chest, the subtle rise and fall of her breath.

Her shoulders were tense at first, but gradually, as minutes passed, her muscles softened. She nestled deeper, her head resting lightly against him, eyes closing as if to shut out the memories still lingering in her mind.

Astarion was surprised to find himself at ease with her so close. He'd expected to feel stifled, even repulsed, by the weight of another pressed against him, yet her presence was... calming.

The fire crackled softly, the only sound between them as Astarion wrestled with his thoughts. He wondered, briefly, if now was the time to begin the slow, careful work of laying the foundation for his plan. A flirtatious remark, a light sensual touch...

But no. Not tonight. They were both worn thin from the events of the day, and he wasn't in the mood to play the part of the charming seducer - especially not after witnessing the sickening performance of the late Cassius.

Instead, he adjusted the cloak slightly, tucking it more securely around her shoulders. Her breathing had grown softer, and he glanced down to see her eyes half-lidded, her expression almost peaceful.

Then, Ashara stirred against his chest, her head tilting up just slightly, her gaze catching his in the dim light.

"Astarion... do you trance or sleep?" she asked softly, her voice curious but tinged with hesitation.

The question surprised him, and he pondered for a moment, his crimson eyes tracing the fire's flickering dance. "Both," he admitted slowly, as though testing the words before giving them shape. "But I tend to favor the peace that total unconsciousness can bring. Trancing may be more beneficial, but I... well..." He hesitated, the words sticking like thorns in his throat. "I've struggled with it ever since I was turned. I find the mental focus needed to reach a meditative state does not come easily these days. Being alone with one's thoughts is... less than ideal."

He shifted, almost instinctively pulling her closer, as if the weight of his thoughts were easier to bear with her warmth against him. "Of course, sleep brings its own risks - unpleasant dreams, mostly. But I prefer the fifty-fifty odds of not having a nightmare over the certainty of intrusive memories."

Glancing down at her, his expression softened despite the shadow that lingered in his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

Ashara fidgeted slightly, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the edge of the cloak. "The wood elves I stayed with for a while were surprised I didn't know how to trance," she said, her voice tinged with a quiet regret. "They explained what it was, but I thought maybe you could teach me how?"

Astarion chuckled lightly, the sound bouncing off the walls in the cave's stillness. "I'm not sure it's something that can be taught," he said. "It's more instinctive - like blinking or breathing. It just... happens."

"Oh..." She sighed softly, her disappointment settling in the space between them. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm only half-elven."

Astarion tilted his chin down, resting it lightly on the top of her head in a gesture that felt oddly natural. He had his suspicions, of course, but the words were tangled somewhere in the maze of his mind. He spoke carefully, almost casually. "Perhaps you should ask Fenrir about that."

Ashara's head jerked up, almost making him bite his tongue as her eyes met his, wide with surprise. "Why would he know?"

Astarion's lips twitched with faint amusement. "Not to put too fine a point on it, darling, but there's a remarkable resemblance between the two of you. At least from the neck up."

She pulled away further, blinking in shock. "There is?"

Astarion leaned back slightly, resting his weight on one hand as he studied her. "What, you've never seen your wolfish reflection before?"

She shook her head, her expression shadowed. "No. And you're the first person apart from Onyx who's ever seen me like that who isn't... well..." Her voice faltered, the words trailing off as discomfort clouded her features.

Astarion finished the thought for her with a wry grin. "...a pile of regurgitated meat and bones?"

She scowled at him but sighed, slumping back against him. "Unfortunately, yes."

He chuckled softly, though there was a faint edge of self-deprecation in his tone as he added, "Well, that's something we have in common then. I've not seen this face either - not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red."

Ashara tilted her head, curiosity lighting her features. "What color were they before?"

Astarion faltered, the question catching him off guard. A wave of unease washed over him as he tried to dredge up the memory, only to find a void where it should have been. His jaw tightened, and his voice was strained, tinged with fustration. "I... I don't know. I can't remember. My face is just some dark shape in my past."

He turned his gaze to the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes as a mix of sadness and anger welled up within him. "Just one more thing I've lost."

Before he could spiral further, he felt Ashara's arms slide around his torso, tightening in a gesture of comfort. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through his thoughts with surprising clarity. "I'm sorry."

Astarion froze. Her touch, while warm and genuine, sent his mind spinning in too many directions at once. The rising tide of emotion - and the raw vulnerability she seemed to evoke - was too much, and he stiffened, his body instinctively pulling back. Ashara noticed immediately, her arms retreating as she sat up, guilt flashing across her face.

"Sorry!" she blurted. "I forgot you don't like hugs."

The genuine concern in her voice made his chest ache. It was rare for someone to care about his comfort. Usually, it was the other way around - he was the one adapting, pleasing, performing.

Astarion, then raised his arm again, extending the edge of the cloak in silent invitation. "I never actually said I didn't like hugs," he said lightly, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. "I just didn't appreciate the unexpected one from that child."

Ashara's eyes searched his face. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

He nodded toward his outstretched arm, his smirk returning. "Once again, I refer you to the evidence before you."

A gentle smile washed over her face, and she was about to lean back into him when she stopped abruptly, her expression lighting up with an idea. "I could try to describe what you look like if you want," she said eagerly. "And maybe you could do the same for me?"

Astarion blinked, her enthusiasm catching him off guard. He tilted his head, considering the suggestion. "What an interesting idea," he said slowly, the faintest flicker of curiosity sparking in his tone. "Very well, my dear. Let's see how well you can paint a picture with words."

Ashara leaned back, her brow furrowed in an expression of intense focus that made Astarion fight to suppress a smile. She studied him with the kind of scrutiny one might apply to a rare artifact, her sapphire eyes flitting from feature to feature as though committing every detail to memory. He arched a brow, already sensing the performance to come.

"Your hair is silvery white - like moonlight on fresh snow," she started, her hands weaving an invisible tapestry as she spoke. "It curls just slightly, not too tight, not too loose, and frames your face perfectly. Then there's your cheekbones, high and sharp, like - like the edge of a carving knife." She touched her own face to illustrate, drawing lines with her fingers as if sketching his face in the air.

His lips twitched, amusement bubbling in his chest. She was thorough, sparing no detail. The arch of his brows, the sharp slope of his nose, even the exact distance between his eyes - it was all dissected with a precision that bordered on obsessive. At one point, she leaned closer, using her hand to measure proportions between her own features and his.

By the time she finished, sitting back with a look of satisfaction as though she'd just solved some ancient riddle, Astarion was nearly trembling with suppressed laughter. He resisted the sudden urge to pat her head and say, 'Well done.'

Her effort was genuinely impressive, and despite himself, he had to admit she had painted a vivid mental portrait of his face. Still, certain details gave him pause, particularly her mention of subtle signs of aging. Vampires weren't supposed to age, yet the possibility that years of torment under Cazador had etched their mark on him gnawed at his confidence.

"That was... very thorough," he said finally, his tone deliberately dry. He met her gaze with a sly smile. "Now just tell me I'm beautiful, and we can call it a day."

Ashara's face twisted into a puzzled frown, and for a fleeting moment, his stomach knotted with alarm. What could she possibly find wrong with him?

"I'm not sure I've ever applied that word to a person before," she said thoughtfully. "For me, beauty is... a sunlit meadow of wildflowers beneath a snow-capped mountain, or the iridescent wing of a hummingbird."

She tilted her head, considering him again. "You are nice to look at, though."

"Nice?" His mouth twitched, his smirk faltering. "Well... that's something, at least."

"Now it's your turn," she said, her tone shifting to something expectant.

Astarion arched a brow, already feeling the tug of a mischievous grin. "Imagine Fenrir's head on a giant black wolf. That's you."

Her indignant glare was immediate, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's it?!"

"Alright, alright. I'll do better." He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

He tilted his head, conjuring the memory of the towering wolf from the fortress. The firelight danced across his pale skin as he spoke, his voice taking on an almost lyrical quality. "Imagine Fenrir's wolfish skull without the gratuitous smoke swirling around it. Bone white, its surface smooth but almost ancient in appearance, with two glowing orbs of icy blue light where eyes should be. Then, picture that terrifying skull perched atop the body of a wolf as large as - do you know what an elephant is?"

At Ashara's confirming nod, Astarion continued. "As large as one of those. Its fur is thick and impossibly black - so dark it seems to devour the light around it. But if you look closely, you'll notice something... iridescent. A faint shimmer of dark blue, like a raven's wing. Much like your hair."

Ashara leaned into him again, her head finding its place against his chest as she absorbed his words. Her voice was quieter now, tinged with uncertainty. "Do I look... terrifying like that?"

He glanced down at her, a flicker of amusement softening his features. "It is a bit of a shock, I'll admit. Looking into those glowing eyes of yours for the first time is... well, let's just say it's memorable. But once you get past the initial, sphincter-clenching fear, you're actually quite... beautiful really."

Narrowly missing Astarion's chin again, Ashara sat up abruptly, her face twisted in confusion and doubt. "Beautiful? You think that thing looks beautiful?"

Gods... does she ever just sit still?

Pushing away his bemused exasperation, he answered honestly. "I do. Is that so hard to believe?"

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any trace of mockery. When she found none, she leaned back slightly, murmuring, "Huh."

Astarion hesitated, weighing his next words carefully. "Have you ever considered the possibility," he began slowly, "that you are... related to Fenrir in some way?"

Her body stiffened, discomfort flickering across her face like a shadow. "I'll admit... it's crossed my mind," she said slowly. "But I'm not sure I want to think about that possibility too much. I can barely cope with being a person sometimes. How could I even begin to comprehend how to be a demi-god?"

He chuckled lightly, though his gaze was sharp, watching her reaction closely. "That's fair. It's not exactly something you can ignore, though. If it's true - and let's be honest, there's quite a bit of evidence - then maybe it's worth exploring?"

Ashara looked at him thoughtfully, her lips pressed into a faint line. For a moment, the air between them was thick with unspoken questions, the fire crackling softly as if to fill the silence.

Pulling away from him, she rose from her spot by the flames, her movements fluid but unhurried, and wandered to the mouth of the cave. She stood silhouetted against the gray curtain of rain, her arms loosely folded as she gazed out into the dreary wilderness.

Finally, she let out a breath, her voice quiet but steady. "Maybe one day. But not tonight."

The rhythmic patter of rain echoed through the cave, a relentless backdrop to the crackling fire as Ashara sighed heavily, her breath curling like smoke in the damp air. "This storm doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon," she murmured, her voice soft, almost resigned as she brushed a damp strand of hair away from her face. "I think we're spending the night here."

Turning back, she scanned the cave with quiet deliberation before settling on a patch of sand near the fire. Kneeling down, she began to smooth the area, her hands brushing over the surface to remove larger stones and debris. Her focus was absolute, her expression serene as though this simple task was grounding her.

"We can sleep together here if you want?" she said, glancing up at him with an easy, open expression.

Astarion froze, his mind snagging on the words as though they were a trap. His thoughts jumped immediately to the most salacious interpretation, panic flashing through him. Hells... that was fast!

But as he studied her face, he saw no hint of suggestion, no underlying motive - just a practical offer. The tension in his shoulders eased.

He raised an eyebrow, cautiously asking, "Sleep together as in...?"

Ashara shrugged, still focused on smoothing the sand. "You can sleep or trance somewhere else if you want, but since we're already sharing body heat, I thought we might as well sleep next to each other too."

Her hands paused, her expression faltering for a moment as uncertainty crept into her voice. "Unless that's crossing a line somewhere? I'm sorry - I'm not always sure which things are and aren't acceptable for people. Onyx and I sleep together all the time."

A wave of relief washed over Astarion, and he almost let slip a crude joke but stopped himself. Instead, curiosity got the better of him. "How old are you?" The question slipped out casually, though his mind was already turning.

Ashara glanced at him, surprised, but answered easily enough as she continued smoothing out the sand. "Twenty-one."

Hells! She's practically a child. ..

The realization struck him with more force than he liked. Outwardly, he kept his tone light. "And am I right in assuming your dealings with people are limited to just three years' worth of experience?"

She paused, her fingers hesitating over the sand. Her eyes flicked to his, narrowing slightly with suspicion. "Apart from my father, yes. Why?"

He waved off her defensiveness with a faint smile, brushing invisible dust from his clothes as he stood. "No reason. Just curious. I'd say, on the whole, you're doing quite well, all things considered."

Turning away briefly, Astarion tried masking the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. Ashara's age and lack of experience were almost staggering, but he couldn't decide if it made her easier to manipulate - or harder. She was so trusting, so guileless, and that made him uneasy in a way he couldn't fully articulate.

Pushing the thought aside, he knelt beside her on the sand, watching as she brushed a final stone away. "But in answer to your earlier question," he said smoothly, "yes, we can sleep together if you want."

Ashara's face softened with relief, the tension draining from her features. Astarion observed her reaction with interest, wondering if she had ever slept alone, if the need for warmth and reassurance was as vital to her as air.

Settling onto the sand, her movements were careful and deliberate as she lay on her side, facing the fire. The way she curled into herself stirred something faintly familiar in him - a recognition of fear carried quietly, woven into every breath.

She's always looking for something to anchor her, he realized, recalling the way she reached for Onyx whenever she was nervous or uncertain. The thought sharpened Astarion's resolve. If he could become that anchor, that unshakable source of comfort, she might grow reliant on him. And if she relied on him, he could shape the narrative between them, guiding her closer to the bond he sought to cultivate.

He lay down beside her, sliding his arm beneath her back and drawing her partially onto his chest. The movement was smooth, practiced, and Ashara didn't hesitate, wrapping her arm over him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, and she let out a soft, contented sigh, her body relaxing completely against his. The cloak draped over them both, cocooning them in shared warmth.

Astarion stared at the rocky ceiling for a moment, his thoughts a sea of conflict. Her trust - so freely given, so unguarded - was disarming in ways he hadn't expected. She didn't seem to comprehend the vulnerability of her position, how her proximity could stir thoughts and feelings that danced dangerously close to something he couldn't control.

He swallowed hard, feeling his body already responding in ways he desperately didn't want it to, a faint tension building that he struggled to suppress. He fervently hoped she wouldn't notice.

Yet even as he fought to maintain his composure, a deeper unease stirred within him. The way she clung to him, not out of desire but simple trust, was a kind of intimacy he wasn't accustomed to. It wasn't transactional. There were no ulterior motives, no strings attached - and this made it all the more appealing.

And that, of course, was the problem.

Astarion realized, with a jarring clarity, that if his plan succeeded - if he seduced her - this moment, this simple comfort, would transform into something else entirely. Her touch would become something to endure, her affection a weight he'd resent. The idea of loathing her sent an unsteady ripple through him, and he frowned faintly, unsure why the thought troubled him so deeply.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the steady rhythm of her breathing. Her trust was a tool, he reminded himself, a means to an end. And yet a small voice in the back of his head whispered, Does it really have to be that way?

Ashara shifted slightly, murmuring something incoherent as she burrowed closer. Astarion sighed softly, the sound barely audible, and let his arm tighten around her just a fraction. For now, he would play his part. The rest could wait until morning.

The storm raged on, a relentless symphony of rain and thunder that soaked the earth and churned the grass into a soggy quagmire. Onyx loped through the drenched grassland, his paws squelching in the saturated ground.

Lightning split the sky above, illuminating the dark world for brief, flickering moments. His fur clung to his body, heavy with water, and his breath misted in the frigid air as he pressed forward.

Ashara's scent was faint, almost swallowed by the storm, but it lingered like a fragile thread, guiding him through the chaos. His keen nose twitched as he tracked her, his instincts humming with unease. He followed her trail to the remnants of a ruined fort, its crumbling stone walls looming like jagged teeth in the distance.

The scent of blood hit him first, thick and cloying, undercut by the sharp tang of fear. His hackles rose as he entered the area, his senses overwhelmed by the unmistakable stench of death. Ashara's wolf form had been here. Her scent was layered with feral intensity, mingling with traces of terror and violence. Another scent threaded through the chaos - Astarion.

Onyx's ears flicked forward, his nose lowering to the ground as he sniffed at the churned earth. He tracked their overlapping scents to a small hollow in the grassland, pausing to examine the scattered tracks. His claws flexed into the mud, tension coiling in his muscles as the story revealed itself.

Alarm spiked through him, sharpening his focus. He pushed onward, his pace quickening, the wet grass whipping against his legs. The trail led him into the forest, where the rain softened under the canopy but still dripped in a persistent rhythm. Lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating the mouth of a cave nestled among the trees.

Onyx froze, his nose wrinkling as a new smell reached him. Piles of regurgitated flesh lay scattered just outside the entrance, the remnants of a gruesome purge. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, dread curling like a shadow in his mind.

He padded forward, his body low to the ground as he slipped into the cave and shook the water from his fur. The faint warmth of a dying fire greeted him, the embers glowing faintly against the darkness. His golden eyes adjusted quickly, scanning the space until they landed on a sight that made him halt.

Two figures lay entwined on the ground, wrapped in a shared cloak. Ashara was curled on her side, her breathing soft and steady, and behind her, Astarion lay pressed against her, one arm draped loosely over her waist. Onyx's sharp eyes picked up every detail - the serene rise and fall of their chests, the warmth of their shared body heat - and the faint, maddening scent of arousal hanging in the air.

A deep growl rumbled in his chest, low and guttural. His lips curled back, exposing sharp teeth as his muscles coiled with the urge to rip Astarion away from Ashara. He stalked forward, his gaze locked onto the vampire's face, rage simmering just below the surface. The closer he got, the more the urge to snap his neck surged, nearly irresistible.

Astarion stirred, his eyes fluttering open. The moment they met Onyx's, they widened in alarm. For a moment, he looked as though he might pull back, but his gaze flicked down to Ashara, then back to the towering wolf. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This isn't what it looks like, I swear."

Onyx's growl deepened, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped closer. "It had better not be."

Astarion's throat bobbed as he glanced at Ashara again, still asleep against his chest, then back to Onyx. "She was cold," he said, his words measured, trying to keep his tone calm. "And - as ironic as this is coming from a vampire - I was just helping her stay warm."

Onyx's paw shifted forward, his claws scratching against the stone as he loomed closer. "And how exactly did you help her stay warm...?"

"Exactly the way you see now," Astarion shot back, irritation creeping into his voice. "Nothing more."

Onyx's lips peeled back in a snarl, his voice laced with suspicion. "I can smell your desire for her. You reek of it."

Astarion's eyes flickered with annoyance, his voice rising slightly. "Well, I'm clearly not acting on it, am I?"

Ashara stirred against him, her body shifting unconsciously to press closer. Astarion froze, his eyes widening again before he cleared his throat awkwardly, offering Onyx a weak smile. "Well... not consciously, anyway."

Onyx's snarl deepened, his muscles tensing as he stepped even closer. Astarion leaned back instinctively, trying to put distance between himself and the wolf without disturbing Ashara.

"I can't help it if my body reacts in a way I don't want it to!" Astarion hissed, his voice defensive, tinged with a flicker of panic.

Onyx paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the vampire. The tension hung thick in the air, the fire's faint embers barely flickering as if afraid to move. He watched Astarion closely, the subtle shifts in his expression, the way he remained carefully still, not wanting to startle Ashara awake.

Finally, Onyx huffed, his growl subsiding into a low rumble. "For your sake," he said, his voice still laced with warning, "that had better be true."

Astarion sighed, running a free hand through his hair in fustration. "Look, my life has been an endless parade of lovers, practically every night I'd be bedding someone new-"

Onyx's hackles rose again instantly, a low rumble escaping his throat. Astarion hastily clarified, raising his hand as if to ward off an invisible blow. "Not by choice!" he whispered urgently. "It was just the easiest way to convince people to trust me, to lure them back to Cazador." His tone shifted then, his eyes lowering, shame pooling in the lines of his face. "Or the quickest way to earn money for him."

Onyx's ears flicked forward, the weight of the confession catching him off guard. Slowly, he sat down, his muscles taut beneath his wet fur. "If this is meant to reassure me, you're doing a dismal job."

Astarion glared at him but quickly checked his irritation as Ashara murmured in her sleep again. Once she stilled, he continued in a low, strained voice. "The point is, I've rarely - if ever - laid beside someone just to do that and nothing else. For the first time in centuries, I can hold someone without Cazador's voice in my head." He glanced down at Ashara's peaceful face, a flicker of something fragile crossing his features. "But while my mind is free, my body still seems to think it's under his orders."

The tension in Onyx's shoulders eased slightly, his fur settling back into place as he lay down, his massive paws crossed in front of him. "I understand," he said finally. "However, you should have considered this before you chose to lay beside her."

Astarion's face fell, guilt flashing across his features. "I... didn't think it would be an issue."

Onyx raised a dark brow, his disbelief evident. Astarion flushed faintly, muttering, "I did try to put a little distance between us when I realized that, er... things were happening." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and gestured to Ashara. "But she's rather clingy. Then she rolled onto my arm, and now I can't move it."

Onyx huffed, a short sound that might have been amusement or exasperation. His gaze softened slightly as he looked at Ashara. "She has always been like that."

He stood, his large frame moving with surprising gentleness as he nudged Ashara with his nose, carefully sliding her off Astarion's arm. She murmured something incoherent but didn't wake, her body curling slightly as she adjusted to the change.

Astarion sat up, rubbing his arm with a grimace. "I think I've lost all feeling in it," he muttered.

Onyx glanced at him, his lips curling into something that could almost be a smirk. "Do you want me to bite it to find out?"

Astarion forced a cheery tone, flexing his fingers. "No, no. That's quite all right. The pins and needles have just started, so no need for alarm."

Shaking his head, Onyx settled down beside Ashara, curling protectively around her as he watched Astarion from the corner of his eye. "Consider yourself lucky, vampire, that I am far more tolerant than my originator."

Astarion smirked faintly, leaning back against the cave wall. "You mean her father would have me beheaded if he caught us together like this?"

The air shifted.

Onyx froze, his muscles going taut as dread pooled in his stomach. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his head, his gaze locking onto Astarion's. His voice was low and deliberate, every word laced with warning. "I'm sure he would have, if he were still alive."

Astarion tilted his head, his expression almost playful despite the tension radiating from Onyx. "I'm talking about her real father. She's Fenrir's daughter, isn't she?"

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, and Onyx felt a chill creep up his spine. His instincts screamed to silence the vampire, but Astarion continued, oblivious to the storm brewing in the wolf's chest.

"Honestly, it wasn't all that hard to figure out," Astarion said with a casual wave of his hand. "Her wolf form's resemblance to Fenrir, the fact she was mysteriously abandoned as a baby, the powers she wields without any connection to the Weave, and, of course, you. A fierce warrior with hundreds of years of experience, playing babysitter."

Onyx stood, his muscles coiling as rage surged through him. He barely heard the vampire's next words.

"Oh, don't worry, your secret is safe with-"

Onyx didn't let him finish. With a snarl, he launched himself at Astarion, his teeth sinking into the leather of his jerkin, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

Astarion yelped in shock, his hands scrambling for purchase as Onyx sprinted out of the cave, the storm's fury swallowing the sounds of struggle. Rain lashed at them as he pounded through the soaked forest, the mud sucking at his paws.

Reaching a clearing, Onyx hurled Astarion to the ground. The vampire landed hard, sliding in the mud as he tried to scramble upright. Onyx was on him in an instant, a massive paw planting firmly on his chest, pinning him down. Lightning illuminated the scene, the flash revealing the raw fury in Onyx's eyes.

Astarion struggled, his hands slick with mud as he tried to push the paw away. "What the hells are you-"

Onyx's roar drowned out his words, the sound like thunder itself. "If you ever speak of this to anyone, I will tear you apart!"

Astarion froze beneath him, his chest heaving as terror widened his eyes. His lips trembled, and his voice came out as a stuttering whisper. "I w-won't. I swear."

The storm's fury raged on, the wind shrieking through the trees and rain pounding relentlessly against the earth. Onyx leaned closer, his snarling teeth inches from Astarion's face, rain dripping from his muzzle.

Astarion closed his eyes, his body trembling violently. His voice was a hoarse, frantic whisper that repeated. "I swear. I swear. I swear..."

The mantra was so soft at first that Onyx almost didn't hear it, but it grew louder, more desperate, until the trembling turned to shaking. Onyx's conscience stirred uneasily. His snarl faltered, and his piercing amber eyes narrowed as the tremor in Astarion's voice became too raw to ignore.

He stepped back, lifting his paw from the vampire's chest, though his hackles remained raised. "Astarion?" he called cautiously, his deep voice cutting through the storm.

Astarion's eyes snapped open, wide and frantic, but the terror in them was directed somewhere far away. "I swear, I won't disobey you, master!"

The single word froze Onyx in place, a shard of icy realisation lodging deep in his chest. His ears flattened against his skull as he stared at the vampire, his thoughts racing. Master.

A glance at a puddle nearby revealed his reflection: fur slicked back with rain, fangs bared, and eyes glowing an ominous red as a flash of lightning illuminated them. For a moment, he saw what Astarion must have seen - Cazador, a looming predator from a past filled with horror and subjugation. Shame struck him like a physical blow, and his heart sank under the weight of his actions.

When he turned back, Astarion had scrambled to his feet, retreating to the base of a tree. He crouched there, his arms wrapped around himself, his gaze fixed on the muddy ground. Every muscle in his body screamed fear, his frame hunched like a cornered animal waiting for the next strike.

Onyx took a tentative step forward, but the vampire flinched, pressing himself further into the tree trunk as if trying to merge with the bark. Onyx stopped immediately, his tail tucking between his legs and his ears drooping in visible distress. "Astarion..." he began, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. "I'm sorry."

Astarion gave no sign of hearing him, his crimson eyes darting around frantically, his breathing shallow and rapid. Onyx's throat tightened as guilt clawed at him. Closing his eyes briefly, Onyx took a steadying breath. He had to fix this.

Without another word, he lowered his head and savagely bit into his own foreleg, his sharp teeth tearing through flesh. Blood welled immediately, its metallic scent cutting through the damp air. He let it drip into the mud before stepping forward, making sure Astarion could see it. The vampire's gaze locked onto the wound, his nostrils flaring as hunger overtook fear, his crimson eyes glowing faintly.

Onyx moved slowly, his posture low and unthreatening as he walked closer. He raised his head, exposing his throat deliberately, the ultimate gesture of trust. Astarion's muscles tensed like coiled springs before he launched himself forward with a guttural snarl. His arms wrapped around Onyx's thick neck, his fangs sinking deep into the wolf's throat.

Onyx remained perfectly still, his massive body unmoving as the rain washed streaks of blood down his fur. He waited, enduring the pull of his lifeblood as Astarion drank with desperate urgency. Only when he felt the vampire's grip loosen slightly did he lower his head, resting it over Astarion's shoulder like a protective mantle.

His deep voice rumbled softly, almost a whisper, heavy with regret. "I should not have lost my temper at you like that. It was an unforgivable response, and one unworthy of a Fenris Guard."

Astarion stiffened at his words, his hands clenching and unclenching in Onyx's fur. The wolf adjusted his head slightly, giving him more room, but his voice remained steady and soothing.

"You have to understand," Onyx continued, "it is my solemn duty to protect Ashara. There are beings in this world that crave the power she holds within her blood. Beings that will stop at nothing to attain it. Now that you know the secret of her birthright, her life could very well depend on your silence."

Astarion's drinking slowed, and he finally pulled away, though he stayed beneath Onyx's lowered head. His voice was subdued, weary. "Does she know?"

Relief flickered in Onyx's chest. At least Astarion was speaking again. "No," he said, shaking his head. "And I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible." A thought struck him, and he asked cautiously, "You haven't said anything to her, have you?"

Astarion tensed again, his breath hitching slightly. Onyx didn't miss the way his heartbeat quickened. He sighed internally, his tone softening. "I won't be angry if you have. It would help to know, though."

Astarion hesitated before finally muttering, "I didn't tell her anything she hadn't already guessed."

Onyx let out a low rumble of acknowledgment. "Ah... I see."

Astarion stepped away, standing shakily before the wolf. His fear seemed to ebb slightly as he found his footing, his voice steadier now. "She's not stupid. All she has to do is see her reflection to realize she looks just like him."

Onyx said nothing, but his heart twisted at the truth in his words. Rain streamed down his face, dripping from his muzzle as he fixed Astarion with an unreadable stare. The vampire's crimson eyes burned with anger, his drenched hair plastered against his pale face as he crossed his arms tightly.

"And you didn't have to threaten me," Astarion snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass. "I had no intention of revealing what she is to anyone."

Onyx lowered his head slightly, guilt tightening his chest as Astarion's anger spilled over. But before he could respond, the vampire's tone shifted, turning sly, almost playful.

"If I did," Astarion continued, a smirk curling his lips, "I'd lose the element of surprise - and the delicious look of shock on people's faces when she goes all demi-god on them."

Onyx's lip curled into a reluctant grin despite himself, the mental image amusing him. But the grin faded quickly, replaced by a sober, more reflective expression. He lowered his head slightly, his ears twitching back. "I know my actions - though guided by fear for Ashara - are unforgivable. But is there a way I can atone for my mistake?"

Astarion's gaze flicked away, his posture stiff. He swiped at his eyes, brushing away the rain, and for a moment Onyx thought he wouldn't answer. Then a devious grin spread across his face, sharp and predatory. He straightened, crossing his arms and adopting a haughty, commanding posture.

Onyx felt the stirrings of dread in his chest. He already suspected what was coming, and he cringed internally as he waited for the inevitable.

Astarion's voice was light, but there was steel beneath it. "Roll over."

Onyx's ears flattened against his skull, a heavy sigh escaping him. His pride howled in protest, but he pushed it aside. "As you command," he rumbled, his voice tinged with resignation as his tail flicked in irritation.

With a low groan, Onyx lowered himself into the mud with a wet splash. He rolled onto his back, his massive frame awkwardly sprawled as he let his tongue loll out in exaggerated submission. The rain pelted his exposed belly, the indignity of the act made worse by the cold, sticky earth pressing against his fur. He regarded Astarion with a deadpan expression, his golden eyes now upside down.

Astarion leaned over him, his grin widening to something almost gleeful. "Comfortable?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.

"Perfectly humiliated, thank you," Onyx replied, his tone dry.

"Good." Astarion's smile vanished, his voice hardening with cold anger as he leaned closer. "Don't ever do that to me again."

Onyx nodded - or as close to a nod as he could manage in his current position. "You have my word."

With a grunt, he rolled back onto his feet and shook violently, sending flecks of muck flying in every direction. Astarion stepped back with an indignant glare, narrowly avoiding the spray.

"Will that be all?" Onyx asked, his tone exasperated.

Astarion smirked, brushing at a stray splatter of mud on his sleeve. "You can carry me back to the cave, too."

Onyx arched an eyebrow - or rather, the lupine equivalent - and tilted his head. "The same way I carried you here? Or would you prefer to ride?"

Astarion's eyes narrowed. "I think you know the answer to that."

"Right," Onyx replied, his voice laden with faux cheer. "By the scruff it is, then."

He lunged forward playfully, jaws parting as if to grab Astarion by the collar. The vampire dodged backward, his movements quick and graceful. "Don't you dare!" he hissed, his tone a mixture of irritation and genuine alarm.

Onyx huffed a laugh, the sound low and rumbling, before lowering himself onto his haunches, his massive frame crouched to allow Astarion to climb onto his back. The vampire eyed him warily but finally relented, stepping forward and settling onto the wolf's broad shoulders with a grumble.

As Onyx began the trek back toward the cave, Astarion leaned slightly forward, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "How exactly do we explain to Ashara why the two of us look like we've been wallowing in a pigpen?"

Onyx paused mid-step, glancing upward at the rain-soaked canopy above them. His ears flicked as he considered. "Attacked by a group of wandering mud mephits?" he suggested, his tone utterly serious.

Astarion's lips curved into a grin, the sharpness of his earlier anger softening. "Hmm... I suppose I could spin that story. Of course, I heroically saved you from being smothered in their earthen embrace."

Onyx snorted, his breath steaming in the chill air. "Naturally."

As the cave entrance loomed closer, Ashara's silhouette stood framed by the faint light of the fire within. The rain cast her in a shroud of silver, her figure motionless yet watchful. Onyx slowed his steps, his paws sinking slightly into the soaked earth, his breath steady but heavier with the weight of what was to come.

He could feel Astarion shift slightly on his back, adjusting his grip. Onyx's voice was low, almost hesitant as he spoke. "I think you should tell her the truth. That I attacked you."

A moment of silence followed, broken only by the patter of rain. Onyx's ears twitched, straining for a response. Finally, Astarion replied, his tone dry and laced with his usual sardonic humor. "Won't that bring up rather a few awkward questions?"

"Yes," Onyx admitted, his voice steady but resigned. "And it will anger her too. But I can't hide the truth of what she is any longer."

He felt a shift in Astarion's weight as the vampire leaned back slightly, no doubt pondering the wolf's words. When Astarion finally answered, his voice was light, almost flippant, but carried an edge of tension that didn't escape Onyx's keen ears. "Well... this should be fun."

The wolf huffed softly, a puff of steam rising from his flared nostrils as he approached the cave.

"Indeed."

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight was pale and cold as it stretched across the mountain pass, a stark contrast to the warmth it should have offered. The air felt thinner here, laced with a faint bitterness that lingered in the throat, as though warning them of what lay ahead.

Astarion adjusted his stride to keep pace with Ashara, his boots crunching on the rocky dirt beneath. Sparse shrubs clung stubbornly to the ground, their branches brittle and bare, and every so often, they passed patches of land corrupted by dark black slime, the vegetation around them rotting and twisted into grotesque shapes.

Astarion cast a glance over his shoulder. Onyx trudged behind them, head low, his massive paws barely stirring the dust. The direwolf's usual commanding presence was diminished to a pitiful sight, his ears flat against his skull and his eyes narrowed to slits with an almost comical expression of guilt. Astarion suppressed a chuckle, a small smirk tugging at his lips as the memory of the night before.

It had been quite the spectacle - Onyx, a creature of legends, reduced to a whimpering pup with his tail tucked between his legs while Ashara scolded him. Astarion had rarely seen her lose her composure so thoroughly, and it had been oddly amusing to watch. He still wasn’t sure what had enraged her more: Onyx’s earlier attack on him or the revelation that the her protector had concealed her divine heritage.

Ashara’s reaction to the news itself had been surprisingly subdued. No wild displays of disbelief or tears, just a hardening of her resolve and a redirection of her anger toward the wolf who had withheld the truth. Her silence toward Onyx now was louder than any argument could have been.

Astarion cleared his throat, deliberately loud in the heavy quiet. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Ashara, his tone light and conversational. “So, Onyx, where did Karlach and the others say they’d meet us?”

The wolf's ears perked slightly, and he quickened his pace to walk beside them, though his movements were tentative. "Crescent Bridge," he replied. "Unless the shadows have spread further, it should still be the nearest crossing before we reach the outskirts of the curse. Halsin was impatient to reach Moonrise Towers, and Karlach and Zevlor agreed to go ahead with him and wait for us there."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, an exaggerated gesture of curiosity. “I don’t suppose you managed to talk the druid out of his glorious crusade, did you?”

Onyx tilted his massive head, his amber eyes briefly meeting Astarion’s. “He saw the wisdom in focusing his efforts on lifting the curse from these lands first.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I believe so,” Onyx said simply, his tone carrying a weight of certainty that was difficult to dismiss.

“Did you hear that, Ashara?” Astarion turned his attention to her, his voice bright. "Our dear Onyx managed to steer Halsin away from a suicide mission. Isn’t that nice?"

Ashara stopped abruptly, her boots kicking up a small cloud of dust as she spun to face them. Onyx straightened, his tail wagging slightly, hopeful for a thaw in her frosty demeanor. But her frown deepened as she crossed her arms.

“I’m surprised he didn’t just grab Halsin by the scruff and threaten sense into him,” she said, her voice edged with sarcasm. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and marched away, her dark braid swinging behind her like a whip.

Onyx’s tail drooped immediately, the faint wag dying like a candle snuffed out. He let out a soft, pitiful whine and glanced at Astarion, whose smirk had softened into something almost sympathetic.

“Sorry, old boy,” Astarion said with a theatrical sigh, patting the wolf lightly on the shoulder as they resumed walking. “Looks like you’re still very much in the doghouse.”

Onyx grumbled under his breath, his ears flicking back in annoyance. Astarion smiled to himself, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement, but his gaze drifted ahead to Ashara. Her shoulders were stiff, her steps purposeful, as if she were trying to outrun the weight of everything she’d learned.

The ridge they stopped on jutted out precariously over a cliffside, offering a commanding yet oppressive view of the valley below. The haze blanketing the terrain seemed alive, shifting and writhing like a barrel of eels. Sickly green light seeped through the mist, illuminating the jagged forms of twisted trees that loomed like skeletal sentinels over the wasteland.

Beneath the gloom, warped, gnarled roots clawed their way out of the earth, as though trying to escape whatever poison festered in the soil. And in the distance, barely discernible through the choking fog, rose the outline of a castle - its towers crooked and fractured, as if the land itself had tried to swallow it whole.

“Well…” Astarion drawled, sweeping his arm dramatically toward the blighted landscape. “It certainly lives up to its name.”

Ashara said nothing. She stepped closer to the ridge and peered down into the abyss below. The wind tugged at her cloak, the fabric rippling like an angry tide, but she remained as still as the stones beneath her boots. Astarion studied her in silence, his crimson eyes narrowing. What thoughts were coursing through that enigmatic mind of hers? Was she afraid? Angry? Resigned? Her expression betrayed nothing, though the slight furrow of her brow hinted at the storm roiling beneath.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint creaking of the wooden stairways and rope bridges that clung to the side of the cliff, offering an unsteady route to the valley below.

The silence stretched, brittle and tense. Astarion finally broke it with his usual dry wit. “What are the odds of meeting my delightful former traveling companions down there?”

Onyx padded closer, his massive form casting a shadow over the crumbling edge of the ridge. “Quite high,” he growled. “If they’re headed for—”

Ashara whirled around so quickly that her cloak snapped like a whip. “Onyx.”

The wolf immediately straightened, his ears pricking. “Yes?”

“I want to speak with Fenrir.”

Onyx hesitated, his paws shifting on the loose stones. “I’m not sure that is a good idea.”

“Why not?” Ashara’s voice was scathing, her anger simmering just below the surface as she took a step closer. “He’s my father, isn’t he? Surely he wouldn’t refuse an audience with his daughter.”

Astarion leaned casually against a nearby rock, his expression one of detached amusement. He secretly agreed with Onyx; nothing good would come from a meeting like this, not while Ashara was practically glowing with righteous fury. Still, part of him - the part that loved chaos for its own sake - wanted to see it unfold.

“Yes,” he said with a grin that was all fangs. “Why wouldn’t daddy want to speak to her? It’s not like he’s been keeping secrets - oh wait…”

Onyx shot him a glare that could have wilted a tree. “You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” Astarion replied, brushing a nonexistent speck of dirt from his sleeve. “Do carry on.”

Ashara ignored their exchange, stepping closer to Onyx. Her movements were deliberate, every step exuding a quiet intensity that made the wolf shift uneasily. “No ritual,” she demanded. “No pretenses. I want direct communication with him.”

Onyx exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Fenrir may not be what you are expecting.”

Her expression didn’t waver. “I’m not expecting anything from a god who played me for a fool. I just want to talk to him.”

Onyx studied her for a long moment, his golden eyes searching hers for something he clearly didn’t find. At last, he bowed his head, his voice low and resigned. “As you wish. Follow me.”

The grass beneath their feet grew thinner as Onyx led them away from the ridge, their footsteps crunching softly against the gravel-streaked incline. A cold breeze ruffled the wolf’s dark fur as he paused at the crest of the hill, his eyes scanning the area with focused intensity. The world around them seemed muted, as if the encroaching shadow had sapped the vibrancy from the earth itself.

Onyx’s gaze settled on a cluster of weathered stones partially buried in the dirt. He padded over to the largest one, his massive paws pressing lightly against the earth. “Carve the runes here,” he said, motioning with a tilt of his snout to the largest slab.

Ashara narrowed her eyes, suspicion flickering across her face. Without a word, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a blunted dagger, its handle worn from use. The blade caught the weak light as she bent toward the stone, the sound of metal scratching against rock filling the silence.

Astarion stepped closer to Onyx, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Why don’t you want her talking to him?”

Onyx’s ears twitched, and he lowered his voice. “Fenrir is… complicated,” he admitted. His eyes remained fixed on Ashara as he spoke. “When he fractured his soul to create the Fenris Guard, he gave up much of who he was to breathe life and free will into us. His strength, wisdom, and compassion now reside in the bodies of my brethren. What remains trapped in the wastelands of Cania is… broken.”

Astarion tilted his head, the revelation piquing his interest. “Broken how, exactly?”

Onyx opened his mouth to respond, but Ashara stood abruptly, her hand poised to cut across her palm with the dagger.

“No need for a blood offering,” Onyx said quickly, stepping toward her. “That was just so he’d recognize your scent and prepare himself to greet you.”

Ashara froze mid-motion, her expression darkening as her gaze snapped to Onyx. “You mean to tell me,” she began, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone, “that I’ve been cutting my hand all this time for no good reason?”

Astarion caught the almost imperceptible gulp from Onyx and the way his tail tucked tighter between his legs. “Yes,” Onyx admitted, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “It isn’t a standard requirement of the ritual.”

Astarion tutted, crossing his arms and fixing Onyx with a reproachful look. “Shame on you,” he said, his tone brimming with faux indignation. “Making the poor girl mutilate herself like that. Tsk, tsk.”

Onyx huffed in irritation, his hackles rising slightly. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Ashara’s fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles whitening as she stalked toward Onyx. Her steps were slow but deliberate, each one crackling against the dry grass like a spark about to ignite. “Get Fenrir here,” she demanded. “Now.”

The massive wolf whined softly, but he obediently stepped forward and sat in front of the marked stone. Closing his eyes, he spoke in a low voice that seemed to resonate through the ground itself. “Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt, your servant Onyx requests an audience with you.”

Just as before, the surface of the stone rippled like disturbed water, and a thick, otherworldly blue smoke began to seep from its surface. The accompanying frost spread outward, curling along the ground and freezing blades of grass in its path. Astarion felt the chill seep into his bones, along with a new understanding. This was the very air of Cania, the eighth hell, bleeding into their world like an open wound.

A gentle pressure on his arm startled him, and he glanced down to find Ashara’s hand slipping into his. Her fingers were cold, her grip firm but trembling, and Astarion caught the flicker of apprehension in her eyes as she nervously plucked at the fur lining of her leather cuirass. For a moment, his usual facade faltered, and he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

The smoke thickened, and from within its swirling depths emerged the visage of Fenrir. His voice boomed, each word reverberating through the air. “Onyx? Why have you summoned me? I sincerely hope it's to inform me that insolent vampire tripped and fell in a sinkhole.”

Astarion straightened, indignation flaring in his chest. His lips parted for a sharp retort, but Ashara’s audible gasp cut through his thoughts. He glanced at her, noting the furious gleam in her eyes. She tightened her grip on his hand, her anger palpable, and stormed toward the portal, practically dragging him along.

“No, he didn’t,” she snapped, her voice like the crack of a whip. “And I don’t appreciate the two of you being so unkind towards my friend.”

Astarion blinked, once again taken aback by her fierce defense of him. A warmth bloomed in his chest, chasing away the icy air. He stared at her, a rare sense of admiration flickering in his crimson eyes as she all but trembled with rage.

Fenrir’s gaze snapped to them, his glowing eyes widening in recognition His voice faltered, startled. “Ashara? What the bloody hells is she—” He coughed, quickly shifting to a more formal tone. “Ahem… Greetings, my faithful servant. Doth thou request the might of Fenrir to aid thee in battle once again?”

Astarion felt his earlier indignation melt into something far lighter. Mischief danced in his eyes as he stepped forward, clapping his hands together mockingly. “Oh, bravo! Truly, a marvelous performance. But I’m afraid the jig is up, Fenrir.”

Onyx growled low in his throat, his voice strained. “Astarion, don’t make this worse.”

Fenrir’s glowing eyes locked onto him, pupils narrowing. “What are you talking about, spawn?”

Ashara didn’t hesitate, stepping closer to the portal. “His name is Astarion,” she said sharply, “and he’s talking about you hiding the fact that I’m your daughter!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Fenrir’s glowing eyes flickered, his jaw snapping shut with a harsh click. A single word escaped him, quiet and utterly dismayed. “Shit…”

And with that, his image blinked out, leaving the three of them standing in the cold, frostbitten air.

Ashara turned to Onyx, her expression a whirlwind of emotions - confusion, frustration, disbelief. Her voice trembled with incredulity as she gestured toward the rune-carved stone. “That’s it?! That’s all I get?”

Onyx flinched as though her words were physical blows. His golden eyes softened, and he lowered his head, a picture of guilt and submission. “I warned you this wasn’t a good idea,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret.

Her expression twisted in frustration, and she backed away, shaking her head. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, her voice trembling. Her hands clenched at her sides as she stumbled a few steps, looking lost in the growing shadows.

Onyx stepped toward her, his movements cautious and deliberate. He extended his head, the gesture both apologetic and comforting, but the moment his muzzle brushed her arm, she shoved him away with more force than Astarion would have expected. “Don’t touch me!” she spat. “You’re just as bad as him. You knew this whole time.”

Onyx faltered, his head dropping further. “Ashara… please.”

But she wasn’t listening. Her breathing grew labored, her chest rising and falling with erratic force. She turned away, her hands trembling as they tugged at her hair and rubbed at the skin of her hands. The motion was frantic, compulsive, as though she could scrub away the turmoil bubbling inside her. Astarion watched her, feeling the weight of her unraveling emotions crashing like waves against the shore.

Suddenly, Ashara broke into a sprint, her feet pounding against the uneven path as she disappeared down the incline. Onyx’s ears shot up in alarm, and with a desperate whine, he bolted after her, leaving Astarion standing awkwardly at the crest of the hill.

For a brief moment, he considered letting the two of them sort it out. But as he glanced down at the runes, now cold and lifeless, guilt prickled at the edges of his conscience. With a resigned sigh, he followed after them.

He found them beside a small clump of spindly trees. Ashara sat hunched beside a twisted stump, while Onyx stood a few paces away, his body tense and uncertain, watching her with a helplessness that seemed alien for such a formidable creature.

Ashara’s arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her frame shaking as she rocked back and forth. Her breathing had spiraled into frantic, shallow gasps that turned into broken sobs, each one catching painfully in her throat.

Onyx moved toward her again, his body radiating distress. “Ashara,” he pleaded, his voice gentle but urgent. But the moment he neared, she shoved him away. “Leave me alone!” she screamed, her voice raw and trembling.

The sound tore through the air, reverberating against the twisted landscape. Onyx recoiled, his ears flattening, his tail tucked low. His whole body seemed to crumple in despair as he whined softly, looking utterly lost. He turned his gaze to Astarion, his golden eyes locking onto the vampire with a desperate plea. “Help her.”

Astarion froze, momentarily taken aback. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked, his tone more defensive than he intended. He gestured toward Ashara, who was now clawing at her arms, her breathing growing more erratic. “You’re her protector.”

Onyx took a step closer, his massive form almost hunched as he implored, “Just do what I did for you. Comfort her. Talk to her. Please.”

The look in the wolf’s eyes - raw and earnest - coupled with the sound of Ashara’s choked sobs, broke through Astarion’s reluctance. He sighed heavily and knelt beside her, his movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal. Tentatively, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

The moment his touch registered she jerked, her head snapping up as her hand raised instinctively. Astarion flinched, bracing for a blow, but it never came. Instead, she hesitated, her hand falling limp as her forehead dropped to rest against her knees. Her fingers fisted in her hair, her breaths devolving into strained, painful wheezes.

Forgetting his usual theatrics, Astarion lowered himself fully to the ground beside Ashara. With a gentleness that surprised even him, he slid his arms around her quaking form and pulled her closer. She tensed at first, but as his hand moved softly through her hair and his voice murmured soothing words, her resistance began to wane.

“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice low and steady. “Just follow me. In… and out.” He pressed his chest against her back, allowing her to feel the rhythm of his slow, deliberate breaths. Bit by bit, the frantic wheezing began to ease. Her breathing slowed, the sharp gasps replaced by deep, shuddering inhales.

Her hands, which had been clutching at herself, moved to curl around him. Her arms wrapped tightly against his back, her grip almost desperate. Astarion returned the embrace just as firmly, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head.

As the tension in Ashara’s frame softened, Astarion sighed. “You’re exhausting, you know,” he grumbled, not unkindly. “But I suppose you’re worth the trouble.”

He glanced up, his crimson eyes meeting Onyx’s golden gaze. The wolf was watching them intently, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked between Ashara and Astarion, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them - a fragile understanding born of shared concern.

Onyx lingered a moment longer, his head lowering as if weighed down by the gravity of the situation. Then, with a soft murmur, he said, “I will go and try to speak to Fenrir.”

Astarion nodded silently, his sharp gaze following the wolf as he padded up the hill, each step deliberate and heavy. He didn’t say anything, but the sight of Onyx retreating into the thickening gloom stirred a mixture of curiosity and unease within him.

Ashara stirred in his arms, her body softening against him as her grip loosened slightly. Her breath escaped in a weary sigh, brushing against his collarbone. “I’ve spent nearly all my life wondering who my real parents are,” she began, her voice quiet and raw. “I tried to imagine all sorts of explanations as to why I was abandoned. It never occurred to me that I simply wasn’t wanted.”

Astarion felt his chest tighten at the bitterness in her words. He hesitated, wracking his mind for something - anything - to say. Two centuries of existence should have prepared him for moments like this, yet he felt completely out of his depth. Come on, Astarion. You’ve navigated two hundred years worth of egos and emotions; surely you can manage this.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he said at last, his voice measured, though his own uncertainty made him choose his words carefully. “When Onyx… had a chat with me—”

Ashara cut him off sharply, her tone cold. “You mean when he threatened you.”

“Yes,” Astarion replied with a wry smile. “That too. But afterward, he told me there are beings out there who want your power for themselves. Maybe it was for your own protection?”

She tilted her head back slightly, enough for him to see the flicker of disbelief in her eyes. “Fenrir left me in the middle of nowhere as a helpless newborn for my protection?” Her voice dripped with scorn, each word sharp and cutting. “Brilliant reasoning. Why didn’t he do one better and put me on an ogre’s dinner table with an apple in my mouth?”

Astarion couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him, though he quickly tried to stifle it. “I think you’ve been spending too much time in my company, darling. You’re starting to sound like me.”

Ashara blinked, momentarily startled, before a breathy laugh broke through her frustration. She tilted her head to look up at him, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “I like how you talk. I may not always pick up on the sarcasm, but it’s fun trying to.”

Astarion raised an elegant brow, his tone dry as he replied, “In that case, I’m no doubt sure to provide you with endless entertainment.”

Her smile softened, and she let her head rest once more on his shoulder. Another sigh escaped her, this one laden with weariness rather than anger. “I don’t understand why Onyx kept this a secret from me,” she murmured. “He knew how much I wanted to find my real parents after… after Brenen died.”

Her voice caught on the last word, and Astarion felt her body tense against his. Guessing that she was speaking of her adoptive father, he acted quickly, his hand threading into her hair. He began to gently massage her scalp and the nape of her neck in soothing, rhythmic motions.

The tension in her shoulders began to melt, and she let out a soft, almost involuntary hum of pleasure. Her breaths evened out, the emotions that had been building subsiding.

“That’s making my head feel all tingly,” she admitted quietly, her voice almost shy. “It’s nice. I like it.”

Astarion’s lips quirked into a teasing smirk. “Hmm… I can tell. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it right now.”

Ashara laughed softly, the sound lightening the oppressive air around them. She shifted in his arms, her body relaxing fully against his, stirring something unexpected in him - a rare sense of satisfaction.

Then an idea struck him. He pulled back slightly to look at her, his expression thoughtful. “You're a sort of Ranger aren't you? Do you have a spell in your particular brand of magic that’s similar to Pass Without Trace?”

Ashara tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her gaze. “Yes,” she said. “I call it Hunter’s Grace. Why?”

Astarion’s smirk deepened, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “If you want answers, then let’s get them. Onyx has gone to speak with Fenrir again. I say we ought to follow him and listen in on that conversation. Don’t you?”

Her body stiffened slightly, and she sat up straight, determination lighting up her features. “I do,” she said firmly. “Let’s go.”

Astarion rose smoothly to his feet and extended a hand to help her up. She took it without hesitation, her grip firm. Together, they moved quietly back up the hill, the twisted landscape around them cloaked in an unnatural stillness. The only sounds were their muted footsteps and the distant rustle of the wind, carrying with it the faintest whispers of shadowy secrets.

—◇—

The air around the cluster of stones felt colder than before, as if the frost from Fenrir’s last summoning had lingered to mark his presence. Onyx sat before the carved runes, his massive paws resting heavily on the frozen ground. He watched patiently as the jagged symbols began to glow faintly, crackling with life as Fenrir’s visage materialized once more, his glowing eyes pulsing with agitation. Onyx could sense the tension radiating from him before he even spoke.

“Is she gone?” Fenrir barked, his voice strained.

Onyx inclined his head slightly, his tone calm and measured. “We are alone, my Lord.”

"Good." The wolf god let out a visible sigh of relief before his voice rose again. “Hells, Onyx, it's barely been two decades! How did she find out this time?”

“The same way she usually does,” Onyx said, his tone tinged with resignation. “Someone pointed out her resemblance to you.”

Fenrir’s expression twisted in frustration, his teeth glinting as he growled, “Dammit! I told you to get rid of the vampire!”

Onyx’s ears twitched, and he resisted the urge to sigh. “You said he could stay…”

Fenrir's agitation faltered for a moment. “Oh… did I?” He paused, his eyes flickering as if trying to recall. “Damn... so I did.”

The shift in Fenrir’s demeanor sent a ripple of unease through Onyx. He had never been comfortable seeing his creator like this - subdued, unsure, and all too mortal. “Are you alright?” Onyx asked, his voice softening despite himself.

Fenrir’s gaze dropped, his presence seeming smaller in his resignation. “Yes,” he said after a pause, though the word carried no conviction. “It’s just… it never gets any easier does it. You’d think after all this time I’d be more prepared for this moment. But every time I see the accusation in her eyes… I choke.”

Onyx tilted his head slightly, his keen ears catching the faintest rustle of movement somewhere behind him. His muscles tensed, and he subtly shifted his weight, his senses sharpening. Someone was watching. He didn’t need to turn around to guess who it was.

Focusing back on Fenrir, he kept his voice calm. “Perhaps you should at least try to talk to her,” he said carefully. “I think given time, she will understand.”

A heavy silence followed, the kind that settled deep into the bones. Fenrir’s glowing eyes dimmed slightly as he finally replied, his tone hollow and resigned. “I can’t do this, Onyx. I can’t be what she needs me to be - that’s why I created you, for pity’s sake.”

Onyx’s chest tightened at the words, but he didn’t let it show. He steadied himself, his voice quieter now. “You may have poured all your love for Ashara into me, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still care for her. Please, Fenrir. Reach out to her. Show her who you are.”

Fenrir let out a long, ragged sigh, his form flickering faintly in the smoke. “Who I am,” he said bitterly, “is a shattered relic of a forgotten age. I can never leave this prison, and Mephistopheles has all but completely drained what’s left of my power. What kind of relationship do I have to offer, that you haven’t already given her?”

Onyx’s tail lowered, the words striking him harder than he cared to admit. He had suspected for some time that Fenrir was losing his will to fight, that the centuries spent caged and tormented by his own demons had eroded the once-mighty god’s spirit. But hearing it confirmed stung in a way that felt personal, as if some vital thread between them had frayed.

Fenrir broke the silence, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. “Now she’s aware of the truth, it will only be a matter of time before the rest of her powers awaken. The Golden Heretic will come for her again.”

Onyx’s muscles tensed, his claws instinctively flexing against the frozen ground. “I will be ready,” he vowed. His voice held firm conviction, a promise he would not break. “In the meantime, what do you want me to tell Ashara about you?”

Fenrir’s expression grew distant, his head bowing slightly. “What does it matter…” he muttered. “She’ll forget all this ever happened if she winds up fighting Bâlorak again.”

Onyx’s jaw tightened. He hated that Fenrir spoke of Ashara as though she were a pawn in some cosmic game, doomed to lose herself. “There is always a chance,” he said slowly, “that she will be strong enough to maintain control of her powers this time.”

Fenrir’s eyes flicked toward him, faintly glimmering with something that might have been hope - or a cruel echo of it. “If she does,” he said, his voice barely above a growl, “then perhaps I will do as you suggest. Perhaps I will try to connect with her.” He hesitated, the weight of the admission almost visible. “Until then… let me continue to simply be the cold, distant presence I’ve always been.”

Onyx lowered his head, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. “I think you are making a mistake,” he said quietly. “But I will abide by your decision.”

Fenrir said nothing, his image flickering slightly in the smoke. Onyx waited, his breath visible in the icy air, but the great wolf did not speak again. Slowly, his visage began to fade, the cold mist receding back into the stone.

As the eerie silence of the valley settled once more, Onyx turned his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing as he addressed the unseen presence he knew had been listening.

“You can come out now,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

Astarion stepped out from behind the jagged rock, his posture straight and deliberate. Ashara followed closely, her movements less composed, her shoulders tight and her gaze fixed on Onyx. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes shimmered with a blend of sadness and reproach.

Onyx’s sharp gaze drifted briefly to Astarion’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. A faint bristle ran through his fur, but he suppressed the reaction with an inward sigh. After all, he had encouraged Astarion to stay close to her, to be a source of comfort. It wasn’t fair to begrudge the vampire for doing exactly what was asked of him.

Astarion’s voice, usually laced with flippant charm, emerged quieter this time, almost cold. The seriousness in his tone was jarring, a rare moment where he seemed to truly grasp the gravity of the situation. “I think you owe Ashara an explanation,” he said, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “A full one.”

Onyx met Astarion’s gaze evenly, then exhaled a long breath. “Leave us, please. I need a moment alone with Ashara.”

Astarion’s lips twitched downward in disappointment, but he began to turn away - until Ashara stiffened beside him. “No,” she said firmly, her voice quivering with an undertone of defiance. “If something is coming for me, then Astarion could be in danger too. He has a right to know the risks. I don’t want to keep secrets from him anymore.”

Onyx’s gaze shifted to Astarion, catching the brief flash of guilt that crossed the vampire’s face. A sharp pang of irritation flared in his chest. He knew very well that Astarion was hiding plenty of secrets from Ashara. Yet, he noted with reluctant approval, at least the vampire had the decency to feel bad about it. Onyx allowed himself a brief huff of acknowledgment.

“Very well,” Onyx said after a beat, his voice softening.

Lowering himself onto the grass, Onyx settled into a relaxed yet attentive position, his tail curling loosely around his body. He waited expectantly as Ashara hesitated, then relented with a small sigh and sank down opposite him. Astarion lingered for a moment, his expression unreadable, before lowering himself beside her.

The moment he did, Ashara slipped her arm through his, leaning slightly into his shoulder. Onyx raised an eyebrow at the gesture, but chose to hold his tongue. Astarion shot him an almost wary look, but when Onyx made no comment, he relaxed. Onyx couldn’t help but feel intrigued at how close a bond the two had evidently formed.

“Many thousands of years ago—” Onyx began, his voice steady.

Ashara cut him off almost immediately, her voice sharp with impatience. “What did Fenrir mean when he said he created you for me?”

Onyx’s tail flicked in irritation, brushing against the grass. “I was just about to explain that,” he growled. “Let me finish.”

Ashara ducked her head slightly. “Sorry.”

Before Onyx could continue, Astarion interjected, his tone laced with curiosity. “How old is Ashara, really?”

Onyx opened his mouth to respond, but Ashara leaned forward slightly, her brows furrowed. “Actually, that’s a good question. If you’re over eight hundred years old, then how could you have been created for me?”

“Couldn’t it be that you’re over eight hundred years old yourself?” Astarion suggested, his tone light with amusement. “Fenrir did mention something about you forgetting things.”

Ashara turned her gaze toward him, her expression a mixture of unease and sudden intrigue. “Would that make me older than you?” she asked. “I just realised, I never actually asked how old you are.”

Astarion smirked, tilting his head slightly as if to appraise her. “By about six hundred years, yes,” he replied with a touch of smugness. “Though evidently, you didn’t acquire the wisdom that’s supposed to come with age.”

Onyx’s head snapped back and forth between the two of them, his patience wearing thin as they batted their questions and comments back and forth. Their conversation, though tinged with humor, grated against the seriousness of the moment. His ears pinned back, and a low growl rumbled from his chest. “Do you want to hear this story or not?”

The sharpness in his voice had the intended effect. Both Ashara and Astarion froze mid-retort, their expressions morphing into something resembling sheepishness. They looked at him with wide, chastised eyes, like children caught misbehaving.

Satisfied with the silence, Onyx let out a slow breath. “Good,” he muttered. “Now, as I was saying—many thousands of years ago…”

Ashara cut him off again, her voice rising in disbelief. “Am I really that old?”

“Oh, for Selûne’s sake!”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"When I said - 'I'm with you, wherever this leads' - I had rather hoped it wouldn't be to certain death at the hands of an insane druid!"

Ashara winced at Astarion's tone, the sharp edge of his sarcasm slicing through her focus. She bit back a retort, forcing herself to concentrate on the woman before them - the half-elven druid, Jaheira.

Draped in green velvet and leather, the figure exuded an air of authority that crackled in the tense silence. Grey-threaded hair, intricately braided, framed a sharp, angular face weathered by many a battle. The faint scent of earth and crushed herbs clung to her, and the air around her shimmered faintly with latent magic, coiled and ready to strike.

Her eyes, a piercing shade of emerald, seemed to dissect Ashara and her companion with the precision of a blade. Each measured glance was a judgment passed, a verdict unspoken but no less damning.

The journey to this moment had been fraught. They'd trailed behind Vaarl, who had led them to the grim scene where Halsin and the others had last been sighted. There, amidst the twisted rubble and overgrown buildings, Onyx had identified the mangled remains of several Harpers.

Despite the urge to charge recklessly after Durge and their captured allies, Onyx had persuaded them to follow the Harpers' trail back to its origin. They'd agreed, albeit reluctantly, their resolve tempered by the need to find a secure haven for Mirkon and Vaarl.

That trail had led them to this place: an inn encased in a shimmering dome of silvery moonlight, its ethereal glow casting long, undulating shadows across the surrounding landscape. Last Light, the weathered sign outside its gates read. Yet the name did little to dispel the foreboding that churned in Ashara's gut.

Onyx had lingered at the treeline with Mirkon and Vaarl, his imposing frame blending into the gloom. His caution was wise - the presence of a creature like him might provoke panic among the already wary Harpers.

At the gates, the reception had been chilly. Suspicion hung in the air, thick as smoke, as the guards' eyes flitted between Ashara and Astarion. But it wasn't until Jaheira arrived that the atmosphere turned glacial. The woman's gait was deliberate, her every step resonating with quiet authority. As she halted before them, her eyes had swept over each of them in turn, her silence more oppressive than any shouted accusation.

Without a word, she'd conjured vines from the earth with a flick of her hand, the movement was almost graceful - if not for the force with which the plants coiled around Ashara and Astarion, pinning them in place. The vines bit into Ashara's arms, their strength a reminder of nature's dominance. A sharp intake of breath escaped her as she struggled to stay composed.

Astarion hissed in protest, his struggles only tightening the verdant bonds that ensnared him. Jaheira's hand moved with practiced ease as she produced a small bottle. The liquid inside glimmered faintly, its sinister occupant floating peacefully. An Illithid tadpole.

Ashara's heart thudded painfully in her chest as the bottle was brought closer and the the tadpole inside began to writhe, its grotesque form pressing against the glass as if drawn to the proximity of its kin.

Ashara didn't miss the subtle tightening of Jaheira's jaw when the tadpole's thrashing intensified, its body contorting violently as it neared Astarion. The druid's eyes shifted to to him, her expression hardening into something even colder than before.

"You should never have come here, True Soul," Jaheira said, her voice as steady as the roots beneath their feet. It carried the weight of a decision already made, a judgment passed before either Ashara or Astarion could defend themselves.

Around them, the guards and Harpers moved in unison, crossbows glinting as they leveled them at the pair. Ashara could feel the heat of the stares, suspicion and readiness to strike at a single command. The silver moonlit bubble of Last Light, meant to be a sanctuary, now felt like a cage with sharpened bars.

Astarion's voice cut through the mounting tension, sharp and defiant. "I am not a True Soul!" he snarled, his struggles renewing with desperate fervor. The vines creaked in protest but held firm, their grip unyielding.

"Hold!" Ashara interjected, her voice firm, though her pulse thudded painfully in her throat. She turned her head to Jaheira, the vines restricting even the smallest of movements. "We can explain everything. We're not with the cult." Her eyes searched Jaheira's face for a crack in her hardened exterior, some glimmer of reason she could grasp onto.

Jaheira's gaze snapped to her, those emerald eyes narrowing. For a moment, the world seemed to hang in balance, the silence stretching taut as a drawn bowstring. Ashara could feel the weight of every weapon, every glare, pressing down on her. Her own breathing sounded deafening in the stillness.

"I'm not interested in the Absolute's manipulations," Jaheira said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The tadpole does not lie."

Ashara clenched her jaw. "And neither do we," she said, a spark of defiance threading her words. "We've been fighting the Absolute. That thing - " she nodded toward the writhing tadpole in Jaheira's hand, " - is exactly why we're here."

"You expect me to believe that?" Jaheira's voice was a razor, slicing through the fragile thread of hope. "Two strangers appear, reeking of the Absolute, and yet claim innocence?" She scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. Around them, the guards shifted uneasily, their knuckles white against the hilts of their weapons.

Astarion tensed, baring his teeth briefly in open challenge. "Oh, forgive me," he drawled, his voice laced with venom. "Perhaps next time I'll introduce myself with a bouquet and a bottle of wine. Would that prove my virtue?"

Jaheira's expression didn't waver. Instead, she stepped forward, her movements deliberate, every step radiating the kind of confidence that came from years of unchallenged authority. Her gaze locked onto Astarion, a look of sinister intrigue in her eyes.

Her hand rose, and with a flick of her fingers, a tendril of vine coiled upward like a serpent called to its master. It slithered along the side of Astarion's face, its rough texture scraping against his pale skin. His head jerked to the side, muscles straining against the magical binds as the tendril forced itself between his lips. He gagged, his muffled growl of protest vibrating in his throat, as the vine pried his mouth open, exposing his fangs to the flickering moonlight that seeped through the barrier above.

Ashara's fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. The sight of him being degraded this way sent a spike of fury coursing through her veins.

Jaheira's grim smile cut through the tension like a jagged knife. She retracted the vine with a casual flick of her wrist, the tendril curling away like a snake retreating to its den. "In your case," she said, her tone icy and sharp, "not even a field of flowers and a barrel of wine would prove your virtue - vampire."

The word landed like a thunderclap, and the shift was immediate. The Harpers surrounding them tensed, their weapons angling sharply toward Astarion. The metallic hiss of drawn blades filled the air, and the tension became a suffocating weight.

Ashara felt her stomach twist into knots, a sinking dread pooling deep within her. She knew what was coming, and the thought of it sent a shiver racing down her spine. Astarion's defiance was as fiery as ever, his eyes blazing with fury, but Ashara saw the way his hands clenched, the faint tremor in his arms betraying the stark reality of their situation.

"He's not a threat!" Ashara burst out, her voice slicing through the tension. She strained forward as much as the vines allowed, her gaze darting from Jaheira to the armed Harpers and back again. The sharp tang of desperation edged her words. "Please, you have to believe us. We've risked everything to get here. If you kill us now, you'll never know the truth about what's happening beyond this barrier. We're not your enemies."

Her words hung in the air, but the tension didn't lessen. Jaheira's cold gaze didn't even flicker in her direction, her attention locked on Astarion like a hawk watching its prey.

Ashara's fingers closed around one of the vines binding her wrist. The texture was rough and pulsing faintly with the druid's magic, like veins carrying her will through the earth. She focused on it, her mind reaching out instinctively, connecting with the natural energy coursing through the plant. It was faint at first, like grasping at a whisper carried by the wind, but as she focused, she felt it - her magic resonating with Jaheira's. She wasn't powerless.

Jaheira took a step closer to Astarion, her movements slow and deliberate, her voice as sharp as flint. "It'll hurt less if you hold still."

The pit in Ashara's stomach deepened, her fingers tightening around the vine. The world seemed to narrow, everything beyond the immediate moment fading into a blur. She couldn't let this happen.

Drawing in a deep breath, Ashara let her magic surge through her, a tidal wave of energy flowing from her core into the vines. The connection burned hot, crackling like lightning as she willed the spell to falter. The vines trembled, then collapsed in a shuddering heap, freeing her and Astarion from their binds.

Jaheira staggered back, her expression flickering between shock and fury as Ashara and Astarion burst free. "What—" she started, but instead turned and called out, "Harpers! Cut down this True Soul now!"

The air shifted, the tension snapping like the dozen taut bowstrings suddenly released, as a dozen weapons fired in unison. Ashara's instincts took over before her mind could catch up. "Astarion!" she screamed, her voice raw with fear.

Astarion dove to the ground, his lithe form rolling to avoid the onslaught of arrows and bolts as Ashara lunged forward, her body moving with primal urgency.

The shift into her wolf form was swift - barely more than a blink of an eye - but excruciatingly brutal, her bones snapping and reshaping, her muscles stretching and pulling as she fell forward onto all fours over Astarion, her now-massive body blocking the storm of projectiles as they struck her side with a sickening thud. She clenched her jaws, the force of the impacts sending a shudder through her frame, but she held her ground, shielding Astarion completely.

Blood seeped from the wounds, hot and sticky against her fur, but she barely noticed. Her focus narrowed, her world reduced to a single thought that burned brighter than the agony consuming her: Protect him.

Astarion barely had time to gasp before the barrage came. The twang of bowstrings and the metallic hiss of bolts ripping through the air sent a cold spike of terror straight to his core. Instinct kicked in before thought could catch up, and he flung himself to the side, rolling across the uneven ground. He clutched his head, bracing for the inevitable bite of steel piercing flesh.

But the pain never came.

Instead, there was a deafening silence, broken only by the thud of projectiles meeting something solid - and Jaheira's stunned murmur: "Oakfather preserve us."

Astarion's breath hitched as he slowly uncovered his head, his senses prickling with the weight of something massive looming above him. The first thing he noticed was the sound - ragged, labored breathing, wet with pain. He turned his head cautiously, his sharp eyes locking onto a hulking shadow that eclipsed the dim light. His throat went dry.

Towering over him, crouched low and bristling with barely restrained ferocity, was a giant black wolf. Arrows and bolts jutted grotesquely from its side, blood streaming down its sleek fur in dark rivulets. The sharp tang of copper filled the air. The beast trembled, its skeletal maw clenched tight, but it wasn't fear that made it quiver - no, this was a battle, a familiar, desperate, tooth-gritting war against the instinct clawing at its mind.

Astarion hesitated, his hand hovering before he reached out and placed trembling fingers on the creatures foreleg. The fur beneath his touch was impossibly soft, a stark contrast to the hardened muscles rippling beneath its skin. "Ashara?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile moment.

The wolf's massive head snapped toward him, icy blue eyes glowing with an unnatural, ethereal light. For a heartbeat, he froze under her gaze, unsure if she recognized him or if she might turn on him. But then her ears pricked up, and she leaned down, nudging his cheek gently with the cold tip of her nose. His breath caught again, this time in awe.

For a fleeting second, wonder danced across his face, softening the sharp lines of his usual guarded expression. Slowly, he lifted a hand to touch the bony edges of her snout, marveling at how something so fierce could be so gentle. But the fragile stillness was shattered in the next instant as another volley of arrows buried themselves in her already battered side.

Ashara stumbled, a pained snarl ripping from her throat. Astarion's stomach twisted violently, his hands clenching into fists. "Stop! Stop, you fools!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.

"Wait! Hold your fire!" Jaheira's voice rang out, commanding, but too late to stop the damage already done.

Ashara swayed on her feet, her massive frame trembling. Her ears pinned back, and the glow in her eyes intensified, flaring like twin winter suns. The edges of her fur shimmered, faint tendrils of silver frost curling outward and turning the air frigid. The ground beneath her paws crackled as ice began to spread outward, an unrestrained manifestation of her fury.

A low, guttural growl rumbled in her chest, and Astarion knew what was coming before it happened. She turned, her gaze locking onto the Harpers, and let out a thunderous roar that vibrated through the ground. The sound was primal, filled with an unrelenting rage that sent even the most stalwart guards recoiling. With a leap, she launched herself at them, her fangs bared, muscles coiled for the kill.

A wall of vines erupted from the earth, a desperate defense conjured by Jaheira's magic. But it wasn't enough. Astarion watched, transfixed as Ashara tore through the barrier as though it were made of dry leaves. Splinters of greenery flew through the air, her massive jaws ripping the vines apart with terrifying ease. The Harpers scattered, terror etched into their faces.

Astarion scrambled to his feet, his hand instinctively flying to his sword. The polished steel gleamed in the moonlight, but his grip felt unsteady. What was he supposed to do? Protect himself? Protect the Harpers? Protect her? His mind was a chaotic mess, his instincts at war with reason. All he knew was that he couldn't stand idle.

Ashara advanced on Jaheira, who was backing away, her confident demeanor cracked under the weight of the wolf's wrath. The druid's hand flickered with magic, vines writhing at her feet, but even she seemed unsure if she could stop what was coming. Ashara's massive body tensed, her claws digging into the earth as she prepared to pounce.

Just as she lunged, a grey blur streaked through the air, colliding with her shoulder. The impact sent her sprawling to the side, her massive paws skidding against the earth. She snapped her jaws with a vicious growl, turning her blazing eyes toward the intruder.

Onyx stood before her, his head barely reaching her shoulders. His stance was firm, his golden eyes blazing with determination as he blocked her path to Jaheira. "Ashara!" he barked, his voice sharp and urgent. "Stop!"

The tension in the air was electric, and Astarion froze, caught between relief and dread. Ashara's breath came in harsh, ragged pants, her icy fur bristling as she glared at Onyx. For a terrifying moment, Astarion thought she might attack him too.

Then, the frost that had shimmered along Ashara's fur began to dissipate slowly, its icy glint fading into the damp night air. The light in her eyes, cold and otherworldly, dimmed with each passing second, leaving her gaze unfocused and glassy. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, every exhale dragging the tension from her trembling muscles.

The transformation began slowly - ripples cascading through her massive form like waves breaking over jagged rocks. Black smoke unfurled from her fur, thick and swirling like an ominous fog, wrapping around her as her wolfish bulk started to shrink, accompanied by the sound of multiple arrows falling to the ground.

"A cloak. Quickly." Onyx's voice cut through the haze like a whip, sharp and commanding.

The urgency in his tone snapped Astarion into motion. His hands moved swiftly, unfastening his cloak and shrugging it off without a second thought. He stepped closer to the shifting cloud of energy, his movements deliberate but cautious.

The air around Ashara shimmered faintly with residual magic, and his instincts screamed at him to keep his distance. But when her pale shoulders began to emerge from the dissipating smoke, vulnerable and bare, hesitation melted away. He draped the cloak over her form in a single fluid motion, wrapping it tightly around her hunched figure and fastening it before retreating a step.

The smoke evaporated fully, leaving Ashara kneeling in the dirt. Her shoulders trembled under the weight of the cloak, her fingers clutching its edges with a desperation that spoke volumes. Her dark hair clung to her skin, obscuring her face, but her body language betrayed her. She was shaking - not just from fear, but from the strain of what she'd endured.

When she slowly rose to her feet, the cloak pulled tightly around her, she moved closer to Astarion without a word. Her head stayed low, her gaze fixed firmly on the dirt, avoiding the stares of the Harpers that lingered on her with equal parts fear and awe.

She hovered just behind him like a shadow seeking refuge, close enough for him to feel her presence, but keeping herself partially hidden. He adjusted his stance instinctively, his body forming a wall between her and the Harpers. His eyes narrowed as he glared at them, his posture radiating fury.

Jaheira stepped forward, her composure returning with a practiced grace, though her sharp eyes betrayed the tempest brewing beneath. She glared at Onyx, her voice biting. "You have a lot of explaining to do, old friend."

Astarion's gaze snapped to Onyx, his brows furrowing in disbelief. "Friend?!" he said, his voice laced with derision. "You know this witch, Onyx?"

Onyx's golden eyes shifted toward Jaheira. He stepped forward with slow, deliberate movements, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect. "Please forgive the actions of my companions," he said, his deep voice steady and calm. "I can assure you, they mean you and your Harpers no harm."

Jaheira's lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp features etched with skepticism. Her gaze flicked to Astarion, narrowing as she studied him. "So you say, yet this one carries an Illithid tadpole in his head." Her tone was laced with contempt as she nodded toward him. "What's more, he is a vampire. Since when did you consort with such creatures, Onyx?"

Astarion's lips curled into a subtle sneer, but he said nothing, his eyes locked onto Jaheira with simmering hatred. The tension between them was palpable, a battle of wills fought in silence.

Onyx straightened his posture, his presence calm but commanding. "Since my charge, Ashara, invited one into our pack," he replied firmly, glancing back toward Astarion. "I will vouch for him, Jaheira. He is not part of the Absolute cult."

Jaheira crossed her arms, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her elbow as she studied Astarion anew, as though trying to peel back the layers of his being to expose some hidden truth. "A True Soul with a mind of his own," she said, her voice edged with skepticism. "How is that possible?"

Onyx took a step forward, his gaze steady on hers. "I am suppressing the commands of the force that seeks to use him as a pawn, in whatever game is being played in this cursed place," he explained.

Jaheira's hard gaze shifted past Onyx, her eyes lingering on the trembling figure wrapped in Astarion's cloak, partially obscured behind him. "And what of her?" she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion. "What exactly did you bring into my camp, Onyx?"

Onyx's tone was measured but resolute, a calm counter to Jaheira's sharpness. "Allies."

Astarion's sharp tongue lashed out before he could think twice. "Which you dearly need by the looks of this sorry shithole," he quipped scornfully, his gaze sweeping over the ramshackle courtyard of the inn.

The flicker of torchlight lent the area a ghostly glow, casting elongated shadows across the uneven ground and the weathered walls of the surrounding buildings. The inn at the far end loomed like a weary sentinel, its tiled roof and sturdy stonework speaking of years spent enduring both the elements and whatever horrors prowled beyond the safety of the gates.

A well sat at the center of the square, its once-pristine stone rim cracked and moss-covered. Nearby, makeshift wooden barricades bristled with sharpened stakes, hastily assembled as though the fortifications were an afterthought - or a desperate response to an encroaching threat. Scattered crates and wagons leaned at odd angles, their contents spilling out haphazardly as though abandoned mid-task.

Jaheira's head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing to daggers. "Well, this 'shit hole,' as you so eloquently put it, is the only thing standing between us and what lurks out there in the darkness." Her voice was calm, but her words struck like hammer blows. "If you find the accommodations distasteful, then by all means, turn around and walk back out into the shadows. I'm sure they will be more to your liking."

Her words, delivered with icy precision, made Astarion's lips curl into a smirk, though his fingers twitched by his side. He opened his mouth, ready to shoot back with a sharp retort, when Onyx interjected smoothly. "We would, but there are young ones with us who need your protection, Jaheira."

Jaheira's stance shifted slightly, the tension in her shoulders loosening. She let out a slow sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please tell me you didn't find more strays, Onyx."

The corner of Onyx's mouth curled into a mischievous canine grin. "I know how much you love collecting them."

Before Jaheira could reply, he turned toward the gates and released three short howls that echoed into the night. The Harpers around them stiffened, their hands instinctively going to their weapons, but Astarion noted the subtle, knowing look Jaheira shot Onyx.

Moments later, Vaarl and Mirkon emerged from the shadows, their Frostfire torches casting flickering halos of light around them. The boy clung to Vaarl's arm, his wide, nervous eyes darting to every unfamiliar face in the crowd.

As they neared the group, Astarion's gaze flicked to Ashara. She had raised her head slightly, her eyes locking on the boy. But as Mirkon's eyes landed on her, he flinched visibly, shrinking further behind Vaarl. The movement was small but devastating, and Astarion didn't miss the way Ashara's face fell, sorrow darkening her expression. She clutched the edges of the cloak tighter around herself, her trembling fingers curling into the fabric as if to shield herself from the silent judgment.

Onyx began introducing Vaarl and Mirkon to Jaheira, explaining their plight and the dangers they'd faced, but Astarion paid little attention. His focus remained on Ashara. She barely seemed to hear what was being said, her lips moving as she whispered, almost inaudibly, "He must have seen me like that. And now he's afraid of me... they all are."

Before he could think it through, Astarion reached out, his arm sliding around her waist and pulling her closer. Her body stiffened at the contact, but she didn't pull away. Leaning toward her, he whispered, his voice low and steady, "I'm sure the boy will come around." Then, with a sharper edge, he added darkly, "As for the rest... let them be afraid. They don't deserve your mercy."

Ashara tilted her head up to look at him, her sapphire eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The sight made his chest tighten, a strange mixture of protectiveness and helplessness swelling inside him. When she spoke, her voice trembled, barely holding back the fear and anger simmering beneath the surface. "They could have killed you."

The raw emotion in her voice struck him like a blow. His breath caught, his carefully constructed walls wavering and he forced himself to ask the question that had been gnawing at him. "Why... why did you do that? Risk yourself like that for me?"

Ashara's brow furrowed, confusion replacing the sorrow in her gaze. "Why wouldn't I?" she replied as though the answer were obvious. "My wolf form is much stronger than you are, so I knew I'd probably be okay if I shifted."

"Probably?" Astarion repeated, his voice rising slightly. "You mean, you didn't know if you would survive that barrage or not?!"

She shrugged, the motion so nonchalant it made his jaw clench. "It was a simple choice between you dying or me maybe dying."

Her words knocked the air from his lungs. He stared at her, his crimson eyes wide, as if truly seeing her for the first time, searching her gaze for... what? Some sign she didn't mean it? Some indication that her reckless selflessness wasn't real? But there was nothing in her gaze but honesty, clear and uncompromising.

His throat tightened, and he felt the sting of tears welling in his eyes. Swallowing hard, he forced them down, unwilling to let them fall. This feeling - this overwhelming rush of gratitude, confusion, and something dangerously close to affection - was suffocating. The idea that someone would value his life so much that they'd risk their own, was almost incomprehensible.

Astarion tightened his hold on Ashara's waist, drawing her closer to his side as though her presence could anchor him in the whirlwind of emotions and revelations. Her warmth, even through the thick fabric of the cloak, grounded him.

The urge to sweep her into his arms, to kiss her and let every unspoken thought and feeling bleed out into that single, reckless act, burned hot and bright in his chest. But the weight of their surroundings, the eyes of the Harpers, and his own deeply-ingrained fear held him back. Instead, he leaned toward her, his voice a low murmur just for her. "You're incredible, you know that?"

Ashara's head snapped up, her sapphire eyes widening in surprise before she quickly looked away, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. The sight stirred something almost tender in him, and he smiled softly, a small, fleeting thing that disappeared as he turned his focus back to the conversation between Onyx and Jaheira. He guided Ashara forward with him, keeping her close as they moved nearer to catch their words more clearly.

Jaheira's voice, sharp and commanding, carried easily across the tense courtyard. She gestured to Astarion without sparing him a glance, her gaze fixed firmly on Onyx. "I've traced people like him, people with parasites in their brains, all the way here from Baldur's Gate. The cult of the Absolute is spreading through the city - quietly, quickly, and with unsettling deliberation. We tracked them to this ancient village only to face a man we killed and buried over a century ago."

Onyx narrowed his eyes and sat on his haunches. "Who was—" he paused, correcting himself, "who is he?"

Jaheira's eyes darkened, her voice lowering as if the name itself carried a dangerous weight. "General Ketheric Thorm. Remember that name. He's the leader of the Absolutists. He was a Sharran once - took to building an army of Dark Justiciars beneath this very village. Alongside the local druids, we made it our business to see him deposed - dead and buried."

Astarion couldn't resist the quip that sprang to his lips, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If he's back, are you sure you hit him hard enough in the first place?"

Jaheira's gaze snapped to him, her sharp features tightening further. "Come a little closer," she said, her tone razor-sharp, "and I will demonstrate how hard I hit."

Astarion bit back the retort hovering on his tongue, but his fist clenched tightly at his sides. Ashara glanced up at him, her brow creased with worry, and her hand brushed against his briefly - a quiet, reassuring gesture.

Jaheira continued, her tone grim. "Not only does General Ketheric Thorm live again, it seems he is no longer mortal. We met him on the road here - commanding an army of the Absolute, intent on destroying Baldur's Gate. I put an arrow through his eye myself, only to watch him pluck it out like a splinter."

Onyx exhaled sharply. "That is... concerning."

"To put it mildly," Jaheira shot back. "He healed right in front of me and chased us into the shadows. Things looked hopeless, but experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things look, there's always hope."

Her gaze shifted suddenly to Astarion, her head tilting as she regarded him with a new intensity. "You just might be that hope."

The words took him off guard, and he blinked, momentarily stunned. Then, as if on instinct, he let out a dry, wry snort. "It's rare people look at me and see 'hope.' Usually, I evoke a very different set of feelings entirely."

Jaheira's lips curled into a cold, humorless smile. "Oh, I'm certain of that. However, the light is rather dim out here in the Shadowlands. The point remains: If you truly are in control of your own mind, then you can infiltrate his forces at Moonrise Towers, posing as a True Soul."

She stepped closer, her gaze locking onto his like a blade piercing flesh. "Find out what it is that makes him invincible so we can strip him of his advantage. Once Ketheric is without his shield, then together we assault his tower and put a final end to this blight."

Astarion tilted his head slightly, his expression cool, though the tension in his body remained. "And what makes you think I'd want to help you?" he asked, his voice soft but cutting. "Especially after your... warm welcome?"

Jaheira's eyes narrowed, her sharp features hardening. "Forgive me," she said, her tone laced with icy disdain, "I mistook you for someone worthy of Onyx's trust. It seems the old dog is growing senile and does not use sound judgment anymore when selecting his allies."

Onyx's ears twitched slightly, and he let out a low, humorless huff as he stepped closer. "He's right, though," Onyx said, his golden gaze steady on Jaheira. "You've given him little reason to want to help the people who attacked him."

Jaheira bristled but exhaled sharply, her voice carrying a calculated calm. "If you won't do this for us, then do it for your own sake," she said sharply. "You need to heal yourself of your infection. Any cure starts with understanding the disease. Whatever magic Ketheric's using to control these tadpoles, it must be at Moonrise, and you are the only one who can get inside and walk around freely."

The weight of her words settled heavily on Astarion, sinking into the cracks of his defenses. He glanced at Ashara out of the corner of his eye, her quiet presence an anchor as his mind churned with possibilities. The thought of infiltrating the Absolute sent a spike of unease through him, but beneath that unease was something else - something he didn't want to admit aloud. The realisation that, perhaps, Jaheira was right.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm but laced with bitter sarcasm. "Well," he drawled, "this should be interesting. A vampire infiltrating an army of zealots. What could possibly go wrong?"

Jaheira's words struck like a whip. "A lot can go wrong," she said sharply, her tone as unyielding as stone. "And I do not relish the thought of everything depending on a vampire choosing to do the right thing. But the desperate cannot be picky. It seems I have no other choice but to trust you."

Astarion stiffened, her words slicing through him with surgical precision. Anger flared in his chest, hot and immediate, but it was quickly smothered by a heavier emotion - a sting of shame that burrowed deep. Her distrust was a knife twisting in a wound he couldn't seem to close.

He knew what he was, what people saw when they looked at him: a creature of shadows, a predator with no loyalty except to himself. Yet it still managed to hit the tender parts of him he tried so hard to bury. A familiar wave of self-loathing churned in his gut, pulling him under.

But then Ashara's hand found his, her fingers tightening around his in a gesture so simple, yet so full of meaning. He glanced at her, the heat of his anger cooling slightly under her gaze. She didn't say anything, but her presence spoke louder than words. She wasn't ashamed to stand by him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to pull him back into the moment.

Jaheira, oblivious to the moment between them, turned back to Onyx. "Before you go, there's somebody else you should meet," she said, her tone brisk, all business. "Isobel - a faithful cleric of Selûne and a light in the darkness. She cast the moon shield around the inn. It's the only reason we're still alive. She's upstairs in her chambers. Tell her I sent you, and she'll see you through the shadows safely."

Astarion tilted his head slightly, his sharp hearing catching a faint, muffled sound above them. It was faint, a cry carried on the wind, but it was enough to set him on edge. His crimson eyes narrowed, and he looked up, his instincts immediately sharpening. "This cleric," he said, his tone even but tinged with suspicion. "She wouldn't happen to be a half-elven woman with short white hair, would she?"

Jaheira's head snapped toward him, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Yes..." she said slowly, her voice laced with unease. "Why?"

Astarion's gaze shifted upward again, his lips curling into a grim line. He raised a hand and pointed toward the darkened sky. "Because I think I just saw her being carried away by some sort of winged creature."

The words had barely left his mouth when the inn's doors burst open, a frantic Harper rushing out, his face pale and his breathing ragged. "Jaheira!" he called, his voice trembling. "Lady Isobel has been kidnapped!"

As if to emphasize the gravity of his words, the moonlit barrier surrounding the inn flickered ominously. A low hum reverberated through the air, and cracks began to spiderweb across its surface, glowing faintly like fissures in glass. The light within the shield dimmed, the once-solid wall of protection beginning to fragment, piece by piece.

Jaheira's face went ashen, her composure slipping for the first time. "By the gods..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hand clenched into a fist at her side, and her sharp eyes darted toward the failing barrier. The protective light that had seemed so impenetrable now shuddered and groaned, its glow faltering like a dying ember.

Astarion felt Ashara tense beside him, her grip on his hand tightening. Her eyes lifted to the barrier, worry etched deep into her features. He could feel the energy shift around them, the growing panic of the Harpers as they realized the fragile sanctuary they had relied on was about to crumble.

Jaheira's jaw tightened, her mind clearly racing as she barked orders to the Harpers. "Fortify the gates. Prepare for an assault. The moment that barrier falls, we'll have every shadow-spawn in the area descending on us."

"No!" Onyx's growl cut through her orders like a blade. He stepped forward, his golden eyes locking onto Jaheira's. "Jaheira, get everyone inside the inn now."

She turned to him, hesitation flickering across her face. Her gaze darted to the barrier again, the cracks spreading faster, and her expression hardened. "Harpers, fall back to the inn!" she barked, making her decision. "Now!"

The Harpers didn't need to be told twice. The courtyard erupted into a flurry of movement as they abandoned their posts and fled toward the safety of the inn.

Astarion fell into step beside Onyx, Ashara stumbling slightly as she kept pace. The chill in the air was growing sharper, the oppressive darkness pressing closer with each flicker of the failing shield.

Astarion glanced at Onyx sidelong, his crimson eyes sharp and questioning. "What's the plan?" he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm to mask the genuine concern curling in his chest. "I'm assuming you have one?"

Onyx nodded grimly and came to an abrupt stop just outside the inn's doorway, turning to face Ashara. "You need to encircle the inn with a ring of Frostfire."

Ashara froze, her wide eyes locking onto Onyx in disbelief. "I've only just learned how to light a few torches... I can't do something like that!" she stammered.

Onyx's golden gaze softened but remained resolute. "Yes, you can," he said firmly. "You could surround an entire city if you wanted to. But for now, let's focus on one small building."

Astarion's mind reeled at the implication of Onyx's words. The sheer power Ashara might possess was staggering, but there was no time to dwell on it. He stepped in front of her, gripping her shoulders tightly, forcing her panicked gaze to meet his. "He's right," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil around them. "If you don't do this, everyone here will probably die. Mirkon, Vaarl... and me."

Her breathing quickened, and Astarion could see the fear in her eyes - fear of failure, fear of the responsibility suddenly thrust upon her. But then, slowly, her expression shifted. The trembling in her shoulders stilled, replaced by a quiet determination that settled over her like armor. She nodded once, squaring her shoulders, and Astarion stepped back, releasing her.

Ashara moved forward, positioning herself at the center of the inn's entrance. She raised her hands, palms outstretched, and spread them wide. A faint blue glow flickered at her fingertips, growing brighter with each passing second. She hunched forward slightly, her head bowed, and Astarion could see the effort etched into every tense line of her body. The air around her grew colder, crackling with energy that made the hair on Astarion's neck stand on end.

The ground before her shuddered, and with a sudden roar, a line of blue flames erupted from the earth. The fire crackled and hissed, the light it cast cold and otherworldly. Astarion's gaze followed the line of Frostfire as it expanded outward, snaking around the perimeter of the inn. The flames consumed everything in their path, moving with a sentient grace, and soon they were curling around the back of the building. Moments later, the tail end of the ring reappeared, completing the circle and rejoining the flames in front of Ashara. The Frostfire surged upward, a perfect barrier of glowing blue energy encircling the inn like a protective cocoon.

Ashara staggered, her arms dropping to her sides as the light at her fingertips flickered and died. Her knees buckled, and Astarion moved instinctively, catching her just as she collapsed backward. He pulled her close as the glow from the Frostfire lit her face, highlighting the exhaustion in her pale features and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she gazed up at him, her voice soft and dazed. "Did it work?"

Astarion glanced at the blazing wall of blue flames encircling them, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips. "Most definitely," he said, his tone light but tinged with relief. "I'd like to see any shadow monsters try getting through that in a hurry."

Ashara gave him a weak smile, her lips barely curving. "Good," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think I'd like to go to sleep now."

He chuckled softly and shifted her carefully in his arms, cradling her as though she were something fragile. "Sleep sounds like an excellent idea," he said, his voice quieter now, meant only for her. "You've earned it."

Astarion's sharp senses caught the faint rustle of movement beside him before he turned his head, finding Jaheira standing there, her eyes fixed on the shimmering wall of Frostfire. The light of the blue flames danced across her face, illuminating an expression of quiet awe that seemed out of place on someone as stern as her. Her gaze shifted briefly to Ashara, slumped in his arms, and then to Onyx, an unreadable look of intrigue settling over her features.

"I think it's time you and I had a little chat in private, old friend," Jaheira said, her voice quiet but firm, laced with meaning.

Onyx inclined his head "As you wish." He paused, his eyes flicking to Astarion and the barely conscious figure in his arms. "Is there somewhere Ashara can rest?"

Jaheira's eyes softened just slightly as she considered the question. "Take Isobel's room upstairs. Until we get her back, there's a vacancy."

Astarion didn't wait for further instructions. Adjusting his hold on Ashara, he picked her up and began walking toward the inn, her body cradled effortlessly against him. The gathered Harpers parted in silence as he passed, their expressions a mixture of reverence and caution. He avoided their eyes, his focus on the soft rise and fall of Ashara's chest as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Her exhaustion was palpable, her fingers curling weakly against his shirt as though even that small movement required monumental effort.

As he passed, a tiefling man stepped forward hesitantly, reaching out and tapping Astarion on the arm. Astarion froze, his body stiffening as his sharp gaze snapped to the man. The tiefling flinched under the intensity of his glare, his hand falling back to his side. Swallowing nervously, the tiefling's gaze darted to Ashara, then back to Astarion. "Thank you," he said, his voice trembling but earnest. "Both of you."

Astarion blinked, startled by the unexpected gratitude. Before he could respond, a ripple of murmured thanks spread through the crowd, the soft chorus of voices rising like a gentle tide. The rare and unfamiliar sensation of being appreciated left him momentarily unbalanced.

He pushed the awkwardness down quickly, a sly smirk curling his lips as he leaned into his usual persona. "Well," he said smoothly, his tone laced with dry humor, "if you really want to thank me, you could always offer me a drink. Something full-bodied and red."

The tiefling's face drained of color, and he stepped back quickly, his alarm as clear as a beacon. Astarion rolled his eyes, exasperation flickering through him. "That was a joke," he said, his voice droll. "Honestly, lighten up. Anyone would think it was the end of the world."

Without waiting for a response, he continued on, the murmurs fading behind him. When he reached the top of the staircase, he paused, glancing around. Uncertainty crept in - he didn't know where the cleric's room was. Before he could turn back, a woman's voice called out from downstairs, "Second room on the right."

Astarion smirked faintly, calling back over his shoulder, "Thank you, darling." He strode toward the double doors, pushing them open with his shoulder. The room beyond was simple but inviting, the moonlight filtering through sheer curtains and pooling on the dark wooden floor. The wide poster bed in the center of the room was draped in soft linens, an oasis of comfort after the chaos of the night.

He crossed to the bed and carefully lowered Ashara onto the mattress, taking care to ensure the cloak remained wrapped around her. She stirred faintly, her head shifting against the pillow as her eyes fluttered open. "Can you stay with me a while?" she murmured, her voice barely audible, tinged with exhaustion.

Astarion hesitated, his crimson eyes searching hers. Finally, he nodded, his voice softer than usual. "Of course, my dear."

He slipped onto the bed beside her, and settled on his back. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close but keeping his touch light, conscious of the fact that she was still naked beneath the cloak. Her head rested on his chest, her soft breaths warm against his skin. The tension in her body melted away as she relaxed into him, her frame fitting perfectly against his.

Astarion let out a quiet sigh, the stress of the past few hours beginning to ebb as he focused on the steady rhythm of her breathing, each exhale brushing softly against his shirt. He let his gaze drift across the room, taking in the soft glow of the lanternlight, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air, and the distant hum of the Frostfire still burning outside.

Impulsively, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smelled faintly of the frost magic she'd conjured, crisp and clean like a winter morning. "Sweet dreams, my darling," he murmured, his voice so quiet it barely disturbed the stillness of the room.

She didn't respond, already lost to the pull of sleep, but the soft smile that ghosted across her lips was enough. Astarion closed his eyes, his arms tightening protectively around her as though daring the world to take this moment from him. As far as he was concerned, everything beyond this room could go to hell until she woke.

Chapter Text

Onyx stood in the warmly lit side room of the Inn, the low hum of muffled voices from the main hall providing a soft backdrop to the charged silence. The faint scent of old wood and candle wax mingled with the sharper tang of parchment, maps, and ink that littered the desk between him and Jaheira.

Across from him, she crossed her arms with a deliberate air of impatience, her sharp gaze drilling into him. A faint frown curved her lips, just enough to suggest annoyance without fully tipping into anger.

"Okay, grizzletooth," she said, her voice low but cutting, as though to ensure every word hit its mark. "Speak. What the hells was that out there?" She punctuated the question with a pointed finger, its warning intent as clear as her tone. "And don't think I don't know Fenrir's damned magic when I see it."

Onyx exhaled slowly through his nose and sank down onto his haunches. Dealing with Jaheira always required a deep well of patience - a resource he sometimes feared was not as infinite as it once had been. His tone, when he finally spoke, was calm but edged with a weary authority. "Whatever you suspect she is... I would appreciate it if you kept those suspicions to yourself."

Jaheira scoffed, shifting her weight to one hip as her arms tightened across her chest. The movement seemed almost reflexive, like a shield against his measured calm. "No one around here would even know who Fenrir is," she shot back, her voice biting but not entirely unkind. "Let alone how you both are connected to him."

Onyx's eyes flicked to hers, his warning gaze a wordless reminder to tread carefully. Jaheira tilted her head, studying him with that maddening mix of scrutiny and amusement she wielded so effortlessly. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, she added, "You want to keep secrets, fine. I don't care about what she is. I'm more concerned about ensuring what she isn't - a threat to my Harpers."

"She isn't," Onyx replied firmly, his voice a quiet growl of certainty. "So long as you do not make the mistake of attacking her friends."

Jaheira's brows lifted, skepticism curling her mouth into a thin smile. "Tell me, Onyx," she said, leaning forward slightly, "if you hadn't intervened, would any of us have been left standing?"

Onyx lowered his gaze to the desk, to the chaotic sprawl of maps and papers that seemed suddenly symbolic of his own tangled thoughts. "That depends," he muttered, almost too low to hear, "on how fast you can run."

Jaheira barked a dry laugh. "Well... that answers my question then."

"She's still young, Jaheira," Onyx said, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His voice softened, the faintest hint of nostalgia threading through his words. "She has yet to learn control - of her power, her emotions. I remember a certain young druid who had a quick temper and an even quicker blade once."

Jaheira's retort came swiftly, like a hawk diving for its prey. "And I remember when a certain Fenris Guard would have cut down that spawn the moment he laid eyes on him."

"It seems age has made us both wiser," Onyx replied, a faint smile curving his muzzle. "We have the luxury of looking back on our mistakes and learning from them. Surely, we can afford to show a little tolerance to those still making their own."

"Hmph." Jaheira's gaze lingered on him, unreadable for a moment before her expression softened - just barely. "Your logic is as irritating as ever," she muttered, though there was no real venom in her words. "But perhaps you're right. Like I told the vampire, I'm out of options. I'll tolerate a great deal to ensure my mission doesn't fail again."

Onyx tilted his head slightly, his voice quiet but firm. "His name is Astarion."

Jaheira leaned back against the wall, her arms relaxing at her sides as a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "You really have gone soft in your old age," she teased, the sharpness in her tone tempered by a spark of warmth. "You almost sound protective of him."

Onyx's gaze didn't waver. "I simply know him better than you do."

"Then tell me," Jaheira pressed, her smirk fading into something more serious. "Will he do what needs to be done? When the time comes, will he fight against the darkness... or join it?"

Onyx felt the faintest ripple of unease, an itch at the edge of his mind. He didn't have a solid answer, not for Astarion's ultimate intentions. But one truth remained steadfast in his heart.

"Ashara will always follow the light," he said with quiet certainty. "And Astarion... he follows wherever she leads."

Jaheira's frown deepened, her displeasure etched into every line of her face. Yet, after a moment, she gave a resigned shake of her head. "I hope you're right," she murmured, her voice heavy with weariness. "For all our sakes."

She turned to leave, her footsteps light and purposeful against the wooden floorboards. Onyx watched her for a moment before calling after her. "Jaheira."

She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"It's good to see you again," he said, his tone full of warmth, the words carrying a sincerity that softened the edges of the moment.

For a fleeting moment, her emerald eyes softened, and the corners of her mouth twitched upward in the barest hint of a smile. But then, just as quickly, she masked it with an unconvincing scowl. "Hmph," she muttered, turning away with a dismissive flick of her hand, her voice gruff as she strode into the main hall.

Onyx chuckled softly, the deep rumble in his chest like distant thunder, before rising to his feet, his towering frame brushing the edge of the doorframe as he ducked through.

The scent of burning wood and spiced ale greeted him, along with the steady murmur of voices. The space was alive with quiet energy, a blend of subdued conversations and the crackling of the roaring fire at the center. The fire was housed in a brick enclosure, its flames dancing like a restless caged spirit, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Harpers sat in scattered clusters on benches and stools, their postures relaxed yet watchful. Onyx's sharp eyes scanned the room, landing briefly on a red-skinned tiefling perched at the bar, his robes creased from hours of wear.

The man nursed a drink with the precision of someone intent on drowning his thoughts, his tail flicking with barely concealed irritation. His horns caught the firelight, gleaming faintly as his flame-yellow eyes fixed on Onyx with a glare that smoldered with equal parts anger and despair.

Onyx paid him no mind, his focus drawn instead to a quiet corner where Vaarl and Mirkon sat. As he walked over to join them, Vaarl leaned forward, his yellow-green skin aglow in the firelight, animated as he spoke.

"That thing Ashara did out there was amazing! She's like a wolf and a dragon all at once." His admiration spilled from him like an overflowing cup, his awe palpable.

Onyx smiled inwardly, the corners of his muzzle twitching in amusement. The Githyanki youth's enthusiasm was almost infectious, though Onyx could see that his fascination was not purely admiration for Ashara's abilities - it held the gleam of something deeper, perhaps even hero worship.

Mirkon looked up from where he sat, his small, bright eyes catching the firelight as he reached out. Onyx lowered his head with a deliberate gentleness, allowing the tiefling child to ruffle his ears. The boy's touch was light but confident, his fingers brushing against the soft fur with innocent enthusiasm.

"I know Ashara looked scary for a while out there, Mirkon" Onyx said, his voice a soothing rumble. "But she would never hurt you."

Mirkon's eyes met his, earnest and wide. "I know," he said with the unwavering certainty of youth. "I was just surprised to see her change like that. I didn't know she was a wolf like you."

Onyx tilted his head, considering the words. Correcting the boy felt unnecessary, so instead, he opted for reassurance. "She was really sad that she scared you. Maybe when she wakes up, you can let her know she doesn't have to be angry with herself?"

The boy's face lit up with eagerness, his small horns bobbing as he nodded fervently. "I will! I can bring her something nice to eat, too. I saw some cookies in the kitchen earlier... do wolves like cookies?"

Onyx nuzzled the boy affectionately, his nose brushing against Mirkon's cheek with a warmth that made the boy giggle. "I know she certainly does."

Without another word, Mirkon darted off, his small figure weaving through the crowded room with the exuberance only a child could muster. Onyx watched him go, a faint smile lingering as he turned back to Vaarl. The young Githyanki had been observing the interaction with a soft, wistful  look that now faded into a contemplative expression, a quiet glimpse into something deeper, something unspoken.

"Do you have any siblings, Vaarl?" Onyx asked, his tone conversational but laced with curiosity.

Vaarl hesitated, the question stirring something painful in him. "Githyanki are hatched in batches," he said, his voice subdued. "We're usually not related by blood, but I guess you could call us family." His expression hardened, a shadow passing over his features. "A family that will kill each other on command."

Onyx's ears flicked forward, his gaze steady and unwavering. "That is not what a family is," he said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. "A family protects one another. Each member is cherished."

Vaarl's brow furrowed, the weight of the idea pressing against years of conditioning. "Are all istik families like that?" he asked, the question tinged with equal parts skepticism and hope.

Onyx considered the question, his tail flicking idly as he spoke. "No," he admitted, a hint of sadness coloring his tone. "Sadly, not all families are the same. There are people in this world as ruthless as the Githyanki, and others who choose to be selfish, thinking only of their own desires. But for the most part, being a part of a family means being loved and cared for."

The Gith's gaze grew distant, his yellow eyes shimmering with something fragile, almost childlike. "It sounds nice," he murmured, the words barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

"It doesn't have to be something only 'istiks' enjoy," Onyx said gently. "You can experience this for yourself, too."

Vaarl's expression brightened, a shy, uncertain hope flickering across his face. "Can... can I be a part of yours?"

Onyx tilted his head, his golden eyes studying the earnestness in the young Gith's face. "You'll have to ask Ashara," he said, his tone laced with dry humor. "But I don't see her objecting somehow. You may even decide to start a family of your own one day - unless you still want to find another crèche and resume your training?"

Vaarl's face fell, his hands curling into fists as he stared down at them. "I don't think I want to do that anymore," he said quietly, the words trembling with conviction. "Traveling with you and the others has opened my eyes to a lot of things. If I'm ever to be a warrior that Orpheus would be proud of... then I can't go back to being just another tool in Vlaakith's empire."

Pride swelled in Onyx's chest, an almost paternal warmth spreading through him. He leaned forward, his voice low and steady. "Then you're already on the right path, Vaarl. One step at a time."

Onyx watched as Vaarl fidgeted slightly, the young Githyanki's fingers brushing against the edges of the green tunic Ashara had given him, as though trying to smooth out invisible creases. The nervous energy radiating off him was almost endearing, a contrast to the sharp confidence Githyanki warriors usually carried like a shield.

"In the meantime," Onyx suggested, his voice steady and encouraging, "perhaps you should introduce yourself to the Harpers -and learn to call them ra'stil."

Vaarl blinked, his brow furrowing slightly at Onyx’s use of the Githyanki word for ally. "Really? If you think it's a good idea..." His voice wavered just enough to betray his hesitation.

"I do," Onyx replied with a firm nod. "Just remember, they may be a little wary of you at first. The only Githyanki they know are those under Vlaakith's command. Be patient. Show them what a Githyanki who follows Orpheus might look like."

A flicker of resolve crossed Vaarl's face as he straightened his back. The nervous energy melted away, replaced by something steadier, more deliberate. "I will," he said, his voice carrying an edge of newfound determination.

He took a step away, then hesitated, his body half-turned as though caught in an invisible tether. With a tentative glance back at Onyx, Vaarl stepped closer, his movements stiff and uncertain. Slowly, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the wolf's neck, his grip awkward and hesitant.

"Am I doing this right?" Vaarl asked, as though the act itself was foreign territory.

Onyx suppressed a chuckle, the corners of his muzzle twitching. He lowered his massive head over Vaarl's shoulder, his thick fur brushing against the young man's cheek. "You're a quick study," he murmured, his voice tinged with warmth. "Though it's best to keep hugs for close friends - strangers might not appreciate them quite as much."

Vaarl tightened his hold for a heartbeat longer, his arms briefly clinging as though drawing strength from the gesture. Then, he stepped back, his face lit with a beaming smile, the kind that could melt the frostiest of barriers. Without another word, he turned and strode purposefully toward the nearest group of Harpers, his earlier nervousness replaced with a quiet confidence.

Onyx's gaze lingered on him for a moment, pride swelling in his chest like a rising tide. The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he turned to see a tiefling Harper standing nearby, his tail lazily swishing as he nursed a mug of ale. The tiefling grinned, his expression easy and unguarded.

"Seems like a good lad," he remarked, raising his mug in a casual salute.

Onyx turned his head toward him, his ears twitching slightly in surprise. "You can hear me?"

The tiefling nodded, his grin widening. "Took me by surprise at first," he admitted, his voice light with humor. "Thought maybe I'd turned into a druid after spending too much time around Jaheira." He chuckled, a low and infectious sound. "But then I figured it out - I started hearing you after the little one spoke to you. Seeing as how he wasn't afraid of you, I reckoned I didn't have much to fear either."

Onyx exhaled a soft sigh, his tail swishing behind him. "It can be annoying at times," he observed, his tone measured. "Having my words heard only by those who don't fear me. But it can also be gratifying, knowing when trust has been earned."

The tiefling raised his mug again, his smile softening into something more reflective. "To trust," he said, his voice low. "There's a shortage of it around here, but I'll keep looking for it all the same. My name is Allorn. I'll keep an eye on the Gith for you, if you like - see he doesn't accidentally ruffle any feathers."

Onyx inclined his head in acknowledgment, a silent expression of gratitude. The tiefling's offer was unexpected but appreciated. Without another word, he turned and headed for the stairs, his paws silent against the worn wood.

The scent of aged timber mingled with the faint tang of herbs, filling the dim corridor with a subtle, earthy fragrance. The sounds from the main hall below faded as Onyx padded softly toward the cleric's room. Ashara's scent was a faint yet unmistakable thread, drawing him forward like a compass needle seeking true north.

His eyes landed immediately on the bed. Ashara lay curled against Astarion, her dark hair fanning out across his chest like spilled ink, her head rising and falling in time with the vampire's even breaths. Astarion's arm was loosely draped around her, his fingers resting near her shoulder as though even in sleep he was unsure if he had permission to hold her closer.

A flicker of annoyance sparked in Onyx's chest but was quickly smothered. He moved quietly across the room, the weight of his steps muffled against the wooden floor. As he approached, Onyx exhaled softly, a sound that carried both resignation and faint amusement.

Astarion's eyes fluttered open, a crimson glimmer in the dimly lit room. His gaze landed on Onyx, widening slightly before shifting downward to Ashara. A faint smile curled on his lips, laced with equal parts embarrassment and amusement. "This really isn't what it looks like..." he murmured, his voice low enough not to wake her.

Onyx huffed, a sound somewhere between amusement and exasperation. He shook his head tolerantly, the motion causing his thick fur to shift like a ripple over water. "I can see this is going to become a habit, isn't it?"

Astarion's grin widened briefly before it faded into something more subdued. Gently, he shifted Ashara off him, his movements slow and deliberate to avoid waking her. She stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping her lips, but she didn't wake. Once free, Astarion slid to the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"That's probably not a good idea," he admitted, his voice tinged with a rueful honesty.

Onyx tilted his head, observing the vampire with quiet scrutiny. "So long as you behave," he said evenly, "I have no objections."

Astarion glanced at him, a flicker of indignation crossing his face, but it was fleeting. His expression softened as his gaze shifted back to Ashara. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his features caught between fondness and something far more fragile.

"Was she always like this?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "In those other lives of hers, was she always so..."

He trailed off, frustration briefly clouding his face as he struggled for the right word.

Onyx understood what he meant without needing further explanation. He settled back on his haunches, his golden eyes thoughtful. "Yes," he said, his voice softening. "Sometimes she's more outgoing and confident. Other times, she's fiercer, less... compassionate. But at her core, she's always the same. Unwavering loyalty to those she cares about - that's her essence. It drives everything she does."

Astarion's eyes flicked to him, a faint shadow of sadness darkening their crimson hue. "How long will it be before..." His voice faltered, the words catching in his throat.

Onyx didn't need him to finish. "I don't know," he admitted, the weight of the truth pressing down like a mountain. "It once took Bâlorak two years to track her down after her powers awakened. Another time, it was a matter of days."

Astarion leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs as he stared at the floor. "She'll forget who I am," he said finally, his tone flat but edged with an undercurrent of pain.

Onyx's voice was steady, though a faint note of reassurance crept in. "I won't. Don't worry - I'll still aid you in slaying your master, even if she can't."

Astarion's head snapped up, his expression sharp with anger. "That's not why I—" He stopped abruptly, his features contorting with a mix of frustration and anguish. He stood abruptly, the movement jerky and uncharacteristically clumsy for someone so graceful. "I need some air," he muttered, his tone strained. "Let me know when she wakes."

Without waiting for a response, he stalked out of the room, his posture rigid, the faint click of the doors closing behind him echoing in the silence.

Onyx watched him go, an interested gleam in the wolf's eyes, a flicker of intrigue at the emotions Astarion so obviously wrestled with. While Onyx wasn't certain of the full depth of his feelings for Ashara, one thing was clear - Astarion cared far more deeply than he likely realized.

With a soft grunt, Onyx climbed onto the bed, the frame groaning under his weight. He curled himself around Ashara protectively, his thick fur brushing against her arm. Her face was peaceful in sleep, the faint crease of worry smoothed away by dreams. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on her as he murmured thoughtfully, "Of all the men you could have chosen to bond with... why this one, I wonder?"

Astarion descended the stairs with deliberate slowness, his boots barely brushing the wooden steps. His pale fingers ghosted over the banister, and he paused at the base of the stairs. The main hall sprawled out before him, the warm light of the fire casting long shadows against the stone walls. Nearly a dozen Harpers turned their heads to look at him, their gazes varying from mildly curious to wary.

Astarion's lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile, the kind that served as both armor and weapon. He refused to wilt under their scrutiny but found little reason to remain in their presence. With a dismissive flick of his eyes, he turned on his heel and made for the back door.

Passing by the bar, he caught the faintest prickle at the nape of his neck, an old instinct stirring like a whisper of wind against his skin. Someone was watching him. He didn't need to glance around to know it wasn't a friendly gaze. Given the events of the day, he thought grimly, it could hardly be otherwise. Brushing off the feeling, he pushed through the door and stepped outside.

The rear of the inn was a small, confined space, bordered by the shimmering barrier of Frostfire Ashara had conjured earlier. Its ethereal glow reflected faintly against the surrounding buildings, creating an eerie, otherworldly ambiance. Astarion made his way to the edge of the barrier, where a small wooden platform jutted out like an afterthought. He lowered himself onto it with a sigh, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands came up to cradle his head.

The night wrapped around him like a shroud, but it brought no comfort. The tension that had coiled tightly in his chest all evening threatened to spill over, his thoughts a chaotic tide he couldn't seem to stem.

The ceaseless vigilance demanded in this dangerous place, the looming threat of the cult, the crushing responsibility of infiltrating an enemy that would gladly destroy him and the gnawing conflict of his feelings for Ashara -it all churned together, a toxic brew of doubt and weariness.

He recalled her words from earlier, the wistful yearning in her voice when she spoke of hiding away in a dark cave, far from the chaos. In this moment, he understood her completely. The thought of running away from everything held a dangerous allure.

His reverie was interrupted by a familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Astarion froze, his senses sharpening as the background noise of the inn suddenly vanished. Silence. True, oppressive and unnatural silence. His head snapped up, and he caught a glint of steel out of the corner of his eye.

His instincts flared, and without thinking, he rolled to the side. A sword passed through the space he'd occupied a heartbeat before, the blade slicing the air with a deadly whisper.

Springing to his feet, Astarion turned to face his attacker. The tiefling stood a few paces away, the angular planes of his crimson face illuminated faintly by the barrier's glow. His robes marked him as a spellcaster - likely a wizard or sorcerer - but the sword in his hand suggested he wasn't above more direct methods. The hatred in his glowing eyes burned as brightly as the Frostfire behind Astarion.

Astarion's gaze flicked to the faint shimmer of magic surrounding them. A Zone of Silence. Clever. It meant no shouts for help, no cries of alarm could be heard beyond its confines. This was meant to be a quick, quiet execution.

The tiefling advanced, and Astarion's fingers went to his belt, seeking the comforting weight of his blade. His fingers met only air, and his stomach sank as he remembered leaving his sword upstairs when he had lain down beside Ashara. His dagger would have to suffice. Pulling it free, he settled into a low fighter's crouch, his eyes tracking every movement of the man in front of him.

"To what do I owe the honor of this assassination attempt?" he drawled, his voice sharp with forced nonchalance.

The tiefling's lips curled into a snarl. "You were there. With the dragonborn devil who betrayed us."

Astarion groaned theatrically, twirling the dagger once in his hand. "Not this again. Look, I had nothing to do with the attack on the—"

He broke off mid-sentence, jerking back as the tiefling swung his sword in a deadly arc. The blade missed his throat by inches, the whoosh of displaced air brushing his skin. Astarion danced back, his movements fluid and precise, his mind racing to place his assailant. He knew this tiefling. The robes, the glint of arrogance in his eyes - it sparked recognition.

"I remember you now," Astarion said, his tone conversational despite the lethal blade cutting through the air. "The aspiring wizard with dreams of becoming an apprentice in Baldur's Gate. Rolan, isn't it?" He punctuated the name with a feint of his own, his dagger darting forward before he withdrew with a smirk.

Rolan's eyes flared, his grip tightening on the sword. Astarion pressed on, his voice light and needling. "Where are your charming siblings? Do they know you're out here playing with swords instead of studying?"

The change in Rolan was immediate, a visceral transformation that made Astarion curse his own tongue. The tiefling's face twisted into a mask of pure rage, the kind that burned away reason and left only raw, consuming hatred.

"They're dead because of you, you fucking bastard!" he screamed, his voice raw with grief.

Rolan lunged, his sword carving through the air in a series of wild, brutal arcs. Astarion dodged the first swing, but the ferocity of the assault forced him into a defensive scramble. The tiefling's technique was sloppy - unrefined and lacking precision - but what he lacked in skill, he more than made up for in unrelenting savagery.

Each blow came faster than the last, forcing Astarion to backpedal, his dagger barely keeping the onslaught at bay. His boots scraped against the ground as he was driven closer to the Frostfire barrier. The intense chill radiating from the wall licked at his back like icy tendrils, a stark warning of its deadly nature. The cool light of Ashara's smaller flames was one thing, but the blazing wall radiated a power that promised to freeze and burn in equal measure.

Rolan swung again, and this time the blade glanced off Astarion's dagger, forcing him back a step. His hand brushed against the Frostfire, and an agonizing surge of cold shot through him like lightning. Pain bloomed in his arm, spreading numbness through his fingers. He gasped, clutching at his arm instinctively, his dagger slipping from his grasp and clattering beyond the barrier.

"Shit," he hissed through clenched teeth, barely managing to duck as Rolan's blade came down in a vicious arc, narrowly missing his head. He kicked out desperately, his boot catching Rolan's knee and sending the tiefling sprawling backward. The sword tumbled from Rolan's grasp, skidding across the ground.

Both men froze, their eyes locking on the blade. The moment hung in taut silence, broken only by the scrape of boots on dirt as they lunged simultaneously. Astarion collided with Rolan, tackling him to the ground. The two grappled, rolling across the cold earth in a chaotic tangle of limbs and frantic blows.

With a sudden burst of effort, Astarion managed to pin Rolan beneath him. His pale face twisted into a snarl, fangs glinting in the firelight as he leaned in. Hunger and rage coiled in his chest, a primal need to end the fight and feed surging to the surface.

But before he could strike, a sharp, blinding pain exploded in his side. He gasped, his head snapping down to see a dagger buried deep in his flesh, Rolan's hand clenched tightly around the hilt. The tiefling twisted the blade savagely, and Astarion cried out, his body convulsing as agony rippled through him.

Clutching at his wound, Astarion stumbled back, his vision swimming as blood poured from between his fingers. Survival instinct surged, urging him to retreat, but Rolan was relentless. The tiefling surged forward, lowering his head and slamming into Astarion like a battering ram, his horns grazing Astarion's chest as the impact drove the vampire to the ground.

The world tilted, stars dancing in Astarion's vision as his back slammed into the dirt. The scent of alcohol wafted over him as Rolan leaned in, his breath hot and reeking. The dagger in his hand glinted like ice as he drove it downward, aiming for Astarion's heart.

Astarion's hands shot up, catching Rolan's wrists just in time. The blade hovered precariously above his chest, trembling as the two grappled for control. Astarion's arms quivered under the strain, his strength waning with every passing second. The wound in his side throbbed violently, each pulse sapping more of his energy.

His mind raced, the grim realization sinking in. He hadn't fed since the previous night, his body weakened by hunger he had neglected to acknowledge. Feeding on Onyx always dulled the edge of his bloodlust, tricking him into complacency. Now, it was costing him dearly.

Rolan leaned in, his weight pressing down, the dagger inching closer. Astarion's breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming in protest. His vision blurred, dark spots encroaching on the edges. Desperation flared like a dying ember, and he knew with chilling clarity that he was running out of time.

"Leave him alone!"

Astarion barely registered the shrill scream until the rock struck Rolan square in the temple with a dull thunk. The tiefling recoiled, his grip on the dagger faltering as he shook his head in stunned anger. Astarion turned toward the sound, and his heart plummeted when he saw Mirkon sprinting toward them, fists clenched and face twisted in fierce determination.

"No! Stay back!" Astarion rasped, his voice raw with fear.

But Mirkon didn't listen. The boy flung himself onto Rolan's back, his small fists and feet lashing out in a flurry of blows. "Get off him!" Mirkon yelled, his voice cracking.

Rolan snarled in anger, twisting to dislodge the boy. With a brutal shove, he sent Mirkon flying backward. The boy's body struck the ground hard, his head colliding with a jagged rock with a sickening crack.

The sound was like a bolt of lightning piercing Astarion's chest. Horror and rage surged through him, igniting a fire that burned away every trace of weakness. The sight of Mirkon's motionless form, blood pooling beneath his head, sent a guttural snarl tearing from Astarion's throat.

With a feral burst of strength, he shoved the dagger aside, twisting his body out of it's path. Rolling out from under the tiefling, Astarion drove his elbow upward, the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage marking the connection with Rolan's nose.

Rolan cried out, clutching his face as Astarion scrambled to his feet. Without hesitation, he drove his fist into the side of Rolan's head, the tiefling collapsing to the ground with a groan.

Astarion was on him in an instant, his fangs flashing as he sank them into Rolan's neck. Blood flooded his senses, rich and intoxicating, feeding the primal hunger clawing at his insides. He drank deeply, each pull of blood fueling him, sharpening his strength as the tiefling struggled weakly underneath him.

But the memory of Mirkon's small, broken body cut through the haze of his bloodlust. With a choked gasp, Astarion tore himself away from Rolan, blood staining his lips. His vision swam as he turned toward the boy, the world narrowing to the sight of Mirkon lying still in the dirt. Abandoning Rolan, he staggered toward the child, his chest heaving.

Dropping to his knees beside the boy, Astarion lifted him gently, cradling him in his arms. Mirkon's head lolled to the side, a faint trickle of blood glistening at the base of his skull. His pulse was weak, fluttering like a trapped bird beneath Astarion's fingers. Panic clawed at him, a visceral, suffocating weight.

"No, no, no," Astarion whispered, lowering Mirkon back to the ground with trembling hands. His gaze darted toward Rolan, who was still crumpled nearby, alive. Fueled by desperation, Astarion lurched to his feet, grabbed the tiefling by the collar, and dragged him upright.

"Do you know any healing spells?" Astarion demanded, his voice sharp and ragged.

Rolan spat blood, a scornful laugh bubbling out of him despite his battered state. "I'd rather die than heal you."

Astarion slammed Rolan into the dirt with a ferocity that made the tiefling grunt in pain. "Not for me, you bastard! The boy!" he snarled, his voice breaking with fury.

Grabbing Rolan by the horns, Astarion forced the tiefling's head to turn toward Mirkon. Recognition flickered in Rolan's bloodshot eyes, confusion warring with his hatred.

"What are you—" Rolan began, but Astarion didn't let him finish.

Adrenaline gave Astarion strength as he hauled Rolan toward Mirkon, shoving his face closer to the boy's limp form. "Heal him!"

Rolan coughed, his breath shallow as he shifted onto his knees. Raising a shaky hand over Mirkon's head, he muttered a hoarse, "Te Curo."

A brilliant green light flared from his hand, the glow spilling over Mirkon's body. Astarion held his breath, kneeling on the ground, his gaze fixed on the wound as the jagged edges knit together, the bloodflow ceasing.

Mirkon's eyes fluttered open, unfocused but alive. He blinked slowly, his small voice groggy as he looked up at Astarion. "Did you win?"

Astarion let out a sobbing laugh, relief crashing over him in waves. He pulled Mirkon into his arms, holding the boy tightly against his chest. The faint scent of blood clung to the boy's skin, but his heartbeat was steady now, a rhythm Astarion clung to like a lifeline.

Mirkon's muffled voice reached his ears, laced with confusion. "I thought you didn't like hugs?"

Astarion chuckled weakly. "I don't, usually. But on this occasion, I'll make an exception - seeing as you were so brave."

"Oh, okay," Mirkon said, his small arms wrapping around Astarion's neck. Astarion's chest ached with the force of his emotions, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to break down entirely.

A sudden touch against his side sent a jolt of pain through him, and he gasped sharply. Rolan muttered another "Te Curo," and a warm surge of magic spread through Astarion's body, dulling the searing pain to a faint throb.

Astarion stared at him, stunned into silence. Rolan didn't speak, his expression unreadable as he pushed himself to his feet. Without a word, he turned and trudged back toward the inn, the door creaking shut behind him.

Astarion's gaze lingered on the closed door for a moment longer before he glanced down at Mirkon, still nestled securely in his arms. The boy's small hands clung to his shirt, his face tilted upward with innocent curiosity.

"Why was Rolan trying to hurt you?"

Astarion sighed, the weight of the question pressing against the weariness already tugging at him. "Because he thinks I hurt his family."

Mirkon pulled back slightly, his expression unusually serious as he searched Astarion's face. "Did you?"

The question, so blunt yet devoid of malice, caught Astarion off guard. He hesitated, then shook his head. "No. But... some of the people I used to travel with did. They hurt a lot of people." His voice faltered, then softened as he leaned closer, his tone conspiratorial. "Shall I tell you a not-so-secret secret?"

Mirkon nodded, leaning in as Astarion brought his mouth close to the boy's ear.

"I'm going to make sure they never hurt anyone else ever again," he whispered.

Mirkon's face lit up with determination, and he whispered back with equal fervor, "Good. I'll help you."

Despite himself, Astarion chuckled. "With an aim like that," he said, recalling the rock that had interrupted his battle, "you'll be a formidable ally for sure."

Mirkon puffed out his chest proudly. "I'm going to learn archery so I can save people. I want to be just like you and Ashara."

The boy's innocent admiration sent a pang through Astarion's chest. He swallowed hard, fighting the wave of sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. "You don't want to be like me, Mirkon," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of self-loathing he couldn't quite hide. "I'm... I'm not a good man."

Mirkon tilted his head, clearly puzzled. "But you save people. That's good, isn't it?"

Astarion opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. How could he argue with such simple, earnest logic? Instead of answering, he gently pushed Mirkon back and rose to his feet, wincing as his side reminded him of his still-healing wound.

"Let's go back inside," Astarion said, brushing dust off his trousers. "Perhaps you should clean the blood from your hair and tell Onyx about your heroic actions. I, on the other hand, have a wizard to chat with."

Mirkon's small face scrunched with worry. "You're not going to fight again, are you?"

Astarion muttered under his breath, "Not unless he starts one."

The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Astarion sighed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Fine. I promise not to fight him. Happy?"

Mirkon nodded, satisfied, and turned to dash into the inn. "For pity's sake, slow down!" Astarion called after him. "You're still recovering from a head—"

The door slammed shut, cutting him off mid-sentence. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "—wound."

Exhaustion settled over him like a heavy cloak, the adrenaline from the fight fading and leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. He swayed slightly before steadying himself and trudging toward the inn.

Inside, the warmth of the fire greeted him, along with the murmur of voices and the clink of mugs. His sharp eyes immediately spotted Rolan at the bar, slouched on a stool with a bottle of liquor at his side. The tiefling hadn't bothered to clean himself up; dried blood crusted his face, and his robes hung limp and wrinkled.

Astarion approached silently, his boots barely making a sound on the wooden floor. He reached for the bottle, but Rolan's hand shot out, snatching it away. "Get your own," Rolan growled, his tone low and venomous.

Unfazed, Astarion leaned over the bar, rummaging among the bottles. He pulled out a dusty one of red wine and a tankard, popping the cork with practiced ease. Pouring himself a generous measure, he leaned casually against the bar and took a long drink, only to grimace.

"Urgh," he muttered, his nose wrinkling. "Every time. I keep hoping it will taste like wine."

Rolan's glare burned into him, but he stayed silent.

"All part of this wretched curse, I'm afraid," Astarion continued conversationally. "Food tastes like ash, wine like vinegar. The irony, of course, is that I can still get drunk on it."

"I don't give a shit," Rolan snapped.

"That's funny," Astarion replied with a faint smirk. "Neither do vampires."

Rolan's expression darkened, his jaw tightening with renewed anger. Sensing he was treading dangerous ground, Astarion lowered his voice, his tone losing its edge.

"I wasn't there when the goblins attacked the grove, Rolan. I didn't even know the dragonborn planned to betray it. I was... preoccupied." His voice grew quieter. "Locked in a cage. Bound like an animal being taken to slaughter on the road to Baldur's Gate."

The words seemed to land, Rolan's eyes flickering briefly with surprise. His jaw worked silently as he stared into his mug, clearly torn.

Astarion pressed on. "I take it you managed to escape during the chaos Karlach and Wyll caused?"

Rolan's breath hitched, and he turned his head away. "Those two fought so fiercely to save us all. I did what I could to help them, but when Cal and Lia..."

His voice cracked, a choked sob escaping before he could stop it. He reached for the bottle, taking a long, trembling swig.

Astarion waited patiently, watching as Rolan wrestled with his grief. Finally, the tiefling cleared his throat. "When I saw them fall, whatever courage I had... it died too. I ran into the forest with a few others, but we got separated. I wandered alone for days until the Harpers found me and brought me here."

"Where you've been drinking yourself into a stupor every night, I assume?" Astarion asked dryly.

Rolan's shoulders tensed, but he didn't deny it. "Nothing else to do around here."

"Lending a hand to defend the place never occurred to you?"

Rolan scowled but didn't reply, his gaze drifting to Mirkon. The boy was chatting animatedly with a Harper, the same tiefling who had thanked Astarion earlier. The Harper glanced their way, his brow furrowing at the sight of their disheveled, bloodstained appearances.

He approached, his steps cautious. "Everything all right over here?" he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

"That all rather depends on the wizard," Astarion said, his tone light but pointed as he glanced at Rolan.

Rolan hesitated before shaking his head. "Everything's fine, Allorn. We were just having a conversation."

"An energetic one," Astarion quipped, taking another sip of wine.

Allorn looked them over, his gaze lingering on Rolan's battered face before shifting to Astarion's faintly amused expression. With a shrug, he said, "So long as you don't get blood on the floors. It's a devil to clean up."

Astarion flashed a wicked grin. "Don't I just know it."

Allorn clicked his tongue in mild disapproval, though an amused glint shone in his eyes as he turned and walked away. Silence settled between Astarion and Rolan once more, heavy but not entirely hostile.

The faint whisper from Rolan barely carried over the ambient noise of the inn, but Astarion caught it nonetheless. The tiefling stared down at his hands, blood crusted beneath his fingernails, his voice hollow. "I could have killed the boy."

"Yes," Astarion said, his tone measured but sharp enough to cut. "You could have. Fortunately for you, you didn't."

He leaned closer, his tone dipping into an icy menace. "Because if that boy had died, I would have made sure you were begging for death by the time I was done with you."

Rolan didn't flinch. His bloodshot eyes lifted to meet Astarion's, shadowed but steady. "Why would a vampire care about a tiefling child?"

The question gave Astarion pause, the answer just as much a mystery to him. He let out a low, humorless laugh, leaning back against the bar. "Honestly, I have no gods-damned clue. Somehow, that little brat has wormed his way into my heart, and it's bloody infuriating. I was perfectly content being a selfish bastard - then I met a pair of insufferable do-gooders. To my horror, they've started rubbing off on me. And let me tell you, I am not happy about it."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Rolan's mouth, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sounds exhausting - having to care about others."

"It really is," Astarion replied in mock complaint, shaking his head as if lamenting a great tragedy. "And do you know, I've been attacked more times in the past few days for trying to do the right thing, than I have in the past decade being shall we say... morally flexible."

Rolan's gaze flicked briefly to Astarion's blood-soaked shirt, a shadow of regret crossing his face. "You should probably be seen by a better healer. Cure Wounds isn't meant for injuries like that."

Astarion waved a hand dismissively. "It'll be fine. Your blood has given me enough energy for my own healing abilities to kick in."

Rolan's fingers instinctively brushed the puncture wounds on his neck, his expression darkening as he stared into his mug. "You should have just finished the job."

"But then Mirkon might not be alive right now, would he?" Astarion countered smoothly, his voice soft but edged.

Rolan's face twisted with guilt again, and he looked away, his hands tightening around his mug. Sensing that pressing further would be futile, Astarion stood upright, his tone softening slightly. "Thank you, by the way. For helping both of us."

Rolan glanced at him briefly, nodding once before turning back to his drink and reaching for the bottle. Astarion lingered for a moment, then pivoted on his heel and began his slow ascent up the stairs.

The soft creak of the door to Ashara's room was the only sound, save for the rhythmic sound of Onyx's breathing, as Astarion stepped inside. A small, fond smile flickered across his face at the sight of the massive wolf curled around Ashara. He stepped lightly across the room and grabbed his bag before slipping into the small washroom, shutting the door behind him with a faint click.

Stripping off his jerkin and bloodstained shirt, he grimaced at the state of them before tossing the ruined garments into a corner. His pale skin gleamed under the flickering candlelight, marred by the angry wound on his side. Rolan's spell had closed the worst of it, but the internal damage was still raw. Grabbing a cloth, he soaked it in the basin of water and began dabbing at the dried blood, wincing as the motion tugged at tender flesh.

The scrape of claws on wood was his only warning before a sharp voice broke the silence. "Why do you have part of a devil's contract carved on your back?"

Astarion froze, the cloth slipping from his hand. He spun around, his expression shifting to anger as he snapped instinctivly, "What are you—"

The words died in his throat as he saw Onyx standing in the doorway, hackles raised and golden eyes fixed on him with piercing intensity. The wolf's words sank in like lead, and Astarion's mouth opened in stunned disbelief. "Wait... what do you mean, a devil's contract?"

The cold dread unfurling in his chest was matched only by the chill in his voice as he added, almost to himself, "Cazador told me it was a poem..."

Onyx's eyes narrowed. "Cazador did this to you?"

Astarion nodded slowly, his throat tightening with the weight of old memories. "He spent an entire night carving it onto my back with a blade he called his 'needle.' If I so much as flinched, he'd force a healing potion down my throat and start over, making constant revisions as he went."

Onyx's posture relaxed slightly, his hackles lowering. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I'm sorry you had to endure that."

Astarion shrugged, the motion stiff and dismissive. "He did far worse to me during my centuries of 'service.' But... are you certain it's a contract? What is it for?"

Onyx's gaze lingered on the jagged scars, his expression grim. "It's fragmented, like the rest of it is written elsewhere. But the wording is unmistakably infernal legalese. It reads: This soul swears no oath by fire, nor words does he speak in the realm of death."

A chill crawled over Astarion's skin, his knees buckling as he sank heavily onto the bench behind him. "What in the hells did he do to me..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Onyx stepped closer, his tone steady. "You really have no idea what this is about?"

Astarion shook his head numbly, his hands trembling as he pressed them against his knees. "No... I thought it was just another of his cruel games. Something to remind me I was his, nothing more."

Onyx's golden eyes gleamed with quiet intensity as he stepped closer. "Do you think the rest could be carved on the backs of his other spawn?"

The question pierced through Astarion's haze like a blade finding its mark. Reaching for his bag, he pulled out a clean shirt and slipped it on, the fabric a temporary comfort against the growing unease churning in his chest.

As he laced up the collar, he nodded slowly, each movement deliberate. "He tortured us all in similar ways," he said, his voice laced with bitter resignation. "So yes, I imagine each of us carries a piece of this infernal contract. But what could a devil have offered Cazador? Whatever this is, it must be powerful. Or valuable. Or both."

Onyx's ears twitched as he considered the words. "Perhaps..."

Astarion's hands stilled, the laces of his shirt slipping between his fingers as realization struck. "No wonder he wants me back," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of dread and morbid curiosity. "What have I run off with?"

Onyx's hackles lowered completely as he gave a cautious huff. "Hopefully nothing that will cause problems any time soon."

But the wolf's calm was short-lived. His ears perked up sharply, and his gaze darted toward the window that overlooked the back of the inn. His tail bristled, his voice suddenly tight with alarm. "What is that tiefling doing out there?"

Astarion followed Onyx's gaze, stepping toward the window. His heart lurched at the sight before him. Rolan stood in front of the Frostfire barrier, his robes discarded in a crumpled heap beside him. The tiefling was clad only in an undershirt and trousers, his figure outlined against the unnatural blue flames. Even from the distance, Astarion could see his shoulders trembling, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Shit!" Astarion hissed, panic surging through him.

He shot to his feet, the bench screeching against the floor behind him. In a blur, he bolted from the room, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing down the stairs. Tearing through the inn, he startled several Harpers who jumped back to avoid being bowled over. Reaching the back door, he yanked it open with such force the hinges groaned in protest, and he sprinted outside.

"Rolan, stop!" Astarion shouted, his voice cracking with urgency.

But Rolan didn't stop. The tiefling stepped forward, his body connecting with the barrier. Astarion recoiled at the sound of his cry - a mix of pain and raw emotion that cut through the night. Rolan pushed himself through the flames, his silhouette briefly illuminated in the icy glow before he disappeared on the other side.

Astarion skidded to a halt, his boots kicking up a spray of dirt as he stared in shock at the spot where Rolan had vanished. The blue flames danced, their light casting eerie shadows across his pale features.

"No!" The word tore from his throat, sharp and desperate. His gaze darted around frantically, his mind racing for a solution. His hands flew to his hair, gripping it tightly as he grappled with his rising panic. He stared at the barrier, the flames seeming to mock his helplessness.

"I can't save him," he muttered, his voice low and shaky. "I'm not a hero. I'm not—"

The words hung in the air, unfinished. His arms dropped to his sides, fists clenching tightly. A dry laugh escaped his lips, bitter and resigned. "Well, shit."

Before fear could overtake him, Astarion drew in a deep breath and leapt into the flames.

Chapter Text

Onyx froze, his golden eyes wide with disbelief as Astarion plunged into the Frostfire. The flames flared and crackled, their icy plumes licking at the vampire’s pale skin before swallowing him whole. For a moment, Onyx could do nothing but stare, stunned by the reckless audacity of the act. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he sprang into motion, his powerful limbs propelling him forward.

The Frostfire met him with a biting intensity, the unnatural chill clawing at his fur and searing his senses. He burst through the barrier, landing heavily on the other side, where chaos awaited him.

Astarion was dragging Rolan backward, his boots scraping against the frosted ground. The tiefling writhed in his grasp, his face a mask of rage and despair as he cried out, “Let me die, gods dammit!”

Rolan twisted violently, breaking free of Astarion’s hold and staggering to his feet. Before he could take another step toward the dark, Astarion tackled him with surprising ferocity, driving him into the ground. He wrenched the tiefling’s arm behind his back, his voice sharp and furious. “Not bloody likely!”

Onyx’s attention flicked past them as a dark shape detached itself from the shadows. The figure lingered at the edge of the protective glow cast by the Frostfire, flinching back as it drew nearer. Whatever it was, it was closing in, and the struggling men were inching dangerously far from the ring of light.

With a low growl, Onyx surged forward. He seized Rolan by the scruff of his shirt, hauling him upright with a single, powerful motion. The tiefling flailed, his protests muffled by the sound of the wind and the hiss of the Frostfire. Onyx turned, muscles bunching beneath his fur, and hurled Rolan bodily back through the barrier.

Astarion, still on the ground, glanced up at him with a crooked grin, breathless but amused. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

The wolf offered no reply, merely jerking his head toward the barrier. Astarion scrambled to his feet, and together they leapt back through the flames, landing safely on the other side.

Frost clung to Astarion’s hair and shoulders, and his breath misted in the air as he straightened and brushed himself down. Onyx shook himself, his thick fur shedding ice crystals in a shimmering spray.

Rolan lay on the ground, coughing and shivering violently, his rage undiminished despite his condition. He pushed himself to his feet unsteadily, his gaze fixed once more on the barrier. With a defiant snarl, he lunged toward it again, only to be stopped short by Onyx stepping in front of him. The wolf’s lips curled back, exposing sharp teeth as a low, warning growl rumbled from his chest.

“Out of my way!” Rolan snapped, his eyes blazing. “You can’t stop me forever.”

Astarion, still catching his breath, leaned against a nearby fencepost, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, but it will be so much fun to try.”

Rolan’s face twisted in frustration. He raised his hands, summoning a crackling Firebolt that he hurled directly at Onyx’s face. The flames burst against the wolf’s head in a brilliant flash, but Onyx didn’t so much as flinch, his eyes narrowing as he stared down the tiefling. The fire dissipated harmlessly, leaving Rolan momentarily stunned.

Rolan’s shock was brief, his expression hardening as he stepped back. “Alright, fire resistant. Let’s see how you handle lightning.”

Onyx took a deliberate step forward, his voice low and steady. “I was created from the soul of a god. Your paltry magic cannot harm me.”

Rolan opened his mouth to retort, but Astarion pushed off the post and cut him off, his tone sharp and impatient. “Will you just stop and think for a moment, you obstinate fool! What’s the point of throwing your life away for nothing - when you could throw it away while getting revenge?”

Onyx flattened his ears, his tail swishing with annoyance. “That’s not exactly the right way to handle this, Astarion…”

Astarion waved him off, his tone growing more persuasive. “I beg to differ. You heard him - he’s clearly going to keep doing this. So I say, let him.”

He turned to Rolan, his crimson eyes gleaming as he pressed his point. “However, before you do, why not redirect some of that righteous anger toward the people who actually deserve it? A certain white dragonborn comes to mind…”

The mention of Durge seemed to pierce through Rolan’s haze of rage. The electricity at his fingertips fizzled out as he hesitated, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for him.”

Astarion’s smirk returned, sharp and predatory. “Ah, well then, aren’t you glad you didn’t succeed in your assassination attempt? Because I happen to know exactly where he… probably is.”

Onyx’s ears perked up at the mention of Rolan’s attempt on Astarion’s life, but he pushed the thought aside for now, focusing on the wizard. Rolan’s rigid posture loosened slightly, his anger replaced by the faintest spark of hope.

“Where?” Rolan asked, his voice tinged with both suspicion and curiosity.

“Moonrise Towers,” Astarion said smoothly. “He took my… friends, captive. Karlach, Halsin, and - you remember Zevlor, don’t you?”

Rolan’s eyes widened, the anger melting into shock. “Karlach and Zevlor are still alive? Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?!”

Astarion threw up his hands in exasperation. “You came at me swinging a sword! Between dodging arrows and getting stabbed, it slipped my mind.”

Rolan’s face twisted in a mixture of guilt and frustration, but he said nothing. Onyx glanced between them, his gaze lingering on Astarion. Despite the callous edge to his approach, the tactic was working. Rolan’s fiery defiance gave way to a quiet determination, the prospect of revenge motivating him in a way nothing else could.

“You’ll lead me there?” Rolan asked, his voice steadier now.

Astarion smirked, his fangs glinting. “Of course. I’d be delighted."

The tension of the moment was sliced cleanly in two by Jaheira’s voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the cold air like a blade. “Would somebody care to explain just what exactly is going on out here?”

Onyx winced at her tone, his ears flicking backward momentarily. He sighed, his breath visible in the chill, and turned to face her. The firelight from the Frostfire barrier played across her features, highlighting the sharp lines of her face.

“Just a couple of young pups,” he said with a low growl, “making mistakes and hopefully learning from them.”

Astarion, still brushing frost from his sleeves, chimed in with an exaggerated air. “Oh, I’ve definitely learned not to jump through a flaming wall. How about you, Rolan?”

Rolan glared at him, his lips curling in annoyance, but the fight had gone out of him. After a long pause, he muttered under his breath, “For now, at least.”

Jaheira’s boots crunched against the frozen ground as she strode forward. In a single, swift movement, her hand darted out and seized Rolan by the ear. He yelped, stooping awkwardly as she pulled him closer.

Her eyes bored into his, her voice low and angry. “You want to drown your sorrows? Fine. You want to take your own life? That’s one less dead weight for me to carry. But if you ever endanger a child’s life again—”

Rolan, despite his obvious discomfort, managed a defiant scowl. “Save it. I’ve already been threatened by the vampire over that.”

Onyx caught the brief flicker of surprise that crossed Jaheira’s face as her gaze darted toward Astarion. She released Rolan’s ear and straightened, fixing the vampire with a sharp, scrutinizing look. “Is that so?”

Astarion shifted uncomfortably, brushing imaginary lint from his collar as if it might shield him from her piercing stare. He finally spoke, his tone deliberately casual. “If I’m going to infiltrate Moonrise, I’ll need all the help I can get. Ashara may be death incarnate in her wolf form, but let’s face it - her usual appearance and social anxiety don’t exactly scream 'evil cult member'.”

He gestured toward Rolan with a flourish. “Meanwhile, our dear Rolan not only has a talent for spellcasting, but also the innate arrogance needed to convincingly pull off such a deception.”

Jaheira raised an eyebrow, her skepticism clear. “You want the man who tried to kill you on your team?”

Astarion shrugged, a faint smirk returning to his face. “It seems to be how I meet most of my allies these days. Apparently, being threatened is the new hello.”

Jaheira’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of amusement before she turned back to Rolan, pointing a warning finger at his chest. “Two of my Harpers died bringing you through the shadows to this place. They valued your life enough to sacrifice their own. Do not defile their memory by throwing their sacrifice back in their faces.”

Rolan’s shoulders slumped, the defiance in his eyes dimming. He nodded silently, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Satisfied, Jaheira turned and began walking back toward the inn. As she passed Onyx, she stopped abruptly, pivoting on her heel to face him. “And you,” she said with a pointed glare. “Your pups need to be housebroken - they’re making a mess. I have no intention of cleaning it up.”

Onyx sighed deeply, his tail flicking in mild annoyance as he watched her stride back toward the inn. The light from the Frostfire caught the hilts of her twin scimitars, casting brief flashes of silver as she disappeared into the doorway.

The silence that followed was heavy but short-lived. Astarion broke the quiet, his voice light with curiosity. “How exactly did the two of you meet?”

Onyx glanced at him, his golden eyes contemplative. “I met her when she was a young woman living in the forests of Tethyr. I was visiting the druid enclave she called home. We ended up traveling together for a time while I waited for Ashara to… recover.”

Rolan rubbed at his ear. “Was she always so… harsh?”

Onyx’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “Jaheira has always been headstrong and opinionated. But time and loss have sharpened her tongue and jaded her outlook on life. Something, perhaps, you both understand all too well.”

Astarion and Rolan exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of distaste and reluctant recognition. Onyx’s amusement grew as he caught the subtle wince they both shared. For all their differences, it seemed the two had finally found a commonality, though neither appeared particularly thrilled about it.

Ashara woke with a start, her hand instinctively reaching out, searching for the comforting presence of Astarion beside her. Her fingers brushed only cool, rumpled covers. Panic bloomed in her chest like a fast-growing weed as she bolted upright, her breath hitching. The room was still and dim, the golden light of a single candle revealing the truth. She was alone.

The cloak she’d fallen asleep in slipped slightly from her shoulders, and she froze as she remembered her state of undress beneath it. Her hands clutched the fabric tightly, pulling it around her like a shield. The faint, familiar scent of Astarion lingered: bergamot, rosemary and the faint, woody undertone of aged brandy.

Ashara pressed her face into the folds of the cloak, the subtle fragrance calming the chaos within her. Astarion’s scent was as refined and enigmatic as the man himself - why those particular notes, she wondered. Was it intentional? A preference? A lingering piece of his old life?

Feeling a little steadier, she slid off the bed, her bare feet brushing the worn wooden floor. The cloak trailed behind her as she stepped lightly across the room, her curiosity piqued by the assortment of objects scattered across Isobel’s shelves and tables. Jars of herbs and tinctures lined the surfaces, their labels faded and handwritten. Trinkets and relics glinted in the candlelight - delicate chains, polished stones, small carvings. She picked up a glass vial filled with an iridescent liquid, tilting it back and forth to watch the light play across its surface.

Her gaze landed on a tall wardrobe near the corner, and she approached it hesitantly. The doors creaked faintly as she pulled them open, revealing an array of clothing. Her fingers brushed over soft, silken fabrics and sturdy leathers until she froze, captivated by the gleam of a silver gown hanging near the back.

She carefully pulled it out, holding it up to the light. The material shimmered like moonlight on water, delicate and flowing. She admired its beauty, her fingertips trailing over the intricate embroidery along the bodice. On impulse, she stepped to the mirror hanging on the opposite wall, holding the gown against herself.

Her reflection stared back at her, a strange mixture of familiarity and foreignness. The dress was beautiful, no doubt, but it felt alien draped over her figure. She tilted her head, studying the way the light caught the fabric, her thoughts drifting as she tried to imagine herself wearing it.

“Do you think I would look pretty wearing this?” Ashara asked suddenly, sensing the presence behind her.

Onyx’s reflection appeared in the mirror, his golden eyes watching her with a bemused tilt of his head. He stepped forward into the room to sit beside her, sniffing at the silvery fabric curiously. “It’s not very practical for fighting in,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

Ashara glanced down at the gown, her fingers smoothing over the silky fabric. “No, I suppose not…” she murmured. Then, with a faint note of wistfulness, she added, “But if I wasn’t fighting?”

Onyx’s ears twitched, and he let out a small huff. “It’s not the sort of thing to wear around camp either,” he remarked dryly. “You’d get it dirty doing chores."

Her lips tightened, a flicker of frustration sparking within her. She suspected Onyx understood her meaning perfectly and was choosing to toy with her, as he so often did when she ventured into unfamiliar emotional territory. “I know,” she said softly. “I was just wondering what it might feel like to be… pretty.”

Onyx’s ears flicked back briefly, his response cautious. “Any particular reason why?”

Ashara hesitated, her mind swirling with half-formed thoughts she couldn’t quite articulate. Instead of answering directly, another question escaped her lips, one that surprised even herself. “Do you think… Astarion might like it if I wore something like this?”

Onyx’s ears pinned back fully, his expression unreadable but unmistakably tense. “I’m not sure why you think his opinion on how you look matters all that much,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Ashara hugged the dress tighter, her cheeks warming slightly. “I’m not sure why it matters to me either… but I… I just feel like I want to look nice for him.”

For the first time, Onyx looked genuinely uncomfortable. His gaze shifted, and he muttered, almost to himself, “I think… I need a drink.”

“There’s water in the basin over there,” Ashara offered, her brow furrowing.

“I need something stronger,” he deadpanned.

Ashara sighed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “Onyx, stop being a… a dad for once and just answer my question.”

The wolf exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of her question was more than he’d bargained for.

“Yes, Ashara,” he said finally, his voice gentler. “You would look very pretty in that dress, and I'm quite certain Astarion would agree with me. However,” he added, his tone regaining its usual practicality, “it isn’t yours, and we have a dangerous mission ahead of us. You’ll need clothing that’s more durable. So, put it down and get dressed in whatever armor you haven’t yet torn to pieces by transforming.”

Ashara’s lips pressed into a thin line as she turned back to the mirror, the dress still held against her. She knew Onyx was right, but his pragmatic response left her feeling hollow. With a reluctant sigh, she returned the dress to the wardrobe, her movements slow and deliberate. The moment felt fleeting, a fragile whisper of a life she didn’t know how to reach.

Turning her attention to a nearby dresser, she pulled open the drawers to find a selection of clean undergarments and simple, practical clothing. Pulling out a plain tunic and a pair of well-worn leggings, Ashara quickly dressed, muttering under her breath, "I hope she doesn't mind me taking these too much."

A faint sigh escaped her as she glanced down at her clothes. It felt like such a futile effort, knowing they would likely meet the same fate as all her others during her next transformation. Her shape-shifting was as destructive to fabric as fire was to parchment, a fact Ashara rued every time she had to replace another set of garments.

She made a mental note to stock up on clothing. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy for druids - their wildshape abilities didn’t leave them scrambling for replacement outfits. Was it something about their enchanted armor? The way their magic intertwined with nature itself? The thought sparked a flicker of curiosity, and she resolved to ask Jaheira about it later.

With Astarion's cloak draped loosely over her shoulders, she headed for the door. Onyx rose silently to follow, his golden eyes watchful as they descended the stairs to the main hall. The warm glow of the hearth greeted them, casting shifting patterns of light across the room.

The hum of conversation hit her first - a low murmur that grew louder as they approached. The sight of so many people gathered in one place sent a spike of anxiety racing through her chest. She halted abruptly on the steps, her breath catching as her body went rigid. Her eyes darted across the room, hyper-aware of the way conversations stilled and heads turned toward her. The weight of their gazes felt suffocating, like a thousand tiny needles pressing into her skin.

Onyx rumbled softly at her side, his deep voice a calm counterpoint to her rising panic. “Deep breaths, Ashara. They don’t mean you harm.”

She swallowed hard, her wide eyes scanning the room, desperate for something - or someone - familiar. Then her eyes found him: A pair of ruby irises that pierced through the noise like a lighthouse in a storm. Astarion was watching her, a faint crease of concern between his brows as he stepped toward the stairs.

Relief flooded her, her chest loosening enough to allow a shaky exhale. The rest of the room faded into the periphery as her focus narrowed solely on him. She descended the last few steps, her feet finding solid ground beneath her.

“There you are,” Astarion said, waving her over with a smooth, fluid motion. His voice carried the familiar cadence of teasing, though a thread of warmth softened the words. “We were just talking about you.”

His use of the word we gave her pause, and she noticed the tiefling man standing just behind him. He was wiping dried blood from his face with a cloth, his expression guarded but not unfriendly. Ashara’s brow furrowed slightly, the question in her eyes clear as she glanced back at Astarion.

“I’ve been recruiting,” he explained with mock pomp. “Say hello to our new spellcaster.”

Ashara’s gaze flicked to the tiefling, her wariness surfacing despite Astarion’s flippant tone. “Hello…"

The tiefling stepped forward and dipped into a formal bow, his movements polished despite his disheveled appearance. “My name is Rolan,” he said with formal precision. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

Ashara blinked, caught off guard by his deference. “I’m not a lady,” she said quickly, a touch of embarrassment creeping into her tone. “I’m just… Ashara.”

“Just Ashara,” Astarion echoed, his head tilting as a smirk played at his lips. “I don’t think you’ve ever been just anything in your life.”

Ashara felt a flicker of warmth rise to her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, fiddling with the hem of her tunic to busy her hands. Astarion’s smirk widened slightly, but he said nothing more, letting the moment settle between them.

Rolan, meanwhile, straightened from his bow, his sharp eyes darting between Ashara and Astarion with mild curiosity. “That wildshape of yours is truly impressive. I’ve never heard of such a formidable beast among druidic capabilities before.”

Ashara opened her mouth to correct him. "I'm not a—"

Astarion’s sudden, exaggerated coughing fit stopped her short. She turned to him, concern flickering in her eyes, but the warning glint in his gaze made her hesitate. Catching on, she pivoted back to Rolan, her voice carefully neutral.

“I’m… not allowed to talk about it outside of my enclave,” she said quickly.

Rolan looked mildly disappointed but nodded, his expression still respectful. “I understand. I won’t pry. However, it was remarkable - you are remarkable.”

Her lips parted in surprise at his sincerity, but she managed a small, shy smile. “Thank you.”

Astarion’s eyes flicked between the two of them, narrowing slightly. A faint frown tugged at his lips before he slipped an arm around Ashara’s shoulders in casual gesture. “Well, now that introductions are over,” he said breezily, steering her towards a side room, “Ashara and I need to have a more in-depth conversation with Jaheira about our mission.”

Rolan stepped forward, a hint of confusion in his voice. “Shouldn’t I come along too?”

“No, no,” Astarion replied smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m quite capable of passing on the required information. In the meantime, why don’t you and Onyx see if you can find us some disguises? Something that screams ‘cultist chic,’ perhaps.”

Rolan’s gaze lingered, his expression skeptical but resigned. “Fine,” he muttered, turning toward Onyx. The wolf gave Astarion a pointed look before following the disgruntled tiefling with a faint look of amusement.

As Astarion guided her into the side room, Ashara tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Do you usually recruit people by punching them in the face?"

He raised an eyebrow, his tone deceptively innocent. “Who said I was the one who punched him?”

“Your bleeding knuckles did,” Ashara replied dryly, arching a brow as she glanced pointedly at his hands.

Astarion followed her gaze and let out a faint hum, flexing his fingers as if noticing the damage for the first time. “Oh…” He shrugged with a nonchalance that only he could muster. “For the record, it was actually my elbow that did the damage to his nose. Though, in my defense, he rather asked for it when he stabbed me.”

Ashara froze mid-step, her body going rigid as his words registered. Her breath hitched, and she turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. “He did what?”

Her gaze swept over him, scanning his form until she spotted it - a small spot of blood darkening the fabric of his shirt just below his ribs. Without thinking, she reached for his shirt, her fingers brushing the hem as she started to lift it. “Let me see.”

Before she could move further, Astarion’s hands shot out, gripping her wrists with startling strength. She winced, startled by the suddenness of the motion. Her gaze snapped up to meet his, and she saw something flicker across his face - a flash of fear, raw and unguarded, before his expression smoothed. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before his fingers slowly loosened their hold.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret. "Gut reaction."

Ashara hesitated for a moment, then carefully pulled up his shirt, her heart clenching as her eyes fell on the angry, jagged scar beneath his ribs. The skin was freshly healed, faintly shimmering with the residue of magical mending, but she could tell at once that it had been deep. Too deep. A pang of rage flared hot and fierce in her chest.

Her jaw tightened, and before she could think better of it, she spun on her heel, heading back toward the main room. “I’m going to kill him,” she declared, her voice low and steely.

Astarion’s eyes widened, and he darted forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her back with surprising urgency. “No need for that, darling,” he said hastily. “He’s also the one who patched me back up again.”

She frowned, her anger morphing into confusion. “What exactly did I miss while I was asleep?”

“I’ll fill you in later,” Astarion replied with a faint smirk, clearly more amused by the situation than he had any right to be. His expression shifted as someone entered the room, and he straightened slightly. “Right now, we have something more important to discuss. Don’t we, Jaheira?”

Ashara turned, her gaze falling on the druid who stood in the doorway. Jaheira’s expression was as sharp as her tone. “Nice of you to join us,” she said dryly as she entered the room and closed the door behind her.

Standing before them with her arms folded, her piercing green eyes shifted to Ashara. “And thank you for not eating me. Ending up as wolf shit is not the way I envision going out.”

Ashara blinked, momentarily stunned. Then, to her own surprise, a laugh bubbled up from her chest, spilling out despite her efforts to stifle it. She clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide as she looked at Jaheira, uncertain of how the older woman would react.

To her relief, Jaheira’s expression softened ever so slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile, but there was a faint glint of amusement in her eyes. The stern warrior Ashara had been expecting seemed to recede just enough to reveal a glimmer of something warmer.

Composing herself, Ashara stepped forward, her voice steady but tinged with a tentative warmth. “Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Ashara, of High Forest.”

For a moment, Jaheira simply regarded her, her sharp gaze unreadable. Then, after a brief pause, she extended her hand. “Jaheira, High Harper of Baldur’s Gate,” she said, her tone formal but not unfriendly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Their hands met in a firm shake, and Ashara felt a flicker of respect beneath the weight of Jaheira’s grip. For the first time since entering the room, she allowed herself to relax just a little.

“I’ll get right down to it,” Jaheira began, her voice firm and businesslike. “How long will this Frostfire barrier of yours last?”

Ashara hesitated, her fingers brushing unconsciously against the edge of her tunic. “Considering I didn’t even know I could create it in the first place…” she admitted, her voice trailing off. “I haven’t a clue.”

Jaheira’s expression darkened with irritation, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Then it would be wiser if you stayed behind to maintain it,” she said curtly. “While Astarion, Onyx, and the drunk wizard head to Moonrise.”

The suggestion hit Ashara like a slap, her protest immediate and sharp. “I’m not letting Astarion face the cult alone!”

Jaheira didn’t miss a beat. “I just said he won’t be going alone.”

Ashara shook her head vehemently, her heart pounding as she turned to Astarion. “No. I promised you I would help you find and kill Durge. If he’s in that place, I want to be there with you.”

For a moment, Astarion’s expression softened, his eyes searching hers. Then his lips curved into a faint, almost bittersweet smile, quickly replaced by his usual flippancy. “Your concern for me is touching, darling. Truly. But I actually agree with Jaheira on this.”

Ashara blinked in surprise. “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, his tone as casual as if he were discussing wine. “You’re… well, let’s call it what it is - you’re not a convincing liar. And you have certain… emotional control issues that might draw unwanted attention.”

Ashara’s jaw tightened, the words stinging more than she cared to admit. “I can keep the wolf in check.”

Astarion stepped closer, his crimson eyes boring into hers, their intensity pinning her in place. “Really?” His voice was softer now but laced with steel. “So you’d be able to stand there silently or, gods forbid, laugh along while some cultist boasts about how many children they’ve slaughtered? How many people they’ve raped?”

Ashara’s face paled, the words cutting into her like shards of ice. She swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea rising in her throat.

“I’ve had two centuries to perfect the art of pretending,” Astarion continued, his tone almost clinical. “Two centuries of listening to those kinds of conversations from Cazador’s guests. I even learned to praise and fawn over those sick bastards.” His voice tightened, the edges of old wounds seeping into his words.

He leaned closer, his gaze relentless. “Can you look me in the eyes and tell me you could do the same?”

Her heart thundered in her chest as her resolve wavered. She wanted to look away, to retreat from the intensity of his challenge - but she didn’t. Instead, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and met his gaze head-on. “Yes,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm swirling inside her.

Astarion studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head. “I could almost believe you… but you’re still not a convincing liar.”

Ashara clenched her fists at her sides, forcing down the frustration that bubbled beneath her skin. She exhaled sharply. “Then let me at least go with you as far as the outskirts of Moonrise Towers,” she said, her voice tight but determined. “There are still plenty of dangers between here and there that don’t require deception - just a sharp blade.”

Before Astarion could respond, Jaheira interjected, her tone cutting. “And what happens if the Frostfire goes out while you’re gone? Are we supposed to just sit and twiddle our thumbs while the shadows consume us?”

Ashara turned sharply toward Jaheira, her patience thinning. “If I find a way to protect Last Light without needing my presence, will you allow me to leave?”

Jaheira raised an eyebrow, her skepticism clear. “Of course,” she said, her tone almost mocking. “But I’m curious what you think you can do that a Cleric of Selûne could not.”

The seed of an idea bloomed in Ashara’s mind, and a faint smile curved her lips. “Funny you should mention Selûne,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with an edge of mischief. “Apparently, she and I go way back. I have a feeling she owes me a favor.”

Both Astarion and Jaheira turned to look at her simultaneously, their expressions a study in contrasts. Jaheira’s was hard-edged and skeptical, while Astarion’s held a flicker of bemusement, his brow quirking in curiosity.

Ashara didn’t wait for their responses. She pivoted on her heel and strode out of the room, her determination propelling her forward. As she passed Rolan in the hallway - his arms laden with a mismatched assortment of clothing - she shot him a venomous glare. The tiefling blinked in confusion, pausing mid-step to watch her storm by.

The air was heavy with tension as Jaheira and Astarion followed her up the stairs to Isobel’s room. The balcony doors were open, a cool breeze wafting into the space. Ashara stepped out, her gaze sweeping over the setup Isobel had left behind: four mirrors positioned in a circle around a cluster of candles, their flames flickering in the faint wind. A small table was pushed against the railing, an incense burner resting atop it. The scent of lavender and sage still lingered faintly in the air. The setup seemed purposeful, ritualistic.

Ashara approached the table, her fingertips trailing lightly over the smooth wood as she studied the arrangement. The air around her felt heavy, charged with an energy she couldn’t quite define. She hesitated for a moment, unsure where to begin.

She sensed Astarion’s presence before he spoke, his voice low and tinged with dry amusement. “Do you actually know how to contact a moon goddess?”

Ashara muttered under her breath without looking at him, “Nope.”

“Wonderful,” he replied with an exaggerated sigh.

Suppressing a flicker of irritation, she straightened and turned to face him and Jaheira. “I need to concentrate in silence,” she announced firmly. “Can both of you please leave and shut the doors?”

The two exchanged skeptical glances, Jaheira raising an eyebrow while Astarion’s lips twitched in amusement. But, to her relief, they both stepped out of the room without argument. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Ashara alone with the quiet hum of the night.

The sudden quiet pressed down on her, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle flames and the distant whisper of the wind. She lit the incense burner with a steady hand, watching as tendrils of fragrant smoke coiled upward. Lifting her gaze to the moon, she let her eyes trace the ethereal band of asteroids trailing behind it - the Tears of Selûne, their faint glow like scattered pearls against the darkness.

“Selûne,” she began, her voice quiet but steady, “I don’t know if you’ll remember me or not, seeing as I was just a baby when we met - and I’m sorry that I don’t remember you at all. My memory is…” Ashara faltered, her throat tightening briefly. “It’s a bit broken. But the people in this place need your help. Isobel, one of your clerics, has been kidnapped, and I want to help get her back. The barrier she made is gone, and I need your help to remake it - just until we can bring her home. Please.”

She paused, her words hanging in the air. The silence stretched, deep and unyielding. Ashara’s chest tightened, a knot of embarrassment and futility tangling inside her. What was I expecting? A goddess to just show up?

Her frustration flared, hot and sudden, and tears pricked her eyes. She swiped at them angrily, her voice trembling as she bowed her head. “Even though I don’t remember her, my mother Lûnaris was one of your faithful,” she pleaded. “If she meant anything to you, if she had your favor… please, answer me.”

The stillness deepened, a hollow ache pressing against her ribs. Anger bubbled to the surface, raw and unrestrained. She turned to the sky, her voice rising in a shout that carried the weight of years of pain. “My mother trusted you to protect me, but you let Mystryl kidnap me and use me as a bargaining chip to imprison my father. You owe me at least one favor for that!”

Her voice echoed into the night, swallowed by the void. Nothing answered. No whisper of divine presence, no glimmer of acknowledgment. Just the stars staring down indifferently.

Ashara slumped against the railing, defeated. Wiping her face with a trembling hand, she turned back toward the room, her shoulders sagging. As her eyes swept over one of the mirrors, she froze, a startled yelp escaping her lips as she stumbled backwards in shock.

A middle-aged woman gazed back at her from the glass, a faint smile playing on her lips. The woman’s features were soft and maternal - plump yet graceful, with streaks of silver running through dark hair and wide lime-green eyes that seemed to glow faintly. She wore a simple silvery-grey dress, the fabric shifting like moonlight across water.

“Such a demanding little pup,” the woman murmured, her voice warm and tinged with laughter.

Ashara blinked rapidly, her mind struggling to catch up. “Who… who are you?”

The woman’s smile deepened, her head tilting slightly. “Don’t you know? You were calling my name just now.”

Ashara’s jaw slackened as realization struck. “Wait… you’re Selûne?”

The woman nodded, the streaks of grey in her hair momentarily catching the light like threads of pure quicksilver.

Ashara collected herself with difficulty, her eyes narrowing in doubt. “You don’t look like the statues.”

Selûne chuckled, the sound like the chiming of bells in the breeze. “Oh? Were you expecting something more like this?”

Her form rippled like water disturbed by a stone, shifting seamlessly into a new figure. Now she appeared as a dusky-skinned woman of impossible beauty, her wide, radiant lime-green eyes captivating. Her long ivory hair cascaded like a river of silk, and her pure white gown sparkled with crystalline flecks that seemed to catch and hold the starlight.

Ashara’s jaw dropped again, but she quickly snapped it shut, folding her arms as she leaned against the railing with forced nonchalance. “I think I prefer the other you more.”

Selûne’s laugh was warm and genuine as her form shimmered again, returning to the matronly figure. “Very well, moonchild,” she said, her tone gentle. She folded her hands in front of her. “This was the form that nursed you, after all.”

Ashara’s breath caught at the revelation. Her gaze softened, and for the first time, she allowed herself to hope. “You remember me?”

Selûne nodded, her lime-green eyes glowing softly with an affection that felt as vast and endless as the night sky. “Of course I do, little one,” the goddess said, her tone warm yet tinged with sadness. “I only regret that I was unable to help your mother further before she died.”

The words struck a nerve, and Ashara’s expression hardened, her bitterness bubbling to the surface. “You mean before she sacrificed herself to save your precious pantheon,” she said, her voice sharp and scathing.

The matronly goddess straightened slightly, her tone taking on a quiet, reproving edge. “Do not speak lightly of events you have no recollection of, child," she said, her voice steady and kind, though it carried the weight of her authority. “The memory of your mother is a cherished one to me. Her courage inspired many that day - and it is the reason why I stand before you now.”

Ashara’s defiance crumbled beneath the quiet rebuke, shame washing over her like cold water. Her shoulders sagged, and she hung her head, mumbling, “Sorry.”

The quiet was broken by a familiar voice, its deep timbre startling her. “As well you should be, Ashara.”

She spun around to see Onyx standing in the doorway. Behind him, Jaheira, Astarion, and even Rolan stood frozen, their faces a mix of shock and disbelief as they took in the radiant figure in the mirror.

Jaheira’s reaction was immediate and decisive. The druid dropped to her knees, bowing her head with solemn respect. Rolan hesitated for only a moment before following her lead, his expression one of awe.

Astarion, however, remained standing, his crimson eyes narrowing as he stared at the mirror. His lips curled into a cold, bitter smile as he began to walk forward, his movements slow and deliberate. “Centuries,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “I spend centuries in slavery, hoping - praying - for divine intervention. Nothing. Not a whisper. Not a sign. Then, mindflayers kidnap me, and suddenly two deities show up in a single week.” His smile widened, but there was no humor in it. “Isn’t that just—”

Before he could finish, Selûne raised her hand in a swift, fluid motion. Astarion was immediately engulfed in a blinding white light, the glow so intense that Ashara had to shield her eyes. When it faded, he was gone.

Ashara gasped, her body lurching forward instinctively toward the now-empty space where he had stood. Her voice broke into a scream as she whirled back to the mirror, her eyes blazing with fury. “What did you do to him?!”

Selûne remained calm, unperturbed by Ashara’s outburst. Her serene gaze met Ashara’s fiery one with unshakable composure. “A vampire cannot stand in the presence of a goddess,” she said simply, as if explaining a basic truth of the world.

Ashara’s anger boiled over, her fists clenching as she took a step closer to the mirror. “If you’ve hurt him—”

Onyx quickly stepped between her and the mirror, his broad frame blocking her path. “Ashara,” he said firmly, his golden eyes locking onto hers. “Calm yourself. Now.”

She froze, her breath catching at the uncharacteristic sharpness in his tone. Onyx’s gaze softened slightly as he continued, his voice lower but no less authoritative. “That was simply a teleportation spell. Astarion would have been seriously hurt by Selûne’s radiant aura if he had taken another step.”

Ashara blinked, her anger faltering as his words sank in. The fire in her chest cooled rapidly, leaving behind only a wave of embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, and she took a small step back, mumbling, “Oh…”

Onyx turned back to the mirror, bowing his head deeply as he addressed Selûne. “Allow me to beg forgiveness on Ashara’s behalf,” he said solemnly. “She greatly values the life of this vampire.”

Selûne’s gaze shifted to Onyx, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “No forgiveness is needed. Her anger comes from a place of loyalty and love. It is a fire that burns bright within her - it will serve her well, but only if she learns to temper it with wisdom.”

Ashara swallowed, the sting of the goddess’s words settling deep in her chest. “Where did you send him?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

“To the other side of the inn,” Selûne replied with a faint smile. “He is unharmed - though it would be wise for him to learn respect in the future.”

Ashara exhaled shakily, relief washing over her. She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling foolish for her outburst but unwilling to apologize again. Instead, she turned her focus back to the task at hand. “The barrier,” she said, her voice steadying. “Can you help me restore it?”

Selûne’s expression softened further, and she nodded. “Yes, moonchild. But it will require a token of your devotion. Are you willing to give it?”

Ashara hesitated, her fingers brushing absently against the scar on her palm, the faint lines a reminder of countless sacrifices made before. “What kind of token?” she asked cautiously, her voice low.

Instead of answering directly, Selûne turned her glowing gaze to Onyx. Her eyes brightened, their light illuminating the room with an ethereal glow that seemed to bypass the physical world entirely. Onyx stiffened and his ears flicked forward, his golden eyes narrowing briefly before he flattened his ears and bowed low.

“It would be my honor,” he said solemnly.

Ashara’s heart skipped a beat, dread creeping into her chest. She stepped toward him, her brows knitting with concern. “What? What did she say to you?”

Onyx turned to her, his large head lowering to nuzzle her shoulder with a tenderness that only deepened her unease. “I will not be joining you on this quest, Ashara,” he said softly. “I must remain here, to protect the people in this sanctuary.”

Ashara’s world tilted, her breath catching in her throat. “No… no,” she stammered, stepping back as if distance could undo his words. “I need you beside me. We’re a pack.”

Onyx sat back on his haunches, his gaze steady and unwavering as it met hers. “I am not the only one in your pack anymore,” he said softly. “Astarion will help you, as will the others. You must learn to lead them - and trust in your own power.”

Her throat tightened as emotions flooded her, words failing her. She struggled to form a response, but nothing came. Instead, her eyes burned with unshed tears as she stared at him, her chest heaving.

Onyx nuzzled her one last time, the gesture filled with a deep and quiet affection. Then, with a grace that belied his massive size, he turned and stepped toward the mirror. Ashara’s throat tightened as she watched him lie down in front of the shimmering surface, his dark fur gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

He extended his head and Selûne leaned forward, her body passing fluidly through the mirror as though it were water. She kissed the wolf’s forehead, her lips brushing the fur lightly, a silver glow blooming where her touch landed.

Onyx’s tail wagged once, slowly, and a soft, contented sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes. Selûne smiled gently, her form retreating back into the glass, rippling like liquid mercury until only Ashara’s reflection remained.

Her voice broke through the silence, sharp and frantic. “Onyx, what is happening?”

Onyx didn’t respond. Instead, he rose with deliberate calm, his movements carrying an air of finality that made Ashara’s stomach twist. He padded to the edge of the balcony, stepping into the circle of candles that surrounded the ceremonial space. His golden eyes turned upward, fixing on the moon, its light casting him in a spectral glow.

Ashara watched helplessly as he tilted his head back, and a long, mournful howl tore from his throat. The sound was haunting, laced with an aching beauty that sent shivers cascading down her spine. It rose and fell in undulating waves, carrying with it the weight of something ancient and sacred.

As the final notes of the howl faded into silence, a soft, silver glow began to spread from the spot where Selûne had kissed him. The light moved like liquid, cascading over his dark fur in streams of shimmering mercury. Ashara’s breath hitched, her feet rooted to the ground as she watched, her mind struggling to process what was happening.

“Onyx…” Ashara whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the growing energy.

Before she could take another step, the silver overtook him completely, encasing his form in a shell of glimmering metal. In mere moments, Onyx stood frozen, a solid silver statue caught mid-howl. His body radiated a quiet power, the details of his fur, his muscles, and even the faint tilt of his ears captured with eerie precision. The sight stole the air from Ashara’s lungs, and her knees threatened to buckle.

Before she could approach him, a sudden ripple of energy burst outward from Onyx’s statue-like form. It moved with a soundless force, sweeping through the inn and beyond, dissipating the Frostfire barrier in an instant. In its place, a protective dome of moonlight unfurled, encasing the grounds of the sanctuary in the same silvery glow that had greeted them when they first arrived.

Ashara stumbled forward, her hands trembling as they hovered near the statue. “Onyx…” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the barrier. She pressed her hands against the cold, smooth silver, her forehead resting against it as her tears fell freely. “You didn’t have to do this…”

Behind her, Jaheira spoke softly, her voice filled with reverence. “He has ensured the safety of everyone here, Ashara. Now it is up to us to ensure he does not remain this way for eternity.”

Ashara didn’t turn. Her fingers curled against the statue, her nails scraping lightly as though she could somehow undo the transformation through sheer willpower. “He's my family,” she said hoarsely. “How am I supposed to do this without him?”

A familiar voice cut through the thick haze of her grief, cool and composed. “With us by your side, naturally.”

Ashara turned sharply, her eyes still wet but blazing with emotion. Astarion stood in the doorway, Rolan just behind him. His posture was calm, his eyes sharp and unwavering as they met hers. “You seem to keep forgetting you’re not alone in this,” he said, closing the distance between them.

As soon as he reached her, he pulled her into a firm, steadying embrace. Ashara gripped him tightly, her nails catching the fabric of his shirt as she buried her face against his chest. Her breaths came in shuddering waves, the weight of responsibility pressing down like a collapsing sky.

She drew in a deep breath, letting his scent and sound of his slow heartbeat center her. The weight didn’t vanish, but it ebbed just enough for her to find her footing again. Determination sparked within her, igniting like embers catching a breeze. She straightened, pulling back from his embrace but lingering close enough to draw strength from his presence. Her gaze met his, hard and unwavering now, the fire in her eyes reflected in his.

“I’m going to get our friends and Isobel back,” she said, her voice firm, each word punctuated with unshakable purpose. “And I’m going to destroy this cult. Once and for all. Are you with me?"

Astarion studied her for a moment, his lips quirking into a sharp grin. Whatever he saw in her eyes was enough to stoke his own sense of purpose. “Darling,” he said smoothly, his voice laced with dark amusement, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Text

The air hung heavy, sharp with the smell of rot, clinging to Astarion's throat as he gazed out across the twisted landscape that festered like an open wound below him.

Ghostly green mist curled upward from the cracked earth, writhing through jagged fissures as though something unspeakable was trying to escape. The trees that lined the crooked flagstone road in front of him looked more like tortured silhouettes of men than flora.

From atop the ridge he and his companions had chosen as their vantage point, Astarion squinted down at the caravan creeping along towards them, the uneven lantern light catching on crude shapes of goblins and the creature leading them.

It skittered forward like a nightmare come to life. The drider's upper half held an unnatural elegance - pale, sinewed skin stretched tight across a drow's upper torso, the flesh warped with chitinous ridges and fresh scars.

Its face, once elven and framed by bone white hair, bore too many eyes that blinked without rhythm, staring into places no sane creature dared look. The slick gleam of blood-streaked flesh caught the faint glow, highlighting muscle, scars, and thin veins that traced sickly patterns across its torso.

From the waist down, the elf's lithe body contorted into a grotesque arachnid shell. A bulbous abdomen swelled behind, armored and pulsing faintly in rhythm with its movements. Jagged, segmented spider limbs, thick with grime and dark ichor, extended outward like living spears. In it's hands it clutched a crooked staff topped with a flickering lantern, the white light slashing at the dark in feverish patterns.

Beside Astarion, Ashara crouched low, the sharp angles of her face highlighted by the faint blue glow of her Frostfire torch. Her whisper seemed to hover in the air.“Seeing that thing up close… I don’t blame Vaarl for running.”

Astarion glanced at her, noting the glint of fascination in her eyes. The irony didn’t escape him. Here was a woman who wouldn’t blink at monsters, yet drop her into a crowded tavern with too many smiling strangers, and she’d tuck herself behind him like some waifish orphan. The thought amused him more than it should.

A faint groan broke the quiet. Rolan sat hunched over, one hand clutching his temple like he could squeeze the headache out through sheer will. “Please tell me I’m still drunk, and that thing is just a very detailed hallucination.”

Astarion leaned closer with a theatrical whisper. “Oh, I’ve no doubt you’re still drunk - however, that thing is very real, I’m afraid.”

Ashara shot the tiefling a sideways glance, irritation wrinkling her nose. “Why is he even here? He’s no use to us in this state.”

Rolan’s head jerked up. His bleary glare found her immediately. “I am sitting right here, you know.”

“I know,” Ashara said flatly. “And I don’t care.”

Astarion bit back a grin, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of their petty bickering. “Now, now, children. Let’s save our hostility for the nightmare fuell down there, shall we?"

Rolan grumbled something incoherent, his eyes still on Ashara. “Look, if this is about me attacking Astarion, I already apologized for that.”

Astarion raised a brow, lounging further into the incline of the ridge. “Now you mention it, I don’t seem to remember you actually apologizing.”

“The healing spell wasn’t enough for you?” Rolan shot back, his voice thin with exasperation.

Ashara snorted, sharp as a blade being drawn. “No, that’s just fixing your mistake.”

Rolan glanced over her head at Astarion, who only shrugged, unwilling to lend a hand at softening Ashara's ire.

“Fine,” Rolan muttered, his tone sour as spoiled wine. “I apologize for assuming the vampire traveling with a bunch of murderers was evil.”

Ashara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “That’s not a proper apology.”

“Too bad. That’s all you’re getting,” Rolan snapped back.

“Listen here, you pompous, walking wine bottle—”

The ridge echoed with a sudden bark of sound. “Oi! Are you lot gonna stop arguing and show yourselves, or are we gonna ‘ave to drag you out by yer ankles?”

The words sliced through the squabble like an executioner’s axe and the three of them froze. The goblins below were spreading out, torchlight spilling orange across the flagstones. Ashara broke the silence with a small, sheepish whisper. “Whoops…”

“Brilliant. So much for stealth.” Astarion sighed dramatically, pressing his back to a nearby boulder as he peered down at the drider. It had stopped moving, its lantern swaying lazily as though waiting, its eyes turned toward the ridge.

The goblins’ voices grew louder, closer, a mix of shouts and grunts. One gestured with its torch, the firelight dancing across the warped trunks of the nearby trees. Rolan pushed himself upright with a groan, his knuckles whitening on his sword hilt. “Do we really have to do this?”

Ashara turned sharply to him. “You are free to leave whenever you want.” The words hissed through her teeth, barely above a whisper, but sharp enough to snap the young mages jaw shut.

Astarion smiled faintly, his amusement brief before he straightened. He swept dust from his coat and stepped boldly into view, hands raised in the universal language of Don’t shoot me. His confident stride carried him down from the shadowed ridge, the heels of his boots whispering against the dead leaves underfoot.

“No need for alarm, my friends,” Astarion called, his voice all false warmth and honeyed tones. “We thought you were Harpers lurking about - nasty lot. They’ve been hunting True Souls like my good self all over these lands.”

The goblins faltered, their heads swiveling toward one another. The torches dipped, their flickering light revealing suspicion, confusion, fear. Astarion could practically smell their hesitation.

But the drider reacted differently. It lifted its lantern higher, the ghostly light spilling out, silver and unreal. Its twisted mouth stretched into something resembling interest, a cruel amusement tugging at its grotesque features.

“Someone in the dark, mistress,” it called, the words scraping like shards of glass. “Step into the light! Let us see you.”

From behind, boots crunched dry bark. Rolan and Ashara stepped into view beside Astarion, their weapons half-raised in uneasy readiness. Rolan shot Astarion a glare through the corner of his eye. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Astarion grimaced faintly. “So do I.”

Together, they walked down the slope toward the caravan, brittle underbrush snapping like bones underfoot. The drider loomed larger with every step, its monstrous form towering over them, its lantern swaying hypnotically. Astarion forced himself to look up, his crimson eyes locking onto the creature’s.

Then came the whisper. A tickle - familiar and unwelcome - scratched at the back of his mind, curling like smoke through a cracked window. Astarion reached for it cautiously, his tadpole unfurling toward the drider’s fractured thoughts. The Absolute’s whisper? Or the deranged echo of it's own ruined mind? It was impossible to tell. But amidst the chaos, a name surfaced like a drowned thing clawing for air. Kar’niss.

The drider hissed, almost happily, the noise crawling down Astarion’s spine. “One of your True Souls, my Queen! How have they survived?”

Astarion slipped the mask of confidence over his unease and flashed a sharp, pointed smile. “The Absolute protected me, of course. And my… servants.” He gestured vaguely behind him, his voice dripping with mock reverence.

Rolan let out a short, indignant scoff - low, guttural, and immediately regretted - though the goblins, thankfully distracted, failed to notice.

The drider stepped closer, his lantern swinging almost hungrily. “You blessed them too, my Queen?” Kar’niss crooned, his voice trembling. “Where is their lantern?”

Astarion’s gaze flicked to the lantern Kar’niss clutched protectively, a ghostly glow seeping through its cracked glass. Inside, something fluttered - small, shapeless, and frantic. A curious piece of the puzzle. His eyes narrowed as he decided to take a gamble.

Bluffing imperiously, he tilted his chin. “Our wondrous Queen dropped me a message - divine whispers, you understand. She said you need to give me that lantern. It’s very important.”

For the briefest moment, the drider froze. Then his expression twisted. Kar’niss recoiled with a shudder, clutching the lantern closer like a child clutching a toy.

“But majesty,” he whimpered, his many legs shifting in agitation, “you gave this lantern to me. You said it was mine!”

The drider’s head jerked sharply, his neck clicking, as though trying to shake something loose. His mouth split into a deep snarl, revealing rows of jagged teeth. “No. We will keep your gift. Drive this false one back into the dark!”

Astarion sighed theatrically, realising he'd overplayed his hand. “Oh well,” he muttered. “It was worth a try.”

In a single movement, he flicked his wrist. The dagger he’d palmed shot forward, the blade glinting like a falling star before sinking into Kar’niss’ chest with a dull thunk. The drider reared back, his shriek splitting the air, sharp and metallic.

Without pause, Astarion’s hands dropped to his belt. Twin hand-crossbows - gifts from Jaheira - cleared their holsters. He raised both with fluid precision, fangs flashing in satisfaction, and loosed the bolts. The arrows struck true, burying deep into the creature’s abdomen with the sound of punctured flesh.

Kar’niss howled, a sound that rattled through the air like a frenzied storm. Astarion’s lips curled into a wicked grin as he stepped back, already preparing for the chaos to come as the drider unsheathed a gleaming longsword.

The drider turned with unnatural speed, the blade thrusting toward Astarion’s midsection. He barely sidestepped, his reflexes keeping him a breath ahead of the strike.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, darling,” he taunted, though his crimson eyes narrowed, taking stock of Kar’niss’s speed and reach. The creature was fast, far too fast for its size.

Rolan raised a trembling hand. “Ignis!” A spark of flame streaked toward the drider’s back, striking harmlessly against its chitinous armor. Kar’niss didn’t even flinch, his focus fixed entirely on Astarion.

The vampire ducked low, his feet sliding across loose gravel as Kar’niss lunged again. “For gods sake, Rolan - aim!” Astarion snarled, his breath ragged as he twisted past another sweeping strike. The drider’s massive sword clipped his shoulder, the impact sending him spinning. Pain lanced through him, but he gritted his teeth, ignoring the flare of heat spreading down his arm.

Meanwhile, the goblins erupted into movement, snarling and cursing as they rushed forward, torches flaring.

Ashara was already on the move, her bow drawn and steady. The first goblin fell with an arrow buried in its eye socket, the corpse crumpling mid-sprint. The second barely managed a shout before another arrow lodged itself in its throat, silencing it in a gurgle of blood.

Her movements were quick and precise, every shot finding its mark. A third goblin - smaller and faster - charged closer with a rusted axe, but Ashara rolled cleanly off her perch, spun low, and fired point-blank. The arrow thudded into its chest with a hollow crack. It fell where it stood, twitching.

Astarion slipped through the chaos, movements fluid and predatory as he holstered the crossbows and drew his sword. “Rolan, if you’re done nursing your hangover, I could use a distraction,” he called out urgently to the tiefling.

Rolan groaned and stumbled slightly as he raised a trembling hand. His bloodshot eyes glowed faintly with magic as he cast Mage Armour over himself. The shimmering barrier hugged close to his form before fading into transparency.

Kar’niss snarled, his legs clattering as he charged again. Astarion ducked low, slipping beneath the drider’s guard and slicing at the joint of one limb. Dark ichor spattered across the stone as the severed leg dropped, twitching. Kar’niss howled, spinning to lash out with his sword.

Astarion dove aside just as the creature’s front limbs gouged deep into the spot where he had been. Pebbles and dirt sprayed into the air. “By the nine hells, someone please distract him!” he shouted, narrowly avoiding another swipe.

“I’m trying,” Rolan growled. Another burst of fire erupted from his fingertips and struck Kar’niss square in the side of his face. The flames licked at his pale skin, leaving a charred patch across his jaw. The drider shrieked and staggered, his hands flailing protectively, though the fire did little to slow him.

“I will split you open!” the drider howled, lunging at Rolan.

The distraction gave Astarion the moment he needed. He darted forward, his movements quick, sharp, and deliberate - each strike aimed to sever. One swing sliced into a joint where the spider limb connected to the torso, black ichor spraying like hot tar. The drider howled, flinching, but Astarion didn’t relent. He twisted, rolling beneath the drider’s next strike and driving his sword deep into another joint.

Ashara dropped another goblin with a shot through the chest, then pivoted smoothly, her next arrow finding the neck of another as it lunged at her. She pulled the string taut again, sweat glistening on her brow as her movements remained sharp and precise. “Goblins are down!” she shouted.

“Focus on the drider!” Astarion barked back.

Kar’niss reared and thrashed, dislodging Astarion with a force that sent him tumbling. He landed hard, his breath catching as the drider loomed over him, blade raised high. Before the blow could fall, Rolan shouted, “Detono!”

The concussive thunderwave rippled outward, throwing the drider backward into a jagged rock face. A sickening crunch followed as two more of Kar’niss’s legs snapped, leaving him crumpled and broken on the ground. The lantern clattered to the ground, its glow dimming as it rolled out of reach. Kar’niss froze, his many eyes fixating on it with an expression almost human in its despair.

“No…” he cried, his voice breaking. “My light…”

Astarion circled, his movements slow and predatory, his sword ready for the finishing blow. But the drider seemed to forget him entirely, his trembling hands reaching for the fallen lantern.

To his surprise, Ashara stepped past him, her sword drawn but lowered. She approached Kar’niss with slow, deliberate steps, her face calm yet unreadable.

Rolan wiped his mouth, panting and leaning on his sword. “Well? What are you waiting for? Finish it.”

Ashara didn’t answer. Instead, she sheathed her blade with a faint snick, stooped, and picked up the lantern. Its glow bathed her face as she turned back toward Kar’niss, who lay sprawled on his back, reaching out with shaking hands. The drider’s many eyes reflected desperation, a sorrow that seemed endless as he looked up at her.

“Why…” he rasped. “Why has my goddess forsaken me? Did I displease her?”

Blood bubbled at his lips. He coughed weakly, his chest rattling, the sound of it raw in the stillness. Astarion frowned, uneasy. “Ashara, what are you doing?”

Ashara ignored him. She knelt beside the drider, setting the lantern down next to him. Kar’niss’s many eyes turned up toward her, reflecting confusion, sorrow, and a glimmer of something… softer. Tears spilled from his elven eyes, mingling with the blood at the corners of his mouth. “It hurts…” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Make it stop hurting. Please.”

To Astarion’s shock, Ashara settled onto the ground and lifted the driders head into her lap. Kar’niss flinched at first, hissing in a feeble threat, but her gentle touch disarmed him. Her fingers brushed through the filthy strands of his hair, and she began to hum - a soft, lilting tune that drifted like a ghost across the battlefield.

Her other hand hovered over his chest, and blue light blossomed from her palm. The magic poured over him, soft and cold, as though winter itself seeped through her skin.

Kar’niss stilled beneath her touch, his ragged breathing slowing. “That song…” he murmured, his voice faint. “I've heard it before… in Menzoberranzan."

His broken, bleeding form trembled as memories seemed to stir behind his fractured eyes. “I remember… who I was before… before this curse…”

Astarion stepped forward, tense. “Ashara, this is—”

He stopped as he noticed the frost creeping up Kar’niss’s body. Thin tendrils of ice snaked over his torso, glittering in the dim lantern light. His breathing slowed, each exhale turning to mist in the cold air. His face softened, as though peace finally found him.

“Thank you…” Kar’niss whispered. His last breath left his body like a sigh, and the ice climbed until it claimed his entire form. In moments, he was still, frozen solid, a fragile statue of frost and grief.

Ashara sat back slightly, her hand lowering to her side. She stared down at the drider’s lifeless form, her expression hollow.

Astarion stepped forward, the soft crunch of his boots on frostbitten ground the only sound until his voice sliced through the thick silence. “What in the hells was that?”

His tone was sharp, though curiosity softened the edge, his crimson eyes narrowing as they flickered between Ashara and the frozen corpse of the drider.

Ashara rose slowly from where she knelt, her movements deliberate, as though the weight of what had just transpired was pressing down on her shoulders. She swiped her hands over her cloak, smearing away streaks of icy residue, before lifting her gaze to meet Astarion’s. The calmness in her expression was disarming - tired, yes, but steady as a stone that had weathered countless storms.

“It was mercy,” she said, the words quiet yet firm, as if they were an answer not just to him, but to some unspoken question within herself.

“Mercy,” Astarion echoed, his lip curling slightly in disbelief. He gestured with a sharp flick of his hand toward the drider, still clutching the lantern in his frozen hands. “It was reckless. He could’ve hurt you in the blink of - well, an unsettling amount of eyes.”

Ashara’s lips twitched faintly, though her eyes remained fixed on the drider. “He had no strength left to harm me.” Her voice softened as her gaze lingered, tracing the fractured, ice-crusted form. “In the end… I don’t think he even wanted to fight us anymore.”

“Right,” Rolan interjected, his tone dripping with dry humor as he approached the drider, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to fight either if most of my limbs had been hacked off.”

He kicked a chunk of severed chitin with the tip of his boot, the piece skidding across the stones.

Ashara turned to glare at him, but Rolan had already crouched to examine the drider’s lantern, its light now dimming as if unsure of its purpose. Before anyone could speak, a voice - tiny, sharp, and unmistakably female - crackled from within, startling them all.

“Me oh my, oh my oh me! Won’t you help me? Set me free?”

Rolan jerked back, blinking at the lantern like it might grow legs. “What in the nine hells?!” He turned his head slowly toward Astarion and Ashara, his brows raised. “I think there’s a pixie in here.”

Astarion straightened, his brows lifting in genuine surprise. “An honest-to-goodness pixie? Really?” His voice held a mix of incredulity and faint impish delight.

The voice wailed again, louder this time, its sing-song tone laced with desperation. “Oh please, oh golly, me-oh-my! You must release me or I’ll die! This lantern only lights the way when I am hurting night and day!”

Ashara winced, her brow furrowing. “Uh oh. We’d better release her. Quick.”

Astarion shot her a sideways glance, arching a brow. “Why the rush? We might need this lantern to avoid any awkward questions about how we managed to survive the shadows."

Ashara rolled her shoulders, the leather of her armor creaking faintly as she cracked her knuckles one at a time. She looked at him with the focused intent of someone about to start a barroom brawl.

“Trust me,” she said flatly. “You don’t want to get on the bad side of a pixie. If she gets out somehow and remembers that we refused to free her…”

“Fine,” Astarion sighed theatrically, tossing his hands up. “Rolan, let her out. I’d hate for our deaths to be blamed on pixie vengeance.”

Rolan muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the lantern’s latch. The moment it clicked the lantern burst open in a flash of dazzling light. A streak of purple energy shot upward like a firework, swirling and sputtering until it coalesced into a small, glowing figure hovering midair.

The pixie blinked once, twice, and then threw her arms wide, releasing a shout that echoed through the clearing. “FINALLY!” Her voice was loud, coarse, and startlingly crass. “Been trapped in that coffin with no one but a mad drider and my own farts for company!”

Astarion, caught mid-scoff, froze, his expression flickering from smug amusement to wide-eyed disbelief. He blinked rapidly. “Oh my... That was quite a tone shift.”

Ashara stepped forward, her gaze steady on the pixie, who was now hovering a few feet above them, hands on her tiny hips. “Did me a good turn there, didn’t you?” the pixie said, jabbing a finger at Ashara. “What do I owe you?”

Ashara folded her arms, her tone direct. “Can you help us against the shadow curse?”

The pixie smirked, wings beating lazily as her glow flickered like a mischievous flame. “Oh, I can. But will I?”

“Yes, you will, you little shit,” Ashara said flatly, her voice dropping like an axe.

Astarion’s head snapped toward her, his eyes widening. He blinked, stunned into silence as a laugh threatened to bubble up in his throat. Did she just swear?

The pixie hovered closer, her glow intensifying as she sneered. “Oh, look at the little bint who thinks she’s so tough! Well, you can kiss my glowing arse!”

Ashara’s jaw clenched. Without missing a beat, she shot back, “And you can &#%!@.”

Both of them were leaning in, noses nearly touching, their voices rising as insults flew like daggers.

“You dull fleck of light!”

“Half-wit hedge witch!”

“Glowbug in a dress!”

“Two-legged dung heap!”

The battle of words crescendoed, curses spilling from Ashara that would have made even a duergar sailor blush. Words flew faster than Astarion could process, a hurricane of vitriol and colorful imagery so absurd it left his jaw hanging.

Astarion exchanged a look with Rolan, a slow grin spreading across his face despite his shock. “This is fantastic.”

Rolan, equally stunned, shook his head. “I’m not sure if we should stop this or cheer it on.”

“I didn’t even know she knew words like that.”

The pixie reeled back suddenly, laughter bursting from her like a dam breaking. She clutched her sides mid-air, gasping as if the sheer force of her cackling had winded her.

“Shards!” she wheezed, spinning erratically as her wings fluttered. “I haven’t had a roast like that in bloody ages!”

Ashara remained stoic, arms crossed, though her cheeks flushed faintly under the praise.

The pixie shot forward, tapping Ashara’s nose with a glowing hand. “I like you. You’ve got spunk.” A small metal bell materialized in the air beside her, glinting faintly with enchantment. “Here, take this.”

The bell hovered, suspended by some invisible force, until Ashara reached out to pluck it delicately from the air.

“What does it do?” she asked, tucking it carefully into her pocket.

The pixie twirled in the air, her grin sharp and knowing. “Give it a shake, speak the magic words, and you’ll get what you’ve earned - protection from the shadow curse. What more could a bunch of dinguses want?”

Ashara nodded, her voice softening. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” the pixie shot back cheerfully before vanishing in a burst of golden sparks, leaving behind the faint scent of wildflowers and a trail of glittering motes.

Astarion exhaled through his nose, his sharp grin curling back into place as he turned to Ashara. There was a glint of mischief in his gaze, like a cat that had cornered something particularly interesting.

“Darling,” he drawled, voice rich with amusement, “I don’t know what surprises me more - the pixie’s foul mouth or yours.”

Ashara paused, an arrow halfway into her quiver, and turned to regard him with a nonchalant shrug. “There were pixies near where I grew up,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “I learned how to talk to them - and how much they enjoy a good battle of insults.”

The admission was casual, but Astarion caught the faint shift in her voice, the trace of something almost nostalgic lurking beneath.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, stepping closer. He leaned in, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Now there’s just one thing I’d like to know.”

His narrowed gaze met hers, a teasing lilt curling through his words. “Do you know what any of those delightfully colorful words you used actually mean?”

For the briefest moment, Ashara's composure cracked - her mouth opened slightly as though she had an answer ready, but hesitation stalled her tongue. Then, very deliberately, she snapped her mouth shut. She looked down and away, suddenly very interested in the dirt at her boots.

“Not really,” she admitted, her voice low, almost sheepish. “I picked them up from the pixies, but Onyx told me it wasn’t a good idea to use them in public.”

Rolan, still recovering from the spectacle, chuckled as he bent to wipe some stray ichor from his sword. “Well, I can agree with your earlier comment now.” He glanced toward Ashara with a lopsided grin, the weariness in his face softening into genuine humor. “You’re definitely not a lady.”

Ashara shot him a look that danced on the edge of annoyance, though the faintest tug at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement. A sound escaped her - soft, breathy, something between a snort and a chuckle - as she turned and strode toward the battlefield to retrieve her arrows.

The sudden quiet that followed was broken only by the whistle of wind through broken branches and the faint clink of spent arrows being pulled free. Astarion, watching her carefully, let his grin linger for a beat longer before turning to Rolan. His approach was soundless, his lean form sliding close with a conspiratorial air.

He pitched his voice low, to ensure Ashara wouldn't hear him. “Rolan, if you ever see her pick up a dictionary,” he muttered, his tone deadpan but dripping with humor, “firebolt it at once.”

The towering structure of Moonrise Towers loomed ahead, its sharp angles and ancient stonework clawing upward like the skeletal remains of some forgotten titan. The main gate - an immense arch flanked by two crumbling towers - looked ready to swallow anyone who dared approach. Thick fog clung to the base of the towers, slithering like spectral snakes around the flagstones.

Guards flanked the foot of the wide staircase leading up to the main entrance, standing stiff in darkened plate and blue robes, their helms obscuring all humanity. Around them prowled ghouls - ghastly creatures, skeletal and sinewed, their beady eyes glinting faintly in the dim light as they moved with predatory intent.

Ashara stared up at the massive stone steps, every instinct in her body screaming to turn and run. Instead, her gaze shifted to Astarion, who moved ahead with his usual poise - head high, shoulders squared, each step deliberate and confident, as though he belonged here. He walked with the casual arrogance of someone who expected doors to open and strangers to welcome him with open arms.

How does he do it? Ashara wondered, watching him with a mix of admiration and envy. He had a gift, one she could never replicate - slipping into a role so naturally it was as though the mask were his true face. A flicker of doubt pulled her gaze downward, where her fingers fidgeted absently with the fur lining of her cloak, smoothing it again and again.

Their disguises were convincing, if not particularly comfortable - clothing that the Harpers had scavenged from corpses a few days prior to her groups arrival at Last Light

Beneath her cloak, Ashara wore dark, fitted leather trousers tucked into knee-high boots, the sturdy hide reinforced at the knees and laces pulled taut. Her sleeveless dark red tunic, cinched at the waist with a pair of sleek belts, sat snug beneath a leather gorget—bearing the Absolutist symbol carved on it's surface. A quiver, well-oiled and polished, rested across her back alongside her bow, and fingerless leather gloves hugged her hands, trimmed with the bones of some unidentified creature. Even her hair had been brushed and slicked back into a severe ponytail.

The result was a far cry from her usual ranger leathers - and the fit was tighter than she was used to - but, according to Astarion, now she didn't look like an 'eccentric hermit.'

To her left, Rolan cut an imposing figure, though his scowl ruined the effect somewhat. He wore dark crimson mage robes, lined with golden stitched-in runic trim - robes that swept around his legs as he walked, and thick enough to provide protection without appearing ceremonial.

A few overlapping pieces of blackened plate, strapped across his shoulders and forearms combined with scaled metal gauntlets, lent him a rugged, battle-ready appearance.

And then there was Astarion. Of course, he managed to make his outfit look intentional, even stylish. His fitted leather armor hugged his form, a dark, tailored ensemble adorned with layered fabrics of midnight blue and blood-red that managed to look far finer than the ransacked gear should have allowed.

Every buckle and strap seemed purposeful, every seam clean, as though he’d commissioned the outfit himself. A crimson sash tied carelessly at his waist gave him a roguish air, while the Absolutist medallion on his chest looked like a mark of authority rather than blind servitude.

The man practically glowed with confidence, his silver hair catching the faint light like spun silk.

Ashara exhaled sharply through her nose, dragging her attention back to the castle ahead. She glanced toward the guards, their stillness unnerving, and then back to Astarion as he approached them without hesitation. He moved as though the very air bent to accommodate him - fluid and deliberate, each step planting itself like a statement.

Astarion reached the first guard, his smile spreading like oil across water as he came to a stop. “Greetings,” he greeted smoothly, his tone disarming yet edged with just enough authority to imply he was one of them. “No need for concern. We’re on important business for the Absolute.”

The guards shifted, heavy helms tilting ever so slightly toward him, while the ghouls slinked closer, their heads tilting at unnatural angles as though sniffing for deceit. Ashara felt her pulse quicken, her grip tightening around the strap of her bow as she forced herself to stay still.

Rolan muttered under his breath, a string of words too low for her to catch, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He was readying something, just in case.

One guard held up his hand, his voice sharp and commanding. "Halt right there."

He placed his hand near his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Astarion jerked his head slightly before also closing his eyes. Ashara guessed they were both communicating via the tadpole and shifted uncomfortably, fervently hoping Astarion didn't inadvertently reveal their intentions.

However, the when the guard opened his eyes again, there was a smile on his face. "Ah, one blessed like myself. What news True Soul?"

Astarion, unfazed, stepped closer to the guards. “Nothing much from the field I'm sorry to say. What news inside? Have any other True Souls come this way recently? Only we were separated from our illustrious leader - white dragonborn, goes by the name Durge."

The guard's smile lingered, toothy and unsettling beneath the shadow of his helm. “You’re in luck,” he said. “They entered Moonrise not more than a few hours ago. From what I hear, they created quite the impression.”

Ashara didn’t miss the subtle shift in Astarion’s posture. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, a flicker of tension that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know him. His smile remained firmly in place, sharp and calculated as he purred, “Oh, I’m sure they did.”

As she shifted her weight, Ashara's attention snapped to Rolan as he stiffened beside her. His hands curled into tight fists, and she could see the faint shimmer of magic sparking across his knuckles. His stance was taut, his body leaning forward as though ready to launch into a fight neither of them could win.

Ashara’s instincts kicked in before her mind could catch up. Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist in a firm grip. The warmth of his magic pulsed faintly against her skin, and she felt him freeze, turning his head slightly to glare at her from the corner of his eye.

His sharp look was laced with irritation, but she held firm, her own gaze steady and commanding. Slowly, reluctantly, the glow in his hand faded, and she felt the tension bleed out of his arm.

The guards didn’t seem to notice the exchange, their focus still fixed on Astarion as he spoke over his shoulder to her and Rolan. "I’m sure True Soul Durge will be busy introducing himself to all sorts of important people and won’t want us interrupting. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to familiarize ourselves with the layout of the castle.”

Ashara caught the faint edge in his tone, the careful calculation hidden beneath his polished words. She knew Astarion well enough now to recognize the subtle maneuvering in his voice, the way he was already shaping the conversation to suit his needs.

He directed his attention back toward the guards, his smile still perfectly intact. “You have no objections to us taking a stroll around the perimeter, do you? It’s more than likely where we’ll be assigned, seeing as we made the mistake of getting lost.”

The guard gave a gruff chuckle, his posture relaxing slightly. “Of course. We all have our part to play for the Absolute. Guard duty may not be as fulfilling as most jobs, but it’s still important. Be careful round the west side, though - some damage left over from the last siege. Walls are a bit unstable and held together with vines, so mind how you go and keep an eye out for falling rubble.”

Astarion inclined his head in an elegant bow, a flourish to the motion that made Ashara roll her eyes internally. “We will keep that in mind. Thank you,” he said, his voice dripping with charm.

As he turned back toward them, his gaze landed on her - and her still-clasped hand around Rolan’s wrist. His crimson eyes narrowed faintly, the look sharp enough to send a ripple of discomfort through her. Ashara quickly let go, her fingers twitching as if burned, and shifted her weight to feign casual indifference.

“Let’s take a little walk around the west side, shall we?” Astarion said smoothly, his tone light but carrying a note of tension.

Rolan’s scowl deepened, his irritation bubbling to the surface. “We’re not going inside?” he asked, his tone clipped.

Astarion’s smile turned sly, almost conspiratorial, as they began moving away from the guards and up the path. “Oh, we are. Just not through the front door.”

Ashara fell into step beside him, her boots scuffing lightly against the uneven stones as she kept her focus forward. The tension between Rolan and Astarion still seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, but she knew better than to draw attention to it.

The jagged silhouette of the castle loomed larger with every step, its broken battlements and towering spires stretching skyward like the fingers of a corpse reaching for salvation. The further they walked, the quieter it became, the oppressive stillness broken only by the faint cries of distant carrion birds.

The ruined path stretched out ahead of them, ending abruptly where the stones crumbled into a gaping chasm. Darkness swallowed whatever lay beneath, the drop so steep it felt as though the earth had opened its jaws wide and waited for them to stumble.

Above, thick vines twisted across the remnants of stone, holding together sections of broken walkway as if the earth itself had risen up to cradle the ruins. Far above even that was a balcony, its crenulated parapets silhouetted against the faint, eerie glow of torchlight.

Ashara craned her neck to peer at the balcony, her sharp eyes following its precarious perch and connecting the dots to Astarion’s intent. She sighed softly, her breath visible in the chill air.

“Are you sure you’re able to reach that?” she asked, her voice low but tinged with skepticism.

Astarion scoffed, throwing her a sidelong glance over his shoulder. His expression radiated confidence, his grin as sharp as the daggers at his sides. “Please,” he said, his voice lilting with mock offense. “This is child’s play for a vampire.”

But then his grin widened, a glint of mischief sparking in his crimson eyes. “Though,” he added with deliberate slowness, “a little energy boost would certainly increase my chances.”

Rolan, who had been quietly inspecting the edge of the crumbled path, scowled and straightened. His voice was a low growl. “You’re not getting any more of my blood, leech.”

Astarion pressed a hand to his chest, mock offense dripping from his tone. “But it was so delicious,” he drawled, his grin turning wicked as he eyed Rolan.

Before Rolan could fire back, Ashara stepped forward. Her voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, as she said, “If you need some, I don’t mind.”

Astarion blinked, his grin faltering for just an instant - a flicker of hesitation that Ashara caught and held in her gaze. She reached up, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear before tilting her head slightly to the side.

She smiled faintly, a touch of mischief dancing on her lips. “I won’t bite back,” she quipped lightly, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

For a moment, Astarion didn’t respond, his gaze flickering over her face and neck like he was weighing something unseen. Then, his signature smirk returned, sharp and bright as a blade in the moonlight. He stepped closer, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, the weight of them steady but unthreatening.

His voice softened as he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. “Onyx will probably bite my head off if he hears about this.”

The mention of Onyx sent a ripple through her - a flicker of sadness that tightened her chest. She pushed it down, burying the ache beneath a steady smile. “I won’t tell him if you don’t,” she replied, her voice soft but unwavering.

“Very well,” he chuckled, leaning closer. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ashara shivered slightly as his fangs brushed her skin and she heard him murmur, almost tenderly, “I promise to be as gentle as I can.”

“Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the way her pulse quickened beneath his touch. “I trust you.”

The bite came swiftly, the sensation sharp and cold, like shards of ice pressing against her throat. She sucked in a quick breath, her fists clenching instinctively at her sides. But just as quickly as the pain came, it faded, melting into a strange, numbing warmth that spread through her veins like liquid silver.

Ashara felt his grip on her shoulders tighten for a moment, his fingers curling reflexively as he drank. There was a faint hum of pleasure that radiated from him, reverberating faintly against her skin, almost like a purr.

However he didn’t linger long. With a deliberate slowness, he pulled back, licking the faint wounds to seal them before stepping away.

His expression startled her. His crimson eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling as though he’d just surfaced from deep waters. For once, he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then, breathless, he said, “That… that was incredible.”

Ashara blinked, caught off guard by the awe in his voice. Her lips twitched upward into a faint smile, her earlier tension fading into amusement. “Must be my high-quality bloodline,” she joked, her tone light.

Astarion barked a laugh, his composure snapping back into place as quickly as it had faltered. He smirked, turning to Rolan with a mockingly pitying look. “Your blood is a cheap wine in comparison to Ashara’s.”

Rolan crossed his arms, glaring at Astarion though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so glad to be insulted before,” he retorted dryly.

Ashara chuckled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing as the moment passed. Astarion turned back toward the balcony above, his movements more energized now, and flashed them both a dazzling grin. “Now,” he said, adjusting his stance like a predator ready to pounce, “let’s see how far this boost can take me.”

Ashara slipped a coil of rope from her pack, the rough hemp fibers brushing against her palms as she studied the distance to the balcony above. “Do you reckon that’s under fifty feet?” she asked, tilting her head as she gauged the distance.

Astarion took the rope from her, his movements smooth and deliberate. He glanced up, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “No idea,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Without waiting for a reply, he crouched low, his body coiling like a spring, every muscle sharp with intent. And then, with the grace of a panther unleashed, he leapt forward.

Ashara flinched, startled by the sudden burst of movement. Her breath caught in her throat as Astarion vaulted onto the first slab of broken pathway. He barely paused, his boots skimming the surface before he propelled himself upward again. He reached for a thick vine that jutted out like a lifeline, gripping it with ease and swinging upward with a strength that belied his slender frame.

His boots landed silently on a precarious slab of stone, which tilted dangerously under his weight, but he didn’t hesitate.With another graceful leap, he propelled himself higher, climbing with the practiced agility that was almost feline in it's precision.

Ashara felt her heart climb into her throat as he reached the last stretch. With one final push, he launched himself upward, his body twisting midair like a ribbon caught in the wind, before landing lightly on the balcony edge. He straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and turned to face them. With a theatrical flourish, he bowed deeply, one hand sweeping out to his side.

Ashara couldn’t help but smile, offering him a silent, approving clap, while Rolan crossed his arms, his expression torn between irritation and admiration. “Show-off,” he muttered, though the flicker of respect in his eyes betrayed him.

Astarion leaned casually against the parapet, tossing one end of the rope down to them, and Ashara reached out, barely snagging it before it could swing away. She anchored it to a protruding chunk of rubble, testing the tension with a few firm tugs before glancing at Rolan. “Ready?”

Rolan muttered something about vampires and their flair for drama, but followed her lead as they began their ascent.

The climb was arduous, the rope rough against her palms as she scaled the wall. The vines provided some handholds, but the loose rubble beneath her boots made each step a gamble. When she finally hoisted herself onto the balcony, her arms burned with effort. Rolan arrived moments later, still grumbling under his breath as he dusted himself off.

The air on the balcony was cold and carried the faint, acrid scent of burnt wood and ash. Weathered stone stretched beneath Ashara’s boots, its surface marked by cracks and deep scratches. In the center of the balcony, a charred pile of clothing and objects smoldered faintly, the edges curling into ash.

Among the blackened debris, a shattered statue caught her attention - its features once intricate but now obscured by soot and fractures. The faint outline of Shar’s visage was still visible, its surface marred by heat and damage.

Ashara felt a ripple of unease. The destruction of the statue felt deliberate, as if whoever had burned this pile had sought to erase something sacred. She glanced briefly at Astarion, who was already kneeling in front of one of the two iron doors at the far end of the balcony, his lockpicking tools glinting faintly in the dim light. His focus was unwavering, his fingers moving with practiced precision over the lock’s mechanism.

Rolan stepped closer, his gaze lingering on the pile and the broken statue before he folded his arms and turned his attention to Astarion. “Who’s to say Durge isn’t behind this door any more than the main one?” he asked, his voice carrying a thread of skepticism.

Ashara adjusted the strap of her quiver, her fingers brushing against the cool leather. “And what if he’s not alone?”

The final click of the lock echoed faintly, and Astarion straightened, his grin sharp as he pushed the door open. “Then it’s fortunate,” he said, casting them a glance filled with brash confidence, “that neither am I.”

The stench hit Astarion like a physical blow the moment they crossed the threshold. It rolled out in a suffocating wave - a foul mix of rotting meat, stale blood, and damp decay that made Ashara gag beside him. Even Rolan winced, muttering a curse under his breath as he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.

Astarion, however, simply inhaled sharply, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

“Smells like my old kennels,” he said lightly, his voice laced with dark humor. “Nothing like a little nostalgia to start the day with.”

Ashara gave him a sharp look, her expression hovering between disbelief and concern. For a moment, it seemed as though she might press him for an explanation, but she thought better of it. Instead, she adjusted the strap of her quiver and stepped further into the room, her movements careful and deliberate. Astarion followed, his usual saunter muted as he swept his gaze across the chamber.

The sight that greeted them was as grotesque as the stench had promised. Corpses littered the space, their forms twisted and broken, some hung from the rafters, while most had been piled haphazardly on the floor in one corner. The bodies ranged from relatively fresh, their wounds raw and glistening, to others in advanced states of decay, their flesh sloughing off their bones in sickening strips.

The wooden table at the center of the room was a centerpiece of horror. Limbs, torsos, and other unidentifiable pieces of flesh had been stacked haphazardly upon it, their jagged edges protruding like grotesque trophies. Around the room, tools lay discarded - rusted blades, saws, and jars containing viscous, unidentifiable liquids.

The walls were lined with tapestries, vibrant in another life, now muted and stained with blood. Pastoral scenes of serene fields and idyllic villagers looked grotesque in this setting, the contrast between peace and carnage an intentional mockery. Lit candles flickered in iron sconces, their soft glow doing nothing to dispel the sense of foreboding that pressed against Astarion’s chest.

His gaze lingered on the table for a moment, his smirk faltering as his thoughts drifted unbidden to Cazador’s mansion. The oppressive air of the room, the careless cruelty in the presentation - it felt all too familiar, like a memory clawing its way to the surface. He forced the thought back into the recesses of his mind and plastered on his usual mask of nonchalance.

Raising a finger to his lips, he made a show of tapping it in mock thoughtfulness. “If I had to make a guess,” he mused, his voice carrying a faint note of amusement, “I’d say this room belonged to a necromancer.”

“Wonderful,” Rolan muttered, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He shot Ashara a pointed glance. “Ashara, don’t touch anything.”

Ashara, her tone bristling with indignation, turned her head sharply toward him. “Why are you only telling me that?”

Rolan, distracted, raised his hand and began casting a detect magic spell, his palm glowing faintly as he scanned the room. “Because there might be protective wards all over the place,” he said, his tone clipped, “and I don’t want you getting hurt, Lia—”

The name slipped out before he could stop it. His hand faltered mid-cast, the glow dissipating as his shoulders stiffened. The room seemed to hold its breath as Rolan froze, his back to them. His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling into fists as he muttered, “Gods dammit.”

Astarion felt the tension in the room shift. For a moment, he said nothing, studying the tiefling’s heaving shoulders and the barely suppressed tremor in his hands. His gaze flicked toward Ashara, who stood motionless, her face softening as she watched Rolan struggle to regain his composure. Her hands flexed slightly at her sides, a nervous gesture he’d seen her make before, and her lips parted as though she were searching for the right words.

When their eyes met, Astarion gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, tilting his head slightly toward the tiefling. Whatever spark of jealousy he’d felt earlier at the sight of Ashara holding Rolan’s hand had faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He had begun to realize that Ashara’s heart was far too big for her body, that her desire to mend others often outweighed her own needs. And despite himself, he admired it.

Ashara stepped forward carefully, her boots skimming over the slick floor as she approached Rolan. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, her fingers light but steady.

Rolan glanced at her, his amber eyes glassy with restrained emotion. His lips twitched upward in a faint, bittersweet smile. “I guess all the arguing reminded me too much of her,” he said, his voice thick.

Ashara’s expression softened further. “What was she like?” she asked quietly, her tone gentle but inviting.

Rolan let out a shaky breath, his gaze drifting past Ashara as though he could see something none of them could. He hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice tinged with a fragile warmth.

“She was… fierce,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Always ready to put me in my place, never let me get away with anything. She’d argue circles around me, and when I thought I’d won, she’d find a way to flip it back on me.” He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “She was better than me in every way. Stronger. Smarter. Kinder.”

Ashara stayed quiet, letting him speak, her presence steady and patient. Rolan’s shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of his memories pressing down on him.

“She would’ve hated this place,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “But she would’ve gone in first anyway. Always so damn stubborn.”

The faint light in the room flickered as Rolan’s words lingered in the air, heavy with memories that clawed their way to the surface. His voice had softened, cracking slightly, but his gaze remained locked on Ashara.

“You have that same stubborn streak,” he said, his tone steadying slightly. “But you also have Cal’s gentle heart. He was always trying to play the peacemaker between Lia and me. Hated it when we argued.” Rolan’s lips quirked into a faint, wistful smile. “I think they would have liked you.”

Ashara smiled at him, the kind of soft, understanding smile that had always made her seem larger than life despite her slight frame. Her hand still rested on his shoulder, her presence steady and grounding. The sight of it sparked another sharp, unwelcome pang of jealousy in Astarion’s chest. He clenched his jaw and turned his attention sharply back to the chamber.

“If you’re done reminiscing,” he drawled, his tone cutting through the quiet, “we do have a castle to infiltrate.”

He felt Rolan’s glare like the weight of a dagger between his shoulder blades but didn’t bother acknowledging it. His sharp gaze roamed over the grotesque scene, taking in every gory detail with detached precision.

Rolan let out a faint huff and cleared his throat, raising his hand again. The faint glow of magic pulsed at his fingertips as he swept it over the room.

Slowly, symbols began to shimmer into existence above various objects - pale, glowing sigils floating like ghostly warnings. Astarion’s gaze followed the path of one as it appeared on the floor before him, etched faintly in the air above a dark, bloodstained tile. He stepped over it with practiced ease, his movements fluid as he made his way toward a desk on a raised dais at the far end of the room.

The desk was cluttered, its surface buried beneath piles of parchment, brittle with age and stained by the humid rot of the room. Astarion let his fingers trail lightly over the edges of the papers, his sharp eyes scanning their contents. Symbols, diagrams, notes written in a spidery hand - likely the work of the necromancer who had once called this chamber their own. He frowned faintly, his concentration only half-fixed on his task as Rolan continued speaking to Ashara.

“The funny thing is,” Rolan said, his voice subdued, “we weren’t even related by blood. I was an only child until I was seven, when my father married a woman with two children of her own.” He hesitated, his voice dipping lower. “Then the bastard promptly died a year later, leaving me with a family I didn’t belong in - A brother and sister I didn’t want.”

The admission drew Astarion’s attention, his hands pausing momentarily as his eyes flicked toward the tiefling. The tiefling’s voice softened, and his gaze lifted to meet Astarion’s directly, something unspoken passing between them.

“However,” Rolan said, his lips twitching into a faint, sardonic smile, “I suppose you could say they ‘wormed their way into my heart'."

Astarion’s lips curled into a faint grin, the edge of his mouth twitching upward in acknowledgment. “Worms have a way of doing that,” he replied dryly, his attention shifting back to the desk.

But then, his sensitive ears caught a sound - faint at first, like the distant scrape of metal against stone. His grin vanished in an instant, his posture stiffening as his head snapped toward the door at the far end of the chamber.

“Quiet. I think someone’s coming.”

Ashara and Rolan froze, their eyes darting toward the source of the noise. The sound of heavy footsteps grew louder, the rhythmic clink of armor and the creak of leather unmistakable.

Astarion’s mind raced as he scanned the room, his gaze darting between the piles of debris and shattered furniture. There was nowhere truly safe to hide - but then his eyes landed on the desk. Beneath its heavy wooden frame was an alcove, partially obscured by crates and boxes filled with discarded bones. It would be cramped, suffocating even, but it was the best option they had.

Astarion gestured urgently, his voice barely above a whisper. “Quickly, under here.”

The three of them scrambled for the narrow space, their movements frantic but silent. Astarion wedged himself against the back wall of the alcove, his knees drawn up to his chest as Ashara and Rolan squeezed in beside him.

The space was stifling, their breaths hot and shallow as they pressed themselves into the shadows. From his vantage point, Astarion peered through a narrow gap between the crates, his sharp eyes fixed on the door.

The heavy iron door creaked open, and his blood ran cold as four figures strode into the room. At their head was a tall, hulking figure clad in black armor, its surface dulled with wear but etched with intricate, menacing designs. A scarlet cape swept the floor behind him, its edges darkened with grime and dried blood.

The light caught the glint of pale scales as the figure’s face came into view, a face that was a mask of menace, with sharp, angular features further sharpened by the faint glow of crimson eyes. They burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the shadows, cold and calculating yet brimming with restrained violence. The jaw tightened, exposing sharp teeth that gleamed like shards of ice, while jagged horns swept back, ridged and deadly, framing the figures head like a twisted crown.

A white dragonborn.

Durge.

Chapter Text

The sour tang of rotting flesh clung to Astarion like a second skin as he crouched with his companions beneath the desk in necromancer's workshop. Crates stacked high in front of them provided a flimsy barrier against the approaching figures.

He pressed his back against the desk's rough underside, his chest tightening as the sound of boots scuffed across the stone floor. His eyes wandered over the four figures entering the room, so familiar and yet at the same time, complete strangers.

Durge had alway been an intimidating presence, but now he radiated pure brutality. His alabaster scales were a striking contrast to the rich red and black of his heavy, ornate armor. Each plate seemed to have been crafted not just for battle, but to tell a story of strength and authority. The jagged edges of his pauldrons and the bladed gauntlets seemed designed to wound as much as protect.

Lae'zel had evidently discarded her broken githyanki armour in favor of an upgrade. She was clad from head to toe in blackened steel adorned with crimson filigree and glowing runes, its design a delicate balance of elegance and menace.

Shadowheart followed, her figure an oppressive silhouette in the gloom. Carved into her chestplate were the now proudly worn symbols of Shar. The deep purple hue of her plate armor seemed to drink in the surrounding light, casting faint shadows that didn't align with the room's flickering lanterns. Her helm obscured most of her face, but her stance radiated cold disdain, her hand resting on the hilt of her mace.

Then there was Gale. Astarion's lips twitched at the sight of him, part grimace, part bitter amusement. The wizard's transformation was grotesque in its absurdity.

Gone were the immaculate purple robes and scholarly refinement. In their place was an outfit more suited to a brothel than a battlefield. Leather trousers and straps of dark leather crisscrossed his torso, leaving much of his bruised skin exposed. A brown leather collar gleamed at his throat and Astarion's gaze lingered on it, stifling the urge to sneer. Whatever abyss Gale had tumbled into, he had embraced it wholeheartedly.

Rolan shifted beside him, his anger radiating like heat. The tiefling's breathing quickened, nostrils flaring as his fingers twitched toward his sword. Astarion slid a hand onto Rolan's arm, fingers tightening in warning. He shook his head once, slow and deliberate.

Rolan turned his glare on him, his whisper barely controlled. "He's right there."

Astarion leaned closer, voice low and sharp. "And so are two highly trained and impressively armoured killers and a wizard who - bruises or not - could still incinerate you with a thought."

Ashara shifted beside them, her leather boots scraping faintly against the stone as she adjusted her position. "We can take them," she murmured, her tone defiant.

Astarion turned his head slightly, enough to glare at her. "Uh, no. Trust me, we can't. Not like this anyway."

Ashara and Rolan exchanged muttered curses, but they stayed still. Astarion exhaled silently, the tension easing just enough to allow a sliver of relief. His hand fell back to his side, brushing against the hilt of his dagger. He didn't draw it. The odds were bad, and he'd learned - through no small amount of pain - that there was no bravery in blind foolishness.

"When did I become the voice of restraint and reason? Gods help us all," Astarion muttered to himself.

His mind wandered for a fleeting second. Ever since he had started traveling with Ashara and Onyx, something had shifted. He had been a slave to another's will for centuries, forced to obey, never allowed or trusted with choices or responsibility. Now, for the first time, people looked to him. Ashara and Rolan followed his lead, however reluctantly, and Onyx's trust in him had planted a strange seed. He could feel its roots curling through him, unsettling and foreign.

It was terrifying and liberating at the same time.

Durge stepped toward a bloodied slab, gesturing at the mutilated corpse sprawled across it. Flesh hung from exposed ribs, the body flayed and gutted in what appeared to be a half-finished dissection.

"This necromancer is too messy," Durge remarked, his voice cold and measured. "That is no way to flay a corpse. Sloppy work."

Lae'zel's lip curled as she waved a hand in front of her face, as though to banish the smell. "Let us find the moonlantern and leave this vile-smelling place."

Gale, standing near a bookshelf, turned his head slightly, the tag on his collar jangling faintly with the movement. "Be wary of traps," he said, his voice tight. "V'rell did warn us Balthazar dislikes intrusions."

Shadowheart interrupted with a snort, her arms crossing over her armored chest. "Yes, thank you, Gale. We were there when she mentioned it."

Gale bristled, his fingers twitching toward the spellbook slung at his side. "Forgive me for emphasizing the dangers. It's only our lives at stake."

Lae'zel sneered, shifting to the center of the room. "If you are so concerned for our safety, perhaps you should take the lead. Trigger any traps for us, wizard. That way, we'll know which paths to avoid."

Astarion watched as Gale's jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening on the edge of the shelf. He didn't respond, though the faint tremor in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. Durge turned away, uninterested in their squabbling, and moved toward a side table cluttered with vials and bone saws.

Astarion's crimson eyes followed the dragonborn as the hulking figure moved through the room, his armored boots scuffing against the blood-streaked floor. The way Durge handled the space, with casual contempt, grated on him. He jabbed at scattered tools and overturned jars without care, his gauntleted hands smearing remnants of old alchemical experiments across dusty surfaces.

When Durge began striding toward the desk, Astarion's heart lurched. He froze, muscles taut as a bowstring, his fingers inching toward the hilt of his dagger. The crates in front of him suddenly seemed pathetically thin, their protection flimsy against such a behemoth. Just as Durge's shadow began to darken their hiding spot, a low, rumbling sound interrupted the tension.

The sound came from the far side of the room, drawing Durge's attention. He turned, his head tilted slightly, and Astarion followed his gaze to Gale. The wizard stood near the far wall, where a section had opened up to reveal a small room beyond.

He called out, his voice subdued but tinged with an odd, clipped excitement. "I think I have discovered a secret workshop."

The entire group shifted toward him. Lae'zel was the first to move, her stride purposeful, her blade already half-raised as if expecting danger. Shadowheart lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room once more before following the others. Durge gestured sharply for Gale to continue, his impatience evident in the clipped motion of his hand. One by one, they entered, their silhouettes disappearing into the passage.

Astarion's shoulders loosened slightly, though his nerves remained taut. He exhaled silently, his gaze fixed on the doorway. From his position beneath the desk, he couldn't see into the hidden chamber, but their voices carried clearly, distorted slightly by the enclosed space.

Gale's voice emerged first, tinged with academic curiosity and a trace of unease. "A ritual circle... and a complex one, at that. I've seen something similar in the writings of the Weavepasha of Almraiven, though his interpretations were far less... twisted."

Lae'zel's tone was sharp, impatient. "What is its purpose?"

Astarion tilted his head, straining to catch every word. Gale spoke again, his voice lower, more deliberate. "The sigils are written in a curious mix of tongues - ancient Calishite, Netherese, and something else... I can't quite place it. If I'm reading it correctly, this was used in the creation of Moonlanterns."

Durge's voice rumbled with cold authority. "Can you replicate his results, mage?"

A pause hung in the air, thick with tension. "Mystra would not look kindly on magic like this," Gale admitted, his tone hesitant, almost cautious.

"That's not what I asked you," Durge snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Gale's next words came slower, tinged with a faint, unwilling dread. "The discarded pixie corpses might still contain enough essence. If paired with a damaged lantern casing, I could attempt to craft another."

"Then do it," Durge ordered, his voice thick with finality. "To the hells with what Mystra thinks. She does not command you. I do. A fact you seem to keep forgetting."

Astarion winced at the tone, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Gale's voice came, quiet and submissive, sending a prickle of unease across his skin. "Of course, master. It was not my intention to defy you, merely to point out potential obstacles to my success. I will set to work immediately."

The deference in Gale's voice turned Astarion's stomach. His mind raced, trying to piece together the implications of what he'd just heard, even as a distant part of him recoiled at how far Gale had fallen.

From the secret chamber, faint sounds of movement echoed - objects being shifted, tools clinking against stone. Then, a flash of light erupted, its brilliance spilling through the cracks of the hidden doorway. It painted the crates and walls in stark, flickering relief. Astarion's lips parted in a silent breath of surprise as Gale let out a sharp curse, followed by a muffled cry of pain.

Durge's voice boomed, laden with anger. "Idiot! Watch what you're doing."

A faint tremor lingered in Gale's voice as he stammered, "I'm sorry! I did not expect the reaction to be quite so volatile."

Their shadows flickered in the bluish glow as the group emerged from the secret chamber. Astarion watched from the safety of the desk, his body tense. Durge led the way, his armored frame radiating fury. The dragonborn's face was twisted in a snarl, his lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth as he growled, "Well, that was a waste of a perfectly good pixie corpse. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother keeping you around, mage."

Gale trailed behind Durge, his head bowed low, his shoulders trembling slightly. Even from his hiding spot, Astarion could see the bruise-like shadows beneath Gale's downcast eyes and the tight clench of his hands at his sides.

Shadowheart stepped up beside Durge, her voice calm, almost mocking in its practicality. "Let's just take the moonlantern we already have and head to the mausoleum. You can punish the wizard for his failure later... I'll even help you this time if you like."

Durge's tail flicked in irritation, but he said nothing more. The group moved as a single, oppressive entity, their boots thudding against the stone as they filed out of the workshop. When the last of them passed through the doorway, the secret wall groaned shut, sealing the room once again.

Astarion didn't move immediately. He counted each breath, listening for even the faintest hint of a lingering presence. The stillness pressed against him, broken only by the faint scurrying of rats taking advantage of the abundant flesh.

Slowly, he crept out from under the desk, unfolding his body with a quiet grace born of centuries of careful movement. Straightening, he brushed dust from his clothes and scanned the room.

"I think it's safe now," he said softly, glancing over his shoulder.

Rolan and Ashara emerged moments later. Rolan's steps were heavier, his tail flicking in agitation as he fixed Astarion with a glare. "I never figured a vampire for a coward," he spat, his voice low but brimming with contempt.

Astarion turned, his expression hardening. Irritation flickered behind his crimson eyes. "Oh, knock it off, Rolan," he said, his voice cold but controlled. "We were outnumbered and outmatched ten to one. Charging out like a reckless fool would have ended with all of us dead - or worse."

Rolan's scowl deepened, but Astarion raised a hand, silencing whatever retort the tiefling was about to deliver. "The only way we stand a chance at taking on Durge and his merry band of thugs is if we pick them off one by one."

Astarion adjusted the fit of his cloak, his movements brisk and precise. He turned toward the door leading out of the workshop, his voice sharp as he added, "If we stick to the shadows and keep an eye on them, we might be able to orchestrate such a scenario. For now, though, let's get out of this chamber of horrors before something worse than them shows up."

He moved toward the exit, his steps barely making a sound on the stone. Behind him, Rolan muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but Astarion didn't look back. Ashara followed without a word, her expression set, though her eyes flicked between Rolan and Astarion with quiet scrutiny.

Astarion reached for the door, his fingers brushing the rough wood just as it swung open, forcing him to freeze. The figure in the doorway mirrored his shock, a wide-eyed Gale framed in the faint glow of the hallway torches.

The wizard's lips parted, perhaps to speak, but Astarion's sharp instincts overtook him. The hallway stretched behind Gale, empty and still. In a breathless heartbeat, his decision snapped into place.

His hand shot out, fingers curled around the humans throat in a viper's strike. The skin beneath his hand felt warm, pulsing with fragile life. He yanked him into the room with a violent tug, the door slamming shut behind them with a muffled crack.

Astarion spun, his momentum twisting their bodies. He slammed Gale into the floorboards, the wizard's head hitting the ground with a dull thud, his expression shifting from surprise to panic.

Leaning in close, his pale face inches from Gale's, Astarion's bared his fangs. A dark temptation stirred in him, but his senses recoiled. The wizard's scent carried an undercurrent of something foul, something wrong. His lips curled in disgust. No, fangs wouldn't do. He tightened his grip on Gale's neck, feeling a pulse fluttering like a trapped bird under his fingers.

The wizard's face flushed crimson, veins spidering along his temples. His hands clawed at Astarion's iron grip, nails raking over pale skin. Between strangled breaths, Gale rasped a single word. "Wait!"

Behind him, Ashara moved into view, her voice pleading. "Astarion, stop! You don't have to kill him - just restrain him."

Astarion didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on Gale's reddening face. "No," he hissed, his voice low, urgent. "He's infected, like me. If he calls for help with the tadpole, the rest will be on top of us before we know it."

His fingers dug deeper, the pressure unrelenting. Gale's thrashing weakened, his hands dropping away, the man's lips tinged with blue. Then a new sensation hit Astarion like a blow - an invasive cry tearing through his mind, desperate and raw.

"Astarion! Please... stop! I'm not your enemy!"

The intrusion made Astarion snarl, a guttural sound ripping from his throat. "Get out of my head," he growled, his grip faltering.

Gale's hand jerked up, trembling. Astarion caught the faint glow in his peripheral vision a moment too late. Fire erupted from Gale's palm. Astarion threw himself sideways as a bolt of flame scorched past his face, the heat grazing his skin. The spell struck a beam in the ceiling, shattering wood in a rain of splinters and embers.

Astarion rolled and sprang to his feet. His dagger hissed free of its sheath, its blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light. He turned to see Gale sprawled on his side, coughing and gasping like a beached fish. The wizard's bloodshot eyes flicked to the weapon in Astarion's hand, and he weakly tried to push himself upright.

Astarion didn't give him the chance. He lunged, his blade driving downward in a swift, merciless arc. Gale collapsed under him, his back slamming against the floorboards again. The dagger sank into flesh with a sickening crunch, meeting resistance before punching through muscle and bone. Gale's cry of agony was sharp, ragged, his hands flying up to seize Astarion's wrists.

Blood bloomed around the wound, spreading in dark, warm tendrils across the wizard's chest as Astarion leaned in, the dagger pinning Gale to the floor like a butterfly on a board. The wizard's wide eyes stared up at him, tears streaking his face. There was no anger in them, only fear - desperate, helpless fear.

Gale's trembling fingers fumbled at his belt, finding a small pouch. With a weak, jerking motion, he shoved it into Astarion's chest. "Bring... back..." his voice rasped, blood bubbling at his lips. "I beg you..."

The wizard shuddered once before the hand on Astarion's wrist slackened, the pouch slipping from his fingers to rest on his now-still chest. Astarion stared at the fallen wizard, his own breath ragged, shoulders rising and falling as a storm churned within him. The dagger, still embedded in Gale's chest, felt heavier than it should have.

Ashara knelt beside him, her fingers pressing against Gale's neck. Her voice was soft but certain. "He's gone."

Astarion let the words sink in before spitting, "Good."

Yet the satisfaction he expected didn't come. Instead, unease coiled in his stomach, his mind circling around Gale's final plea. His hand lingered on the hilt of the dagger, uncertain, even as his lips twisted into a mask of defiance.

Astarion pulled the dagger free from Gale's chest, blood seeping from the wound and slicking his blade. The motion was sharp, decisive, but his breath caught when the air beside him shimmered. He turned, his body coiled to strike, as the light began to coalesce into a form. His dagger hovered mid-motion as the glow solidified into the familiar figure of Gale.

But not the Gale he had just killed. This Gale stood upright, unscathed, garbed in a pristine purple robe that shimmered faintly with arcane light. His face wore a genial smile, the kind Astarion had learned to distrust. For a moment, the room fell silent save for the sound of blood dripping onto the wooden floor.

The ghostly Gale raised a hand in greeting, his voice carrying an almost jovial tone. "Well met! I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep, and if you are viewing this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished. However, for reasons that cannot be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience. You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self-preservation alone: many lives depend on my return to the living within the span of two days. I trust I have made myself clear?"

Astarion's crimson gaze flicked to the body on the floor, his lips curling in irritation. "Unsummon yourself, echo. Before I find a way to kill you twice."

The spectral Gale's expression didn't waver, but there was a faint edge to his response. "A grave error in judgment indeed, which we'll pretend was never spoken."

Ashara stepped closer, her brow furrowed, studying the apparition. Her voice carried the sharp curiosity of someone too intrigued to be cautious. "What do you mean, 'many lives depend on your return to the living'?"

The apparition spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "That would be covered by the 'for reasons that cannot be disclosed' clause, so let's move on."

Astarion crouched beside Gale's corpse, his fingers plucking the oilskin pouch from the dead man's chest. He rose, the pouch dangling from his hand like bait. His voice turned cold. "No. Either you tell me right now, or I burn this - what I assume is important - pouch to ash."

The projection hesitated, his spectral form flickering faintly. His gaze dropped to his corporeal body sprawled on the floor. A frown deepened across his face as he leaned closer, squinting. "What in the sweet hells am I wearing? Is... is that a dog collar?"

Astarion smirked, tilting his head as he examined the corpse. "The latest in evil sycophant fashion, one assumes."

The apparition turned to him, scandalized. "Evil? What exactly has transpired since my creation?"

"Sorry to break it to you," Astarion said, his tone rich with mockery, "but your alter ego has thrown his lot in with a murdering bastard, who seems to be keeping you as his pet from the looks of things."

Ashara shifted uncomfortably, stepping forward as if to soften the blow. She gestured at the corpse, her tone more measured. "You - I mean he - was infected with an Illithid tadpole and joined a band of other victims."

"Victims," Astarion cut in with a scoff, the word biting and derisive.

Ashara shot him a pointed glare before continuing. "I get the impression Gale was just trying to survive and followed whoever would supply him with the magical artifacts he needed to alleviate some kind of... condition."

The spectral Gale turned his gaze back to Astarion, his translucent features darkening with suspicion. "From your tone - and the bloodied dagger in your hand - I take it you are the one responsible for my death?"

Astarion met his gaze without a flicker of guilt. "You gave me no choice. I couldn't risk you calling your 'master' for help."

The apparition folded his translucent hands behind his back, his form pacing with an agitated energy that made the faint edges of his projection waver. "This is most disturbing."

He halted abruptly, turning to face Astarion. His eyes locked with the vampire's, his voice calm but edged with urgency. "Whatever grievances you may have against me, I beseech you to set them aside for now. I am bending the rules by revealing this, but I believe it is necessary. It seems clear I have been forced into desperate measures. And once you know the truth, you may appreciate why."

Astarion tilted his head, his grip tightening on the pouch. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a dangerous softness. "Then you'd better hope your truth is worth telling.

The spectral Gale raised a hand, gesturing to the corpse. "Look yonder at my - disconcertingly exposed chest. The symbol you see is no mere display of inked vanity. It is a manifestation of something darker. Through a series of... mishaps I am not comfortable revealing, I ended up with a fragment of Netherese magic inside my body. This volatile orb hungers for raw magic, and if it is not sated - or if I die and am not resurrected within two days - the results could be... catastrophic."

Ashara turned sharply toward the apparition, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Catastrophic?"

The spectral Gale inclined his head gravely. "Put simply, the orb will erupt and leave a crater the size of Waterdeep."

Ashara blinked, her expression tight with suppressed worry as she turned to Astarion. "Is that big?"

Astarion tilted his head, one brow arching as he answered with detached amusement. "It's certainly bigger than this castle."

Ashara's face drained of color. "We need to bring him back now! Our friends could still be here in the dungeons..."

Astarion's gaze shifted to Gale's lifeless body. Anger coiled in his chest, tightening his throat. He stepped closer to the corpse, glaring down at it as his voice hissed between clenched teeth. "Oh, and I was the one who was a danger to the party?"

Without warning, he lashed out, his boot connecting savagely with Gale's ribs. "You were hiding this secret from us all, and yet you had the gall to go along with that demon when he condemned me to death for hiding that I was a vampire?!"

The apparition winced as though feeling the blow and raised a translucent hand. "Can I respectfully request that my remains not be damaged further, please?"

Astarion whirled on him, his dagger glinting in the faint light as he gestured with it. "You can rot for all I care. You say we have two days? Fine. Then we rescue our friends and put as much distance between us and this cursed place as possible. You can blow up and take the cult with you - a win-win as far as I'm concerned."

Gale's projection stood in stunned silence, his translucent form flickering faintly. When he spoke again, his tone carried a heavy sadness. "I can only beg forgiveness on Gale's behalf for whatever actions he has taken that have led you to despise him so. I only hope you are prepared to accept the consequences of destruction on such a scale - and that no innocents are caught in its wake."

The apparition straightened, bowing with grave finality. "I will dismiss myself, and trouble you no longer."

"Wait!" Ashara's voice rang out, her hands raised as she stepped toward the flickering projection. "Don't go just yet, please."

Gale's ghostly form stilled, a faint spark of hope rekindling in his expression as his gaze met hers.

Ashara turned, her gaze locking onto Astarion with a pleading intensity that made him stiffen. "Please. I don't want risk not being able to get everyone out on time. Not just here, but if Last Light is in danger too..."

Astarion looked away, his hand tightening around the dagger. He knew if he met her gaze for too long, he would give in, and the thought infuriated him. His eyes sought Rolan, his voice sharp. "Rolan, back me up here."

Rolan rubbed his neck, his brow furrowed as if weighing invisible scales. "I'm not sure... as much as I'm happy to see one of my family's murderers dead, I don't like the idea that we might be unleashing something so deadly. Who's to say the cultists might not use his corpse as a weapon if they find out about the orb?"

Exasperated, Astarion threw up his hands. "Then we obliterate his corpse."

The apparition's translucent head shook, his voice laced with tension. "Ah... that is not the wisest course of action. My body is akin to a vessel that currently contains the magic. If it were to be 'obliterated,' as you so charmingly put it, then the orb would be unleashed that much sooner."

Astarion turned back to the projection, his irritation palpable. "And what happens when we bring him back? If he wasn't going to call for reinforcements before, he certainly will once he wakes up and lays eyes on me again."

Ashara stepped forward, her hands outstretched in a calming gesture. "Then keep out of sight and I'll do it - but I honestly don't think he will. We all heard the way the dragonborn spoke to him. I suspect he might actually want to get away from Durge."

Astarion's eyes darted between Ashara and the shimmering projection of Gale. His chest tightened as her determined expression locked him in place. He shook his head, his voice heavy with frustration. "Oh no... I can see where this is heading, and the answer is no. Resurrecting him is one thing, but we are not letting him join us."

Rolan, standing at a safe distance but with arms crossed, grunted his agreement. "I'm with Astarion on this."

Astarion turned, his tone gaining a sharp edge as he gestured dismissively toward Rolan. "Thank you. See? Even the halfwit drunk thinks it's a bad idea."

Rolan's eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, his shoulders squared. "Hey! I've been sober for the past few hours, jerk."

Astarion gave a mocking bow, his lips curling into a smirk. "My apologies." He straightened and shifted his attention back to Ashara. "See? Even the halfwit thinks it's a bad idea."

Rolan's fists clenched, his jaw tightening as he took another step closer. Astarion barely noticed, his focus pinned on Ashara's steadily advancing form. She interceded, her smaller frame a barrier between the two men. Her eyes locked on Astarion's with a fire that made him pause.

"Astarion, please," she said softly, but with unyielding conviction. She turned, gesturing toward Gale's prone form, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "Look at him. He's clearly been abused. Durge has him dressed in practically nothing and there are bruises all over his body. He's wearing a damn collar, for pity's sake!"

Astarion's lip twitched, and the faintest smirk broke through his irritation. "Remind me to explain kinks to you one day."

Rolan snorted, choking out a laugh before quickly disguising it as a cough. Ashara's brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes darting between them.

"I can assure you," Gale's projection interjected, his tone tinged with indignation, "I didn't have that kind the last time I checked."

Astarion caught the questioning look on Ashara's face and hastily redirected the conversation before it could veer further into awkward territory. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice steady but firm, "but I don't want to risk having someone with us who might give away our location to Durge."

Ashara's eyes softened, and she stepped closer, her voice lowering. "You've been in his position, Astarion. Wouldn't you have jumped at the chance to escape Cazador, if only someone had offered you one?"

Her words struck him like a blade finding a crack in armor. He held her gaze, feeling the weight of her appeal pressing against the walls he'd so carefully built. His gaze drifted reluctantly to Gale's body, and for the first time, he allowed himself to truly see it.

The wizard's pale skin was marred with bruises, his frame gaunt, ribs visible beneath the flimsy leather straps across his chest. His face was sharper, thinner - deprivation carved into every hollow.

This wasn't the self-assured scholar Astarion remembered. Gale had been reduced to a shadow of himself. The marks of humiliation and fear were all too familiar. Astarion knew what desperation bred in men. Would Gale embrace freedom, or would he flee back to his tormentor, unable to bear the weight of the unknown?

Astarion sighed, the sound carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Fine. But if this ends badly, don't come crying to me."

Straightening, he turned to Rolan, his voice sharp with command. "Tie his hands behind his back. I don't want any more loose cantrips flying about. And let's assume, from this point on, that Durge and his party are coming for us. Pick a defensive position and prepare for anything."

Ashara's face lit up with a wide, radiant smile. She stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. Her voice dropped to a whisper, warm and sincere. "Thank you."

For a brief moment, the tension in his chest loosened. He huffed, shaking his head as he turned away, muttering, "You'd better hope this is worth it."

Relief bloomed in Ashara's chest, warmth spreading through her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She exhaled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing as Astarion, at last, gave in.

Turning to the spectral figure of Gale, she straightened, her resolve hardening. "Okay, let's do this. How do we revive him?"

The apparition's translucent hands came together in a theatrical clap, his face alight with satisfaction. "Excellent! I am so pleased you have finally seen sense. Now, the pouch your friend holds in his hand is a magical item capable of accomplishing my return. However, due to its extraordinary value and rarity, it is protected by a multi-layered security protocol. I will now explain the protocol—"

Astarion groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Oh gods, I can already see this is going to be a disaster."

Ashara shot him a sharp look but kept her focus on Gale. The projection, undeterred, continued as though uninterrupted. "You must unthread the purple seam that seals the pouch, and you must do so in a counter-clockwise fashion. Under no circumstances should you touch any other colored strand. Inside the pouch, you will find two items: a folded letter and a tiny flute. Unfold the letter, and note the markings in the top and bottom corners. These markings represent musical notes. Starting from the bottom right, play the notes in the correct order - clockwise this time."

Ashara nodded, her fingers twitching slightly in anticipation. "I can play the flute, so I'll take care of that part."

Gale inclined his head, his tone turning almost professorial. "Upon completion of the melody, a magma mephit will appear. It will pose the following question: I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga? This is Ignan for 'What is my name?' The correct answer is K'ha'ssji'trach'ash. Pronounce it accurately, and the mephit will breathe on the letter. A word of caution: stay clear, as the little rascal's breath can melt metal. Afterward, words will appear on the letter, transforming it into a Scroll of True Resurrection. Use the scroll to bring me back to life."

The apparition clasped his hands again, as if concluding a lecture, and glanced expectantly at them.

"That's the most ridiculously convoluted protocol I've ever heard," Astarion muttered, his dagger still loosely gripped at his side.

Gale's spectral eyebrows arched in indignation. "I think ingenious is the word you're looking for. Now, repeat my instructions back to me, please."

Astarion blinked, incredulous. "You're joking."

"Not at all," Gale said, unruffled. "Humor me. This is, after all, my life on the line."

Ashara cut in before Astarion could escalate, her tone calm but firm. "Don't worry, I got it. Seams, notes, names - the lot."

"Excellent," Gale said. "In that case, this will be an easy exercise. Step one?"

Astarion groaned again, drawing out the sound for effect. "Fine, I'll play along. Step one: retrieve the pouch. Step two, unthread the yellow seam in a counter-clockwise fashion."

Rolan, standing with arms crossed, snorted. "Purple seam, you donkey."

Astarion rounded on him with a sharp glare. "Piss off! I was messing with him."

"The purple seam, indeed," Gale said, his tone studiously neutral. "You then have access to the letter and the flute. Continue."

Ashara interjected quickly, cutting off any further bickering. "I play the notes starting at the bottom right corner."

"And clockwise," Gale emphasized. "Then?"

Rolan hesitated before speaking. "A mephit appears, and we say its name: K'ha'ssji'trach'ash."

"Correct!" Gale said, with the air of a teacher whose student had just passed a test. "But pay attention to the 'trach' part. Chhh. Back of the throat. Best of luck with the protocol! May my cold, dead hands soon be refilled with the warmth of life so they can shake yours in gratitude."

His attention shifted to Ashara, and for a moment, the light in his spectral form seemed to burn brighter. He stepped closer, his gaze locking with hers. "And please, when I return... if I have truly strayed so far from decency and goodness, I ask that you help me find my way back."

Ashara felt an ache in her chest as she looked at him. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that made it impossible to refuse. Without thinking, she extended her hand toward him, her fingers brushing through empty air. She faltered at the lack of contact but recovered quickly, smiling warmly instead. "I will. I promise."

Gale's projection nodded deeply, gratitude etched into his translucent features. He stepped back, bowing low in an elegant motion. "Thank you."

And with a faint shimmer, he winked out of existence, leaving the room feeling colder, emptier. Ashara clenched her fists, the weight of what lay ahead settling on her shoulders.

Rolan worked in silence, his hands steady as he wound a rope tightly around Gale's wrists, binding them behind the wizard's limp body. He hauled the corpse upright, leaning it against the desk with a grunt. Astarion, meanwhile, melted into the shadows near the door, his pale fingers resting on the hilt of his sword as he listened out for any sounds beyond it.

Ashara knelt, cradling the oilskin pouch Astarion had handed her. She ran her fingers over its worn surface, taking a steadying breath before carefully unthreading the purple seam in the counter-clockwise manner Gale had described. The stitches gave way smoothly, revealing a tightly rolled parchment and a delicate bone flute. The flute's intricate carvings glimmered faintly in the dim light, and Ashara allowed herself a brief moment of admiration before shaking herself back to the task.

Unfurling the parchment, she read the notations at the corners, her lips silently forming the notes. She raised the flute to her lips and began to play. The tune was simple but haunting, each note lingering in the air like an echo of something ancient and lost. As the final note faded, the air in front of her shimmered with a sudden burst of heat, and a figure erupted into existence.

The magma mephit hovered before her, its leathery, bat-like wings beating rapidly as its molten skin glowed faintly. It was a twisted, impish creature, with jagged horns and claws like obsidian blades. Its burning gaze swept over Ashara suspiciously, and it screeched, its voice a series of harsh, guttural clicks: "I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga?"

Ashara sat up straighter, meeting the creature's gaze with calm confidence. "K'ha'ssji'trach'ash," she said firmly.

The mephit let out a sharp, grating laugh as it spun in a tight circle, then opened its wide, toothy maw. Instinctively, Ashara leaned back, holding the parchment away from her body as a searing jet of heat washed over it. The mephit's breath ignited a faint golden glow on the page, letters forming as if scrawled by an invisible hand.

The mephit straightened, fixing her with a glare before spitting out in surprisingly clear Common, "Tell the fecking wizard to stop pegging it. I'm getting ruddy sick of this job."

With that, it vanished in a puff of ash and smoke, leaving the room heavy with the lingering smell of sulfur.

Ashara's eyes dropped to the parchment in her hands, now radiating a faint, golden light. A Scroll of True Resurrection. She swallowed hard, her throat tight as a wave of emotion surged through her. How many times had she dreamed of holding such a thing when her adoptive father had died? The weight of it was overwhelming, and for a moment, she was still, lost in the bittersweet ache of what could never be changed.

Shaking herself free of the memory, she turned toward Gale's body. Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the room, kneeling beside him. Her eyes lingered on the jagged wound in his chest. It was brutal, messy, and the sight of it made her wince. Would he still feel it when he woke?

She held the scroll aloft, gripping it tightly and began to read the incantation aloud. Her voice deepened, each word carrying an otherworldly resonance as the magic took hold. The parchment disintegrated in her hands, the golden light flowing outward and enveloping Gale's body. The light grew brighter, wrapping around him like a cocoon, and she watched in awe as the wound on his chest began to close. The torn flesh knit together, leaving behind smooth, unbroken skin.

The glow faded, and silence descended. Ashara's chest tightened with panic as doubt clawed at her. Had she done something wrong? Had she misread the spell? Her heart raced as she stared at Gale's still form, her breath catching in her throat.

Then, with a sudden jolt, Gale's chest heaved, and he let out a deep, ragged gasp. His eyes snapped open, wide and wild, and he coughed violently as air flooded his lungs. His bound hands jerked against the rope as he struggled to sit up, his movements frantic. His gaze darted around the room before landing on Ashara, and his mouth opened as if to speak.

Before he could utter a word, Ashara leaned forward, pressing a hand over his mouth. "Don't contact Durge and the others, please!" she whispered, her voice urgent but gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Gale's breath was hot against her palm, fast and panicked. His wide brown eyes softened after a moment, his breathing slowing as he nodded faintly. Ashara exhaled in relief, pulling her hand away.

He leaned back against the desk, his gaze shifting downward. His eyes landed on the flute still clutched in her hand, and his expression shifted to one of quiet wonder. "You... revived me," he rasped, his voice hoarse but full of disbelief.

He tilted his head back, letting it rest against the desk as he closed his eyes. "Thank the gods," he murmured, the tension draining from his face. For a moment, he was still, his breathing steadying, as though he were silently coming to terms with his own return.

Gale jerked upright, his bound hands straining against the ropes as he scanned the room, his voice sharp and urgent. "The vampire... where is he?"

Ashara raised her hands, palms outward, in a calming gesture. "It's okay. He won't hurt you again."

From the shadowed corner of the room, a smooth, mocking voice rang out. "Well... not too much, anyway."

Gale's breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling as his eyes widened in alarm. Ashara spun toward the darkness, her tone sharp with irritation. "I thought we agreed you'd stay out of this?"

The silence that followed was damning, but Ashara had no time to confront him further. Movement beside her drew her attention, and her stomach twisted as she realized Rolan had stepped forward. He was tense, his eyes alight with fury, and his sword was drawn, the blade trembling slightly as he pointed it at Gale's chest.

"Now that you're alive again," Rolan said, his voice low and brimming with cold malice, "I can have the pleasure of killing you myself."

Ashara shot to her feet, positioning herself between them. Her voice was sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument. "Rolan, don't you dare! We didn't bring him back just so you could take your revenge."

Behind her, Gale's breathing hitched audibly. He swallowed hard before whispering, "Rolan... the young mage from the grove."

Rolan's expression hardened further, his grip on the sword tightening. "Oh, so you remember me, do you?" His voice was like a razor's edge cutting through the room.

Before Ashara could stop him, Rolan shoved her aside with surprising force, grabbing Gale by one of the thin straps crossing his chest. He hauled the man to his feet, forcing him upright, and pressed the edge of his sword to Gale's throat. The sword glinted dangerously in the dim light, close enough to draw blood if Gale so much as breathed wrong.

"Then you should remember the two that were with me," Rolan snarled, his teeth bared. "My brother and sister. The ones you helped murder."

Ashara felt the air in the room grow taut, thick with tension that threatened to snap like an overdrawn bowstring. Even Astarion had moved closer now, standing beside her with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but she could sense the coiled energy in him, ready to act if the situation spiraled out of control.

Gale's gaze held Rolan's, steady despite the blade pressed against his skin. His voice was quiet, hoarse, but filled with something raw. "Cal and Lia."

Rolan's eyes flickered, surprise breaking through his rage for a brief moment. Gale didn't stop.

"I remember them," he continued, his voice cracking as his guilt spilled out. "I remember them all. Every face. Every tiefling and druid we killed. They haunt me every single night."

The sword at Gale's throat trembled, the blade pulling back slightly as Rolan's grip faltered. Ashara seized the moment, stepping forward and placing her hand gently over Rolan's. Her voice softened, no less firm but filled with empathy. "Please, Rolan. This won't bring them back."

Rolan's jaw clenched, his muscles taut beneath her touch. His chest heaved with the force of his breathing, the rage within him battling against something deeper.

Astarion's voice cut through the tension like a cold wind. "So, you admit you made the wrong call when you chose to follow that monster?"

Gale turned his gaze to Astarion, meeting the vampire's eyes without flinching. His voice was steady, heavy with self-recrimination. "I'll admit to that and more, but I suspect my sins are too many to count by this point. The road to my damnation began the moment I allowed fear to overwhelm my conscience - when I stood by and let Durge sell you to the Gur hunter."

Ashara's breath caught at the admission, and she glanced at Astarion. For the first time, she saw a crack in his carefully composed mask. His crimson eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in shock. It was brief, a flicker of raw emotion that disappeared almost as quickly as it had surfaced. He recovered with practiced precision, his expression hardening once more into his usual detached coolness.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of truths spoken and unspoken pressing down on them all. Ashara glanced between them - Rolan, whose hand still trembled on the hilt of his sword; Astarion, whose aloof posture couldn't quite hide the storm behind his eyes; and Gale, standing broken but unflinching, his guilt laid bare for all to see.

Gale's head dipped, his voice low and heavy with remorse. "I only used defensive spells during the attack on the grove, rationalizing that any who died by my hand were only those who chose to attack me. I tried to convince myself that everything we did that day was just about survival."

He lifted his head, his gaze meeting theirs with a hollow, haunted expression. "But that had nothing to do with survival. It was a massacre - no two ways about it. May Mystra forgive me."

His focus shifted to Rolan. "I can't undo what's been done. I can only try to make amends, to pay the price for my weakness."

Rolan's expression hardened, his grip tightening on the hilt. "Not even your death could make up for what you've done," he spat, pushing the blade closer until it broke the skin. A thin line of blood trickled down Gale's neck. "But it will be a start..."

The tension in the room crackled like a storm about to break. Astarion's voice cut through it, calm but edged with warning. "Rolan... don't."

Gale’s voice remained steady, though his eyes carried the weight of a man resigned to his fate. "You're right. My death will balance the scales only a little, but I still intend to give it to you. Just not here. And not now."

Ashara stepped forward, her brows furrowed in concern. "What do you mean?"

Gale shifted slightly, the ropes at his wrists creaking as he straightened. "I can't explain fully. Just know that I intend to find the heart of the Absolute and destroy it. Along with myself, and every cultist within range - including Durge if possible."

Rolan hesitated, the sword wavering slightly as realization dawned. "The orb," he said slowly. "You plan to unleash it on the cult, don't you?"

Gale's eyes widened slightly in alarm. "How do you know about the orb?"

Astarion leaned casually against the desk, his smirk sharp as a blade. "Your simulacrum was a bit of a blabbermouth."

"Dammit!" Gale muttered, his frustration evident as his bound hands flexed against the ropes. "I knew I should've put more safeguards in place. He should not have revealed so much."

"Lucky for you, he did," Rolan muttered. After a moment of tense silence, he sighed and lowered his sword, sheathing it with a sharp metallic hiss. His hand released the strap on Gale's chest, and the wizard staggered slightly, catching himself against the desk.

Rolan's voice was still cold, but some of the venom had drained from it. "Ashara's right. Killing you here won't bring them back. But maybe they can be avenged, if you destroy Durge and the cult..."

Rolan turned sharply and strode toward the door leading out to the balcony. His shoulders were stiff, his movements quick and purposeful. Ashara's eyes followed him, understanding his need for air, for a moment away from the suffocating stench of decay that clung to the necromancer's workshop. The smell of rot, burnt flesh, and acrid magic was becoming unbearable even for her.

She felt a flicker of relief at Rolan's restraint, but her stomach churned at his words. She hated the implication that Gale's only redemption lay in a suicidal act of vengeance. She hated even more that Gale seemed ready to accept it. But now wasn't the time to dwell on what might happen later. The immediate danger was far from over. She shifted her weight, turning back toward Astarion, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

He stood motionless beside her, his crimson eyes locked on Gale with an intensity that made Ashara uneasy. His face was unreadable, but something simmered beneath the surface - a tightly coiled tension. Suddenly, Astarion moved, stepping forward with a swift grace that sent Ashara's heart hammering. The dagger in his hand gleamed in the dim light, its edge catching the faint flicker of candlelight.

Ashara's heart leapt into her throat, and she instinctively moved to intervene. "Astarion, no!"

Gale flinched, his body tensing as his gaze darted to the blade. But before either of them could react further, Astarion grabbed Gale's shoulder and spun him around. With a quick, fluid motion, he sliced through the bindings on the mans wrists. The severed rope fell to the ground, and Gale turned back to face Astarion, rubbing his raw wrists with an expression caught between confusion and cautious gratitude.

"Thank you..." Gale said softly, his voice tentative.

Astarion gave the faintest nod, his face as impassive as stone. Without another word, he walked back to his post near the door, his arms crossing as he leaned against the frame. His gaze turned outward, listening intently for any signs of movement beyond the room.

Ashara frowned, puzzled by Astarion's sudden act of kindness. Whatever was happening in his head was a mystery she didn't have the luxury to unravel right now. Gale's voice pulled her attention back.

"I convinced Durge to allow me another attempt at creating a second moonlantern. While I do have a little time, it won't be long before my absence is noticed. If there's anything else you need of me, please tell me now."

Ashara stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she spoke. "Our friends were captured by Durge out in the Shadowlands. Do you know what happened to them? Are they in the dungeons?"

Gale nodded grimly. "More than likely. I must admit, I was surprised to see Karlach still alive. She's... certainly resilient. Durge brought them as an offering, a gift to ensure a warm reception from the leader of the Absolutists - General Ketheric Thorm."

Ashara felt her stomach drop at the mention of the name. "Is he really immortal?" she asked.

"I witnessed him take two fatal blows," Gale replied, his tone somber. "One through the heart, the other severing an artery in his neck. Both wounds closed within moments, as if they were nothing more than mild inconveniences. Durge's current mission is to retrieve a relic for him, something of immense importance. If I had to guess, it's likely tied to his immortality."

Astarion, still leaning casually against the doorframe, let out a low hum of interest. "And what does Durge plan to do with this relic, if he finds it?"

"The same thing you would, I imagine - destroy it," Gale replied.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Then our goals are aligned - for now. We've been sent on a similar mission by... other interested parties."

Gale hesitated, his expression darkening. "He claims to be seeking a cure for the tadpoles, but I can't shake the feeling there's something more sinister in his plans. Whatever Durge's endgame is, I doubt it aligns with anyone else's but his own."

"Now there's a shock," Astarion muttered, folding his arms tighter across his chest.

Ashara frowned, her mind racing. "Do you think he intends to take control of the cult for himself?"

"It's what I would do," Astarion interjected smoothly, his smirk deepening as he watched her reaction.

Ashara's head snapped toward him, her eyes wide with alarm. "Astarion, please tell me you're joking."

"Who's to say?" he replied, his tone dripping with mockery. "Just an observation."

Gale cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "We can save the speculation for another time. For now, I need to return to my companions. If you keep watch from this balcony, you'll see us leave for the Thorm family mausoleum. That's where the relic is hidden. Once we're gone, as a True Soul, you should be able to move about uncontested."

Ashara's mind raced, calculating their next steps, but before she could respond, a thought surfaced. She hesitated, then said, "Once our friends are safe... you could leave Durge. You could join us. I've got a ton of magical artifacts for you to snack on."

Gale blinked, and for the first time, a faint smile broke through his somber demeanor. "I don't physically eat the artifacts."

Ashara's cheeks flushed, and she stammered, "Oh... Karlach made it sound like you did."

Astarion chuckled softly. "Because she realized you're adorably gullible."

Ashara scowled, though the heat in her cheeks didn't abate. She opened her mouth to retort but stopped when she caught the glimmer of amusement in Astarion's eyes. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it eased some of the tension in the room.

Gale suddenly stiffened, his body going rigid like a wire drawn taut. He whirled to face Astarion, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Wait a moment... how are you even still alive? You're still tadpoled, but haven't been anywhere near the gith artifact."

Astarion's smirk spread slowly across his face, sharp and full of condescension. "Finally dawned on you, did it?" he said, tilting his head.

He straightened, his posture shifting into a mockery of grandeur, and gave a theatrical bow. "Behold, the dangerous 'threat to your party' that not only found a way to suppress ceremorphosis but also uncovered a cure for the parasite."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look, but Astarion simply grinned back at her, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

Gale's voice rose, incredulous. "What?! How? Where?"

Astarion purred, his tone dripping with mockery. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Gale stepped closer, his voice taut with urgency. "I would, very much so."

Ashara interjected before the conversation spiraled. "One part of the cure needs Halsin. The other... is a secret, until I know I can trust you more."

Gale's face darkened, anger flashing in his eyes. "Halsin already admitted he couldn't remove the parasites."

Ashara met his gaze evenly, her tone firm but not unkind. "He's right - he can't. Not on his own. My... friend is the one who can suppress the arcane tampering done to the parasites. Halsin simply assists with the healing side of things."

Astarion added casually, "Ask Karlach if you don't believe us. She got her little stowaway removed. Happy as a one-armed clam now."

Ashara glanced at him in confusion. "Clams don't have - oh. Sarcasm?"

"Hyperbole."

"Huh?"

A loud thump interrupted them as Gale's legs seemed to give out beneath him, and he sat abruptly on the desk. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers catching on the tangles. For a moment, he simply stared at his hands, his expression distant, lost in the swirl of emotions that played across his face.

Finally, he looked up at Ashara, hesitant, the faintest flicker of hope glimmering in his eyes like a fragile flame. "Are... are you quite serious about your offer to join you?"

Ashara tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but steady. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Gale's throat worked as he swallowed, his shoulders tense. "But I... after what I've done... why?"

Ashara glanced at Astarion, whose arms were folded lazily across his chest. He gave her a nonchalant shrug, clearly unconcerned with the wizard's self-doubt.

Turning back to Gale, she met his eyes, her tone empathetic. "Because, I think you need someone to give you a second chance. And because I made a promise to the ghost version of you that I'd set you back on the right path."

Gale blinked, momentarily confused. "That... that illusion isn't even fully sentient."

Ashara shrugged, her lips quirking into a small, wry smile. "I never break a promise, no matter who or what it's made to."

Gale turned to Astarion as though seeking some validation. The vampire smirked, his fangs flashing slightly. "Don't look at me. I already recruited one wizard. I personally think she just wants one of her own."

Ashara scowled, folding her arms across her chest. "That's not the reason why, and you know it."

Turning back to Gale, she softened again. "I'm being serious. If you need to escape from Durge, I can offer you sanctuary. But in order to offer you a cure for the parasite, I need to find my friends first."

Gale let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of his guilt and despair had finally become too much. Ashara noticed the faint shimmer in his eyes before he turned away abruptly, bracing himself on the desk with one hand while the other clutched his head. His shoulders began to tremble, and Ashara's stomach twisted as she realized, with dismay, that he was crying.

The raw, broken sound of his quiet sobs filled the room, a sharp contrast to the weight of silence that had come before. Ashara froze, unsure for a moment how to respond. Even Astarion shifted uncomfortably, his usual air of detachment faltering as his gaze flicked toward the wizard.

Finally, Ashara reached out, her hand hovering before she rested it gently on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch but didn't pull away. His voice broke as he stammered, "Forgive me, I don't know quite what's come over me."

Astarion's voice came unexpectedly, quiet but laced with dry amusement. "I do. It's called hope, my dear fellow. And it hurts like hell the first time you reach for it."

Ashara turned to look at him, startled by the unexpected sincerity in his words. He caught her eye, and a faint, knowing smile played at the corner of his lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it carried a weight that told her he understood more than he let on.

Gale cleared his throat, the sound rough and strained, as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. His composure was returning, bit by bit, though his eyes were still red-rimmed.

"If I could," he began, his voice steadier now, "I would throw caution to the wind and join you right now. But you need Durge out of Moonrise in order to successfully infiltrate the ranks of the Absolute. My defection now could cause all manner of complications for you."

He straightened, his posture more solid as he turned toward the door. Each step seemed more deliberate than the last, as though he were building up his resolve with every motion. "So, I will continue to play my part for as long as it is necessary. I'll find a way to keep you apprised of our movements. Once you have successfully freed your companions—"

Ashara cut him off, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Then we come get you."

He paused mid-step, turning back to look at her. The faint light caught his face, and for the first time, Ashara saw something unguarded - relief, hope, a fragile brightness that hadn't been there before. His lips curved into a faint smile as he dipped his head in a small bow.

"Fate may yet smile upon me," he said softly. "For I can think of no other reason for it to send me such a savior."

Before Ashara could respond, Astarion's voice broke in, sardonic as ever as he moved to stand beside her. "Fate has a funny sense of humor if you think a vampire, a drunk wizard, and a forest urchin qualify as 'saviors'."

From across the room, Rolan's voice carried through the air as he poked his head in from the balcony, his expression stormy. "For the last time, I'm not drunk!"

Astarion didn't even bother to look back, waving a dismissive hand as he sang out over his shoulder, "Nobody cares, Rolan. Go back to brooding."

Rolan spat back, "Go to hell," before retreating again, the sound of his muttered curses fading as he disappeared onto the balcony.

Ashara groaned, pressing her fingers to her temple. Her patience was wearing thin, the back-and-forth grating on her already frayed nerves. She turned to Gale, offering him an apologetic smile. "You might want to reconsider my offer."

Gale's lips quirked into a grin, the warmth in his eyes now unshaken by the chaos around him. "I assure you," he said with a faint chuckle, "it will take more than the bickering of companions to dissuade me."

Ashara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. There was something oddly grounding about his resolve, a steadiness that seemed to anchor the moment. Even with his burdens, Gale carried himself now as if the spark of hope had lit something within him, fragile but burning nonetheless.

She nodded, stepping aside as he moved toward the door. "Stay safe," she said, her voice quiet but genuine.

Gale paused at the threshold, glancing back at her, his gaze lingering. "And you," he replied, his tone softer now, almost reverent.

He reached for the door, his hand closing around the handle. Ashara felt her shoulders begin to relax, just slightly, as she watched him pull it open - only for every muscle in her body to freeze the moment she saw what lay beyond.

Standing in the doorway was Durge, his towering form framed by the faint glow of torchlight spilling in from the hallway. His armor was spattered with faint streaks of dried blood and his eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. His smile, sharp and predatory, spread slowly across his face as his gaze roamed the room. It lingered on Gale for a beat too long before settling on Ashara and Astarion.

The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that pressed against the chest and made it hard to breathe. Durge's voice broke it with a quiet, venomous precision.

"This is why you never let a wizard wander off on their own. They pick up all sorts of parasites."

Chapter Text

Astarion’s fear spiked, a sharp and visceral thing that sank its claws into his chest. Durge’s imposing frame filled the doorway, his maroon and black plate armor gleaming in the dim light. Astarion’s mind screamed at him, a cacophony of curses for leaving his post at the door, for letting his guard down.

How did this brute escape my detection? The question cut through his panic like a shard of ice, but the answer came swiftly.

Durge’s wicked smile deepened as his gaze swept over the trembling Gale. “Don’t you just love Pass Without Trace?” he said, his tone filled with mocking satisfaciton.

Astarion’s blood ran cold. He knew. He knew we were here the entire time.

Before he could react, the shadows behind him shifted unnaturally, and a blade whispered through the air, slicing close to his ear. He spun, but too late - Shadowheart was there, her dagger already pressed against his throat. Her dark eyes glinted with cold amusement as her lips curled into a sneer.

“Now why does this seem so familiar?” she mused. “Oh, that’s right. You held a dagger to my throat the first time we met.”

Astarion’s lips curled back in a snarl, his fangs bared. “You have no idea how much I regret not gutting you that day.”

She tightened her grip, her blade biting into his skin, and Astarion felt a warm trickle of blood run down his neck. He kept his breathing steady, refusing to show her the fear clawing at his insides.

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision, drawing his attention. He turned his head just in time to see Durge lunge forward. The dragonborn swatted Gale aside with a single brutal motion, nearly sending the wizard sprawling. Astarion’s stomach lurched as Durge's massive, clawed hand wrapped around Ashara’s head and lifted her off the ground with terrifying ease.

“Ashara!”

Desperately, Astarion tried to lunge toward her, but Shadowheart’s blade pressed deeper into his neck. She grabbed his hair, yanking his head down, forcing him to still. Her breath was hot against his ear, and her tone was laced with cruel delight.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

The words, so familiar, made Astarion’s blood boil. She was parroting back his own lines, the ones he’d used on her when they first met. His fists clenched, his mind racing as he watched Ashara struggle. Her legs flailed helplessly, her hands clawing at Durge’s wrist as she tried to pry his grip loose. But the dragonborn held her effortlessly, his claws digging into her scalp.

“Let her go!” Astarion shouted, his voice shaking with fury. “Whatever quarrel you have is with me, not her.”

Durge turned his crimson gaze toward Astarion, tilting his head in mock curiosity. His lips peeled back, revealing rows of jagged teeth in a grin that sent a shiver down Astarion’s spine.

“Quarrel?” Durge’s tone was almost playful, though the menace beneath it was unmistakable. “What makes you think I have any quarrel with you? You only tried to steal my pet wizard here.”

He reached down with his other hand, planting it heavily on Gale’s shoulder. His claws sank into the mans skin, drawing a wince from him.

“Master, I assure you—” Gale began, his voice trembling.

“Shhh,” Durge interrupted, his tone deceptively gentle as he patted Gale’s head like one might a dog. “Hush now, naughty little mage. I already know of your secret plans to betray me.”

Durge’s claws flexed, causing Gale to flinch, but the dragonborn’s expression remained eerily calm. “Fortunately for you,” he said, his voice softening as if delivering a benevolent decree, “I am the forgiving type.”

Gale’s face paled, but he said nothing. Durge’s attention shifted back to Ashara, peering at her through his claws with a twisted fascination. “Such pretty eyes,” he murmured, his voice low and almost wistful. “I wonder… would they taste like blueberries if I popped them out of your skull?”

Astarion’s breath caught as Durge raised a clawed finger, the talon impossibly sharp as it hovered just below one of Ashara’s wide, terrified eyes. He dragged the claw lightly across the delicate skin beneath. Ashara’s breath hitched, her body trembling, and her gaze darted to Astarion, pleading silently for help.

Astarion inhaled sharply, his chest tightening as cold fury ignited within him, but every shift of his body pressed the dagger at his neck closer, the edge biting deeper into his skin. He could feel the warm trickle of blood sliding down his collarbone, the sharp sting reminding him how precariously close he was to death. One wrong move, one flick of Shadowheart’s wrist, and his throat would open like a ripe fruit.

The Sharran's voice came close to his ear, soft and mocking, her breath warm against his skin. “My, my,” she murmured, her tone dripping with false sweetness. “Could it be that the vampire actually cares about the woman?”

Astarion gritted his teeth, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reply. His crimson eyes burned as he glared at her, but she only smirked, her dark amusement evident.

Durge turned his head and looked at them. He tilted his head slightly, the motion oddly birdlike, and his voice rumbled with curiosity. “Does he now? How delicious.”

The dragonborn lowered Ashara to the ground, his grip loosening from her head, but before she could scramble away, his claws hooked into her cloak. He yanked her closer, the motion swift and rough, until her body was pressed against his plated chest.

His reptilian tongue flicked out, tracing a wet line across her cheek with a deliberate, provoking slowness. She recoiled, her breath hitching, her body trembling despite her attempt to remain defiant. Durge smirked, his predatory gaze shifting to Astarion, leering at him as if daring him to react.

Astarion’s nails bit into his palms as he struggled to stay still, every instinct screaming at him to act, to strike, to do something. But the blade at his neck held him in check, and he could feel Shadowheart’s smirk without even looking at her.

Ashara tried to turn her face away from Durge, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. Her voice, though trembling, carried a spark of defiance. “If you’re going to kill me, get on with it."

Durge chuckled, a sound that rumbled like an avalanche. “Kill you?” he repeated, as if considering it. “No, not yet. I enjoy playing with my food first.”

A voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the moment. “I have the tiefling mage, jhe'stil Durge.”

Astarion’s heart sank further. Durge’s grin widened, his jagged teeth bared in delight. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed, his tone almost jovial. “I love tieflings - they make such pretty corpses, don’t you think?”

Rolan was dragged into the room from the balcony, blood dripping down his face from a gash on his forehead, his face twisted in pain as he clutched at his ribs. Lae’zel shoved him forward, her expression impassive as Rolan hit the floor hard, groaning. The githyanki warrior planted her boot firmly on his back, pinning him down. Her longsword rested at the base of his skull, poised for a killing strike.

“We have no need of another mage,” she said coldly, her eyes narrowing at Durge. “Let me take his horns as a trophy for my tent.”

Durge raised a clawed hand, his tone almost indulgent. “Now, now, Lae’zel. You already have plenty of trophies, and it’s always best to keep a spare wizard on hand. You know how… squishy they can be.”

Lae’zel pressed down harder on Rolan’s back, but she said nothing, her lips curling into a faint sneer.

Durge turned his attention back to Astarion, his expression shifting to something more sinister. His smile was a blade hidden in silk, cutting even as it feigned charm. “Now that everyone has been reacquainted, let’s get back to the matter at hand.”

He raised a talon and pointed it directly at Astarion. “Starting with you, thief. I have a job for you.”

Astarion snarled, his voice laced with venom. “Go to hell.”

Durge tilted his head, feigning hurt, his expression darkening with disappointment. “Is that any way to talk to your master?”

“You’re not my master,” Astarion spat, his voice rising. “No one is. Not anymore.”

Durge’s sinister smile widened further, a gleam of malice in his crimson eyes. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his presence filling the room with a suffocating weight. “Are you quite sure about that?” he asked.

Astarion’s body stiffened as Durge turned his gaze to Shadowheart. “Set him loose,” the dragonborn commanded.

The pressure against Astarion’s neck vanished as Shadowheart released him, her fingers slipping away from his hair. He straightened slowly, the tension in his spine coiling like a snake ready to strike. His eyes met Durge’s with a mix of fury and caution, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Durge shoved Ashara toward Gale with a dismissive flick of his arm, sending her stumbling before she caught herself. She glared at the dragonborn, but the rage in her expression was still tempered by fear.

Durge stepped forward, his red cloak sweeping dramatically around his massive frame. With deliberate slowness, he reached to his belt, pulled a dagger free, and tossed it to the ground in front of Astarion. The blade gleamed, its edge wickedly sharp.

Then, to Astarion’s astonishment, Durge sank to one knee. His arms spread wide, exposing his throat. A mocking grin twisted his scaled face as he spoke, his voice low and taunting. “Take your best shot.”

Astarion hesitated, his mind racing. He stooped, his hand closing around the hilt of the dagger, the weight of it solid in his grip. He straightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied Durge. Surely it couldn’t be this simple.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel had moved off to the side, their postures loose and disinterested, as though they were watching a child’s game. Lae’zel leaned against the wall, her longsword resting casually in her grip. Shadowheart crossed her arms, her eyes glinting with faint amusement. Neither of them seemed inclined to intervene.

Rolan, standing unsteadily with one hand pressed to his ribs, broke the silence. “What are you waiting for?!” he barked, his voice raw with desperation. “Kill him!”

Astarion's eyes locked on Durge’s exposed throat, and for a heartbeat, the promise of freedom flickered before him. Ashara and Rolan were free. Gale was unharmed. All he had to do was end this, and they could deal with the rest afterwards.

Durge’s lip curled into a sneer, his voice cutting through Astarion’s hesitation like the blade he held. “Pathetic weakling.”

The taunt hit like a spark to dry tinder, and anger surged up in Astarion, white-hot and undeniable. With a snarl, he lunged forward, raising the dagger high, aiming directly for the exposed throat of the dragonborn.

But his arm stopped mid-plunge.

Astarion froze, trembling with the force of his own will as he strained against the invisible force arresting his movements. His breath hitched as realization dawned. The familiar, hated sensation spread through his limbs - a feeling he’d hoped never to experience again. It was as if unseen hands gripped him, pulling his strings like a marionette.

The dagger slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground. His fingers twitched uselessly, and his legs locked in place. He stood paralyzed, unable to move, as Durge rose smoothly to his feet, his towering frame casting a shadow over Astarion. The dragonborn’s smile deepened, his satisfaction almost tangible.

“Kneel."

Astarion's knees buckled, even as he strained against the command with everything he had. Sweat broke across his forehead, his teeth gritting as he fought to hold his ground.

But it was futile. His body betrayed him, and a broken whimper escaped his lips. “No…” His muscles gave way, and he collapsed to his knees before Durge, trembling with fury and shame.

Ashara’s voice rang out, sharp with panic. “Stop it! What are you doing to him?!”

Gale’s tone was grim, his voice heavy with defeat. “It’s the tadpole… Durge can control them.”

“Correct,” Durge said, his tone light, almost conversational. His claws flexed, and he took a step closer, towering over Astarion. “It’s also how I knew you had died, Gale. I came up here to find out what moronic blunder had caused your death this time.” He leaned down slightly and tilted his head. “Imagine my surprise to sense the presence of another parasite I recognized.”

Astarion’s head hung low, his breaths ragged as he fought against the command still gripping him. His hands dug into the floor, nails scraping against the blood stained boards as he tried to summon the strength to rise, to defy. But his body remained rooted, every movement a struggle against an unseen chain.

Durge’s laughter rolled through the room, deep and mocking. “You may have escaped your old master…” He reached out, gripping Astarion’s chin and forcing him to look up. “But let’s make one thing perfectly clear, spawn. You belong to me now.”

Ashara followed Durge and Astarion through the winding paths of the mist-enshrouded cemetery, the silence pressing against her nerves. Each step on the gravel path felt heavier than the last.

Stone graves jutted from the earth like broken teeth, their inscriptions faded to ghosts. Mausoleums stood ahead, their yawning entrances spilling dark shadows onto the ground. The air hung thick, damp with decay, and the faint tang of moss-coated stone clung to her tongue.

Durge led them, his clawed hand resting firmly on Astarion's back. The vampire moved stiffly, his shoulders rounded, head bowed as though trying to disappear into himself, his usual haughty grace replaced with something far more fragile. Durge's grip wasn't rough, but it was unmistakable: the kind of touch that announced ownership. The sight twisted like a blade in Ashara's gut.

Shadowheart walked just within her peripheral vision, her hand steady on the haft of her mace. Her sharp eyes swept the surroundings, every glance charged with the expectation of attack. Lae'zel mirrored her intensity on Ashara's other side, her sword ready, muscles taut beneath her alien armor. Between them, Rolan limped, his every step a grim reminder of Lae'zel's earlier roughness. He kept his chin lifted, though the pale lines of pain etched into his face betrayed his effort.

At her other side, Gale trailed slightly behind. She caught herself trying again to meet his gaze, hoping for a flicker of acknowledgment, but his eyes stayed rooted to the path in front of them.

Her attention drifted forward again to Astarion, and her chest tightened. The image of his face, stricken with raw fear as he knelt before Durge, burned in her mind. Her instincts had screamed at her to act then, to shift, to strike, but her wolf's form in such a confined space felt too dangerous.

The risk of hurting the wrong people was too great - or worse, she might have been powerless to help even in her wolf form. The uncertainty had frozen her. Now, out here, under an open sky, she still felt paralyzed. How far could Durge's leash extend? What would happen if she defied it? She didn't know, and that ignorance kept her tethered.

The path narrowed, and ahead, a rock face rose sheer and imposing, a broken gate set into its base. The gate hung askew, as if something had burst through it - from the inside. Ashara's sharp eyes caught a figure lingering near the entrance, shrouded in darkness.

The air in the cemetery seemed to grow colder as the figure stepped forward, moving with the kind of ease that only someone who owned the ground beneath them could muster. Light from a nearby brazier spilled over his sharp, tailored coat, catching on gold threads that glinted like embers in the gloom. His bronzed face was both unnervingly perfect and unnervingly inhuman, every angle too sharp, every movement too precise.

His hands spread outward, palms up in a mockery of greeting, and his voice slid through the silence, smooth and lilting. "Our hero thought but of treasure ahead, did not consider the peace of the dead... Through the dark he went creeping, and awoke what was sleeping."

Durge's tail twitched behind him, the only sign of his growing annoyance. His claws flexed, the tips catching on the leather grip of the sword strapped to his side. He turned his head toward the figure, his eyes narrowing.

"Spare me the gods-awful poetry for once, Raphael. What do you want?"

Raphael's smile wavered, his irritation flickering briefly before he smoothed it over like a gambler with a losing hand. He stepped forward, his polished boots barely disturbing the gravel beneath them. "I've grown quite fond of you, you know - in my way. I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead."

With a languid motion, he gestured toward the gate, as though unveiling a grand performance. Ashara caught herself bristling. Everything about him exuded arrogance, but it was the underlying menace that set her teeth on edge.

Durge snorted, stepping forward. "I'm touched. But I'm also in a hurry, so spout whatever nonsensical deal you want to make with me, and I'll ignore you just like the last time."

He moved to pass Raphael, his heavy boots grinding the gravel beneath them. The moment Durge stepped forward, Raphael sidestepped smoothly into his path, his movements precise, the faintest flicker of annoyance breaking through his polished exterior.

"As you wish," Raphael said, his voice now colder, the melodic quality of it sharpening to an edge. "There is a creature that lurks in silence and shadow - a creature who, like me, is very much of the infernal persuasion."

Ashara's breath caught, her instincts flaring to life. She stiffened, her muscles coiling. Raphael... was a devil. Her gaze flicked to the others, gauging their reactions. Lae'zel's eyes narrowed, her grip on her blade tightening. Shadowheart tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable but her weapon poised. Gale didn't look up; his shoulders remained hunched, but there was a faint tension in his hands as they hovered near the spellbook on his belt.

Raphael continued, his expression turning grave, though Ashara doubted the sincerity behind it. "Should it make its way out through the very doors you are about to brazenly swing open, you'll have unleashed a pestilence upon this realm. In truth, it is carnage incarnate. So, if you meet the devil of which I speak, kill it. Consider no other course of action."

Shadowheart's voice cut through the momentary silence, her tone steady and sharp. "You're still only telling us half of what you really know. I can tell."

Ashara's gaze flicked to Astarion, who had taken a cautious step backward when Durge's hand had lifted from his back. He moved silently, as if trying to fade into the shadows behind them. He drifted toward Ashara's side, but his eyes stayed fixed on Durge, hate burning in their crimson depths.

She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing near his hand. He jerked away, his fists clenching tightly. Ashara swallowed hard, her chest tightening at the rejection, but she said nothing. His anger wasn't meant for her - it ran deeper than her presence, tangled in memories of enslavement and chains.

Raphael sighed, the sound theatrical, almost indulgent. "This creature and I go back a long way. I admit it would be in my best interest as well should it remain trapped in the dark, or misplace its head, perhaps."

Durge tilted his head as the faintest flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, his lips curving into a toothy grin. "Are you afraid of this creature, Raphael?"

The devil's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, his usual veneer slipping for a brief instant. "I should not relish its reacquaintance. Let's leave it at that."

Durge's laughter rolled out, low and guttural, his chest vibrating with the sound. He threw his head back, the brazier's flickering light catching on his sharp teeth and the edges of his horns. "Ha! This is too good."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mocking growl. "Deal with your own problems, devil."

Raphael's composure cracked, a faint scowl tugging at the edges of his lips. He clicked his tongue, the sharp sound echoing against the stone walls of the cemetery. "Very well," he said with a sigh, though his tone was laced with irritation.

His eyes slid from Durge to the others, resting briefly on Ashara before moving to Astarion. The smile he gave was more predatory than charming now. "But perhaps one of your companions might be more open to offers?"

Ashara felt a jolt of unease, her heart thudding against her ribs as if warning her of an unseen snare tightening around them. The devil had found his target, and the way his gaze lingered on Astarion sent a chill down her spine.

"Astarion, for instance," Raphael purred, his voice like honeyed venom. "I can offer you an opportunity to learn more about those scars of yours."

Beside her, Astarion froze. His shoulders locked, and Ashara glanced at him, alarm flickering in her chest as she tried to understand the sudden tension in his posture. She spoke softly, searching his face for an answer. "What's he talking about? What scars?"

A muscle in Astarion's jaw twitched, but he didn't answer. His silence, heavy and telling, made her unease deepen.

Before Astarion could respond, Durge loomed closer, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "Yes... Do tell," he rumbled, the growl in his voice sending vibrations through the air. "I adore scars, especially when I'm the one creating them."

Raphael's smirk grew wider, sharper, as though Durge's words were exactly the opening he wanted. He took a step closer to Astarion, his movements fluid and unhurried, as though savoring the moment. "Oh? You haven't told them..." Raphael drawled. "And you've kept your clothes on this entire time? How very unlike you."

Astarion's breath caught, his chest rising sharply as he took a step back. His movements betrayed the instinct to flee, but Raphael followed with deliberate ease, closing the gap. The devil's voice was a mockery of reassurance, his words soft yet biting. "Why not let them see? Don't be shy."

With a flick of his hand, orange light burst from Raphael's fingertips, washing over Astarion like an infernal tide. Ashara blinked against the glow, her heart hammering in her chest. When the light faded, the breath caught in her throat.

Astarion stood naked before them, stripped of every layer of dignity. The brazier's flickering light illuminated his pale body, and Ashara's eyes widened in shock as she took in the brutal carvings etched across his back. They weren't just scars - they were infernal script, jagged runes that stood out like grotesque etchings on a once-pristine canvas.

Astarion's gaze darted to her, the humiliation in his eyes raw for a moment. His lips pressed into a tight line as he turned his body away, his shoulders hunching.

"Gods dammit," he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with frustration. He straightened a moment later, forcing himself to face Raphael and Durge, his defiance like a fragile mask over his discomfort.

Durge's head tilted, his eyes dragging over Astarion with a leering intensity. "Hmmm... I should have let you seduce me after all," he drawled, his tail flicking lazily behind him.

Lae'zel's voice followed, her tone dark and suggestive as she stepped closer, her amber eyes gleaming. "Perhaps we may yet have use for the spawn," she said, her lips curling with interest.

Ashara's hands moved before she could think, anger flaring hot and instinctive. She tore her cloak from her shoulders, the fabric snapping in the still air as she stepped toward Astarion. She avoided looking at his body, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his face. Her heart ached at the faint tremor she felt from him as she wrapped the cloak around his waist, tying it securely.

Her fingers brushed his side as she finished, and she felt him flinch. But as she looked up, their eyes met. His expression softened, the helplessness in his gaze mingling with gratitude. His lips moved silently, shaping the words, "Thank you."

Ashara gave him a small nod, her jaw clenched as she turned her attention back to Raphael, her body instinctively shifting to stand protectively in front of Astarion. Her fingers twitched, the wolf within her begging to lash out, but she forced herself to hold steady, her fury simmering just below the surface.

Raphael's smirk faltered, the satisfaction in his eyes dimming ever so slightly as he regarded her. For the first time, his gaze lingered on Ashara, a mixture of curiosity and surprise flickering across his face as his lips parted as if to speak, but Durge moved first.

The dragonborn stepped forward, his presence dominating the space as his hand reached toward Astarion.

Ashara moved instinctively, her voice slicing through the charged air like a whip. "Don't you dare touch him, you miserable wyrm!"

Durge didn't pause. He loomed over her, his eyes gleaming with amusement as his hand swept over her head. With one swift motion, he gripped Astarion's shoulder, pulling the vampire closer and spinning him around with ease. Astarion stiffened under the pressure, his head jerking slightly as Durge held him in place, one clawed hand anchoring him like an iron vise.

Durge leaned in, his other hand rising to trace the infernal runes carved into Astarion's back. The tip of his talon moved with deliberate slowness, outlining the circular patterns, his touch more invasive than curious. A quiet rumble escaped his throat, almost like approval.

Ashara surged forward, shoving against Durge's arm with all her strength. He didn't even flinch. With a lazy swipe of his other arm, he knocked her aside as though she were an irritating insect. She staggered backward, her boots scraping against the gravel as she struggled to regain her footing. Gale's hands caught her, steadying her before she could fall.

"Stop," Gale hissed urgently, his voice low and strained. "You'll only make things worse for him."

Ashara's head snapped toward the wizard, her eyes blazing. "Worse?! How can this possibly get any worse?" she hissed, her voice thick with fury.

Gale's grip tightened briefly on her arm. His expression was grim, his voice dropping lower. "Trust me, it will."

Durge's claw traced another slow path across Astarion's scarred back, his tone almost reverent. "Beautiful work," he said, the admiration clear in his voice. "Your previous master certainly had a flair for the dramatic. This must have been... excruciating."

Astarion stood frozen, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. He said nothing, his silence louder than any scream.

Raphael's voice slithered through the air. "Don't pout, spawn. Just destroy the beast, and I'll happily reveal your secrets - rather than your skin."

Durge tilted his head, his scaled tail curling lazily behind him as he regarded Raphael. "I must confess, I'm intrigued by all this myself now," he said, his tone amused. "All right, if the spawn wants to learn about these exquisite carvings, let him go ahead and accept your deal."

With a final pat on Astarion's back, Durge shoved him forward towards Raphael. The vampire staggered, his posture stiff as he straightened, lifting his head. His crimson eyes burned with defiance as he glared at the devil.

"Fine," he growled. "We'll kill this damn creature of yours."

Raphael's grin widened, his face lit with triumph. "Then we have an understanding. I look forward to our next meeting."

Ashara stepped closer, her voice low but urgent. "Astarion... are you sure this is a good idea? Devils never play fair."

Raphael turned his gaze to her, his smile softening to something more calculating. "You wound me... but on this occasion, the deal comes with no hidden clauses. I have something much more interesting to occupy my attention for the time being."

His eyes lingered on her as he spoke, and Ashara felt a chill ripple down her spine. Then, with a flick of his hand, Raphael vanished into a cloud of red smoke. The air was left still and heavy, the faint scent of sulfur hanging in his wake.

Silence reigned for a moment before Astarion shifted. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting Ashara's. "Well... now you know," he said, his voice quiet and resigned.

Ashara's throat tightened as she reached out, her hand resting on his arm. This time, he didn't pull away. "I'm so sorry Cazador did this to you," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow.

Astarion's lips twitched, his smile bitter and distant. "Onyx said something similar," he murmured, holding her gaze as if he could blot out the rest of the world beyond her eyes.

Durge's impatient huff broke the moment. He turned back toward the group, his sharp teeth glinting in the low light. "We don't have all day to stand around chatting. Let's carry on, shall we?" He strode past, casting a leering glance over his shoulder at Astarion as he sniggered. "Though you might want to get dressed first."

Astarion's eyes narrowed, the venom in his gaze sharp enough to wound. But instead of responding, he turned his focus back to Ashara. "You probably should get dressed too," he said quietly, his eyes carrying a silent plea.

Ashara swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She shook her head, her voice steady despite the roiling anger beneath. "I can't risk it right now. I don't know how else he's capable of hurting you."

Astarion's expression shifted, the anger in his eyes softening. His hand brushed hers briefly, before he whispered, "Please, Ashara... end this."

Her heart clenched, but her resolve didn't waver. "Just hold out a little longer," she said, her voice low but steady. "I have an idea."

"Spawn, follow!" Durge's voice barked from ahead, sharp and commanding.

Astarion flinched, the force of the word striking him like a lash. Ashara stepped closer, her hand rising to cup his cheek. He froze under her touch, and their eyes met. "Trust me," she whispered.

He gazed at her for a long moment before closing his eyes briefly, drawing in a steadying breath and nodding. Straightening, he turned to face Durge, a sneer curling on his lips. "Coming, master," he spat, the word dripping with contempt.

Durge's grin stretched wide, his sharp teeth glinting in the low light. "Ah! That's more like it." He turned and continued forward, his laughter echoing through the cemetery.

Ashara lingered close to Astarion, her mind churning with possibilities, her focus sharpening as they began moving deeper into the mausoleum. The air turned colder, heavy with the stench of decay and the distant drip of unseen water. Shadows pooled in the corners, swallowing the light of their torches, but Ashara's attention was elsewhere.

Onyx had the power to suppress the commands being forced upon Astarion's tadpole - those insidious signals meant to nudge him toward ceremorphosis. Now, with the realization that her powers and Onyx's stemmed from the same source, hope flickered in her chest. Perhaps she could block or sever the threads that tied Astarion to Durge's control.

As the group continued along, Ashara slowed her steps, moving closer to Astarion. Her senses sharpened, her focus narrowing as she reached out with her power, searching the ether for the unseen threads of arcane energy that bound Astarion's tadpole to Durge's. The magic felt slippery and alien, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. Still, she pushed forward, her determination hardening with every step.

Chapter Text

Towering statues loomed around Astarion, their severe expressions cold and unforgiving, their weapons poised as if to strike down any who dared tread their sacred ground. Walls of purple marble stretched as far as the eye could see and the air was stale, tinged with the metallic scent of decay and the faint crackle of dormant magic.

He still couldn't quite believe that the infamous Gauntlet of Shar was lurking below the mausoleum, but at the same time it didn't surprise him in the slightest.

Astarion walked behind Durge, every step measured, every movement taut with resentment. The mismatched scraps of armor and clothing he'd scavenged from fallen warriors clung awkwardly to him, a crude patchwork that scratched at his skin. It was better than nothing, but only barely. At least it shielded him from the indignity of parading around in nothing but Ashara's cloak, though the memory of that humiliation still burned fresh in his mind.

He loathed the sight of Durge's broad back ahead of him, the dragonborn's horned head tilted with an air of effortless dominance. Durge walked as though the world itself bent to his will - and for now, Astarion was part of that world. Every word, every action, every sneer reminded him of his centuries under Cazador's heel. The same chains, just a different master.

Ahead of him, Shadowheart's usually composed demeanor had shifted into something almost fervent. The Gauntlet had awoken something in her. She spoke with quiet intensity about the training ground of Dark Justiciars, the trials Shar's followers had endured to prove their devotion.

Astarion caught fragments of her words, the reverence in her voice making his skin crawl. She wasn't just following Durge - she was thriving under him, her devotion to Shar amplified by his indulgence.

It made Astarion's teeth grind. Durge - who mocked, belittled, and struck down others without hesitation - spoke to Shadowheart and Lae'zel as though they were his treasured diciples. They hovered close to him, their loyalty evident in every glance, every word spoken in support of him. Astarion couldn't fathom it. How could they see anything but the monster that he saw? The same creature who had humiliated him and left him frozen and vulnerable in the midst of a fight, a mere pawn on Durge's twisted chessboard.

His jaw tightened as the memory resurfaced. The reanimated skeletons had risen from the cracked stone floor, their eye sockets blazing with violet light as they surged forward. It had been chaos. Shadowheart and Lae'zel moved like blades in motion, cutting down their foes with precision. Gale had conjured bursts of flame and ice, his spells carving paths through the undead. And in the middle of it all, Astarion had tried to escape.

He'd almost made it - almost.

Then, Durge's command had slammed into him like a wall. His body had frozen mid-step, his limbs refusing to obey him. He'd stood there, paralyzed and exposed, as the battle raged around him. Helpless.

Ashara and Rolan had fought to keep the undead from overwhelming him, their movements frantic as they shielded his immobilized form. He could still hear the sound of Ashara's sword tearing through bone, the crack of Rolan's magic echoing in the chamber. Astarion had been forced to watch, his shame mingling with fury, unable to defend himself or them.

Now, he trudged after Durge, his movements stiff and bitter, the echoes of his humiliation clinging to him like the scraps of armor on his body. Ashara and Rolan walked behind him, their weapons drawn, their gazes sharp as they scanned the corridors.

The violet light grew dimmer as they descended further into the Gauntlet. The air thickened, and the silence was broken only by the soft shuffle of their footsteps and the occasional creak of armor. Shadowheart suddenly paused, her mace lowering as she pointed to an inscription etched into the wall.

"This is it," she said, her voice tinged with awe. Her gaze swept over the massive door in front of them, reverence filling her expression. "The training grounds of the Dark Justiciars. The trials... they're still intact." Her focus shifted to Durge, her tone growing insistent. "Let me complete them. It's what Shar would want."

Durge glanced at her, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully before he nodded. "Do as you will," he said, his tone almost indulgent. "But don't expect me to save you if you falter, my little night orchid."

Shadowheart's lips twitched into a faint smile, the kind that suggested she had no intention of failing. Astarion rolled his eyes, his patience for her zealous devotion wearing thin, but he kept his mouth shut. He had no desire to draw attention to himself again.

Ashara had asked him to trust her. Despite the resentment he felt over her apparent unwillingness to simply transform and rip the dragonborn to shreds, he had to admit her caution was warranted. There was no telling what Durge was capable of. The idea that the dragonborn might even force him to fight Ashara sent a chill down his spine. Would she still hold to her promise of never harming him? Best not to put it to the test.

For now, it was better to bide his time and trust in whatever Ashara was planning.

The violet lanterns hanging from the high, arched ceilings cast their light in jagged, flickering patterns, illuminating the chamber below like a scene from a nightmare. The walls, polished purple marble streaked with veins of black, seemed to drink in the light, their surface smooth and cold.

At the bottom of a wide stone staircase lay a scattering of corpses, their forms twisted and broken, the sharp stench of sulfur curling through the air like smoke from a smoldering fire. Astarion crouched with the others at the top of the stairs, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

This had to be it. The devil's lair.

Astarion's fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger, his other hand braced against the floor to steady himself. He scanned the room for movement but found only stillness, broken by the faint, sputtering crackle of torches lining the chamber's walls. At the far end, the prize gleamed - an Umbral gem, perched atop a pedestal like a dark promise.

Earlier in the Gauntlet, they had met with the necromancer Balthazar, a grotesque figure whose corpulent body reeked of decay, surrounded by his shambling undead servants. Astarion could still see the gleam of Balthazar's sunken eyes as he'd laid out their task with a tone of disinterest: find the Nightsong relic for Ketheric and prove their usefulness.

It was Balthazar who had told them of the Umbral gems needed to power the elevator platforms that linked each level of the Gauntlet. Now, one such gem lay within reach, but the scene before them screamed danger.

Durge leaned forward slightly, his claws clicking faintly against the stone as he rubbed his scaled chin in thought. "I know a baited trap when I see one," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of calculation and dark amusement.

"And I know a devil when I smell one," Astarion murmured, his voice dry but laced with disdain. His eyes stayed fixed on the chamber below. The sulfurous stench was a dead giveaway, even if the room itself hadn't screamed infernal danger.

Durge's head swiveled toward him, a faint flicker of a smirk curling on his reptilian lips. He ignored Astarion's comment and instead turned to Shadowheart, who was crouched beside him, her mace held loosely but ready. "Fancy putting those impressive shadow-stalking abilities of yours to good use, my dark angel?"

Shadowheart tilted her head, her lips curling faintly at the edges. "If you can provide me with a distraction," she replied, her voice soft but edged with challenge.

Durge's grin widened, the sharp edges of his teeth glinting in the violet light. "Oh, I have just the thing."

He turned, his gaze landing squarely on Astarion. "You wanted to kill the devil for Raphael, didn't you, spawn? Now's your opportunity. I think you should trot down there and introduce yourself."

Astarion's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. His crimson eyes darted to the altar, the corpses, the faint pulse of violet light, then back to Durge. "You want me to deliberately walk into an ambush?"

Durge tilted his head, his expression mockingly perplexed as he turned to Shadowheart and Lae'zel. "Did I speak too quietly? Did I not enunciate clearly? Or do you think the spawn is deaf?"

Lae'zel didn't hesitate, her lips curling in disdain as she rested her blade against her shoulder. "He is more than likely just cowardly," she said, her tone flat, almost bored.

Shadowheart smirked faintly, her sharp eyes gleaming as she turned to Gale, who crouched slightly behind them. "What do you think, Gale? Is the spawn deaf or simply stupid?"

Astarion's eyes flicked to Gale, catching the flicker of discomfort that crossed the wizard's face. Gale shifted his weight, his mouth opening slightly as though he might speak, but the words never came. He looked away, avoiding Astarion's gaze entirely.

Durge's grin vanished in an instant. His clawed hand shot out, grabbing Gale by the throat and dragging him forward with an effortless strength that made Astarion flinch. Gale gasped, his hands flying to Durge's wrist in a futile attempt to pry himself free. "She asked you a question, mage," Durge growled, his voice low and guttural.

Ashara was on her feet in an instant, anger blazing in her eyes as she stepped forward. "All right, we'll go!" she snapped, her voice sharp and defiant. "Just leave Gale alone."

Durge's eyes flicked toward her, his grip on Gale loosening slightly as a slow, satisfied grin spread across his face. Without a word, Ashara turned and began descending the staircase, her movements deliberate, her shoulders tense.

Astarion stood as well, his gaze flicking briefly to Gale. The wizard's expression was stricken, gratitude and shame twisting his features as he watched Ashara descend. Astarion clenched his jaw, the sight stirring something uncomfortable in his chest. He cast a glance at Durge, who smirked and gestured toward the chamber below.

"She's smarter than you, spawn," Durge said, his tone taunting. "Remind me to get her tadpoled."

Rolan made as if to follow them, but Lae'zel's hand shot out, grabbing his collar and yanking him back down as he attempted to stand. The tiefling stumbled, his eyes narrowing as he glared at her. "The tiefling stays," she growled. "To ensure your swift return."

Rolan snorted, brushing her hand off with exaggerated bravado. "You'll be waiting a while then," he said, his tone flippant. "They can't stand me."

Astarion hesitated on the stairs, the words cutting sharper than he'd expected. The bravado in Rolan's voice couldn't hide the truth beneath it, the hint of bitterness that made Astarion's own chest twist uncomfortably.

Durge chuckled low in his throat, the sound rumbling with dark amusement as his sharp claws tapped rhythmically against the stone steps. His eyes gleamed as he turned his gaze to Rolan. "Oh, I'm sure that's true of the spawn," he said, his tone smooth. "But the little she-elf is so delightfully compassionate. So easy to manipulate, it's almost unfair."

Lae'zel scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. "Compassion is a weakness," she said bluntly, her gaze darting to Astarion as if daring him to disagree.

Astarion stopped mid-step, turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. His lips curled into a faint smirk, though his eyes gleamed with something colder. "I used to think that too... these days I'm not so sure."

He tilted his head, the smirk growing sharper as he added, "You all have fun being cowards up here while the 'weak' go and put themselves in danger."

Lae'zel's expression darkened instantly. She half-rose, her face twisting in fury, her hand twitching toward the hilt of her sword. Durge's clawed hand settled on her shoulder, stopping her with a subtle but commanding pressure.

"Patience, Lae'zel," he said, his tone casual but laced with menace. "You'll get your chance to make him suffer for that remark later."

The implied threat sent a faint prickle running down Astarion's spine like a whisper of cold air. He bit back his instinct to respond, turning his back on the group and continuing down the stairs. His focus shifted instead to Ashara, who waited just ahead, her posture tense yet ready. As he approached, her sharp intake of breath caught his attention.

"A displacer beast!" she gasped, her voice filled with something that could only be described as excitement.

Astarion's eyes snapped to the shadows ahead, narrowing as they adjusted to the shifting light. At first, the beast was nothing more than a ripple in the darkness, a distortion that didn't quite belong. But then it emerged, its sleek, panther-like body covered in dark, rippling fur. Its six limbs moved with unnerving grace, the long tentacles sprouting from its shoulders swaying with a deadly elegance. The faint violet glow reflected in its piercing yellow eyes, which flicked toward them before turning away.

Astarion couldn't help the faint smile that curved his lips. Only Ashara would see a creature like this - a predator of shadows and nightmares - and feel excitement instead of fear.

The displacer beast padded forward, its massive paws silent against the stone floor. Its tail swished lazily, as if utterly unconcerned by the intruders. It moved with purpose, crossing the chamber until it reached the glowing Umbral gem. There, it settled onto its haunches, its sinuous body lowering gracefully as it sat beside the gem. The beast's yellow eyes turned back to them, its gaze taunting and almost playful, like a cat daring a mouse to come closer.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. He stepped closer to Ashara, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "It doesn't seem terribly interested in eating us. Yet." He glanced at her, his smirk returning. "Do try not to pet it, will you?"

Ashara shot him a look, her sapphire eyes narrowing, though there was a faint twitch of amusement in her lips. "I'm not completely reckless," she murmured, though the flicker of longing in her gaze suggested otherwise.

Astarion chuckled under his breath, his tension easing slightly as he studied the creature. He wasn't sure what unnerved him more - the displacer beast's strange indifference to their presence, or the fact that the gem was so blatantly exposed, as if inviting them to take it. The sulfur in the air thickened, the oppressive scent clawing at his senses. Something was watching them, waiting.

Ashara and Astarion exchanged a glance, their expressions an unspoken mirror of resigned determination. Without a word, they both shrugged at the same time, a simultaneous gesture that seemed to say: Here goes nothing. Together, they stepped into the room, the oppressive air of the chamber pressing against their skin like a damp shroud.

No sooner had their feet touched the cracked stone floor than a deep, gravelly voice thundered through the room, reverberating off the towering walls. "What's this? Fresh entertainment."

They turned sharply, their eyes darting to the source of the voice. Perched atop a jagged outcropping of stone, a monstrous figure loomed.

His immense frame was coated in dark red flesh, gleaming in the dim torchlight as if slick with fresh blood. His broad shoulders were draped with a tattered cloak that shimmered faintly, skulls hanging like trophies from his armor. Two jagged horns curled wickedly from his brow, framing a face that twisted into a mocking sneer. His glowing, molten eyes locked onto them as he hefted a massive crossbow, the weapon's jagged bolt glinting with cruel intent. His claws tapped the weapon's stock, each tap a promise of violence.

It wasn't just him. Around the chamber, shadows shifted as figures stepped into the light. Sinister creatures clad in spiked armor and devilish masks peered down at them from crumbling ledges and broken columns. Merregons. Their cold, calculating eyes glinted behind their masks, and their weapons gleamed faintly in the violet light of the chamber.

"But you're too fresh for this place, aren't you?" the devil continued. He leaned forward slightly, his horns casting jagged shadows across the floor. "There's a whiff of the surface to you..."

Ashara leaned slightly toward Astarion, her voice barely a whisper. "There's no way we can take on this thing alone."

Astarion's eyes flicked to her, his voice equally low but pointed. "You could..."

Ashara frowned, her hand tugging at the edge of her leather cuirass. Her hesitation was clear, her gaze shifting briefly to the shadows as if calculating the cost of unleashing what lay within her. "I'd prefer to keep the wolf as a last resort," she murmured.

Before Astarion could respond, the devil's mocking tone broke through again. "A new arrival, then. You burrowed too deep and stumbled into Yurgir's lair, little rabbit..."

The name hung heavy in the air. Yurgir. The devil's grin widened as he adjusted his grip on the crossbow, leaning forward slightly as though savoring the tension.

Astarion decided to gamble. If nothing else, he could try to buy them time.

"Well," he said, stepping forward with calculated poise. His voice was smooth, even charming, as he met the devil's blazing gaze. "Allow me to hop to it - I want to talk."

Yurgir's sneer deepened, his massive hand tightening on the crossbow. "I don't talk to prey, I-"

He stopped abruptly, his nostrils flaring. His glowing eyes narrowed as he sniffed the air, his expression twisting into a snarl. "There's something else," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Almost hidden by your fear-stink... cherries, musk... and sulfur."

Yurgir straightened as he growled one word: "Raphael."

The name was a curse, venom dripping from every syllable. Yurgir's claws flexed as he adjusted his grip on the crossbow. "I can smell him all over you. Where is he?! That perfumed trickster swindled me - trapped me."

Astarion arched an eyebrow, forcing a calm expression even as his pulse quickened. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but he wants you dead."

The words had barely left his mouth before Yurgir moved, his bulk shifting with unnatural speed. He raised the crossbow, the massive bolt gleaming menacingly as he leveled it directly at Astarion's chest. "Where is he?!" Yurgir roared, his voice shaking the chamber. "Spit it out - NOW."

"Well," Astarion said, his tone almost flippant despite the danger. "I'd tell you, but I imagine Raphael would consider that terribly rude. And I've always been a stickler for etiquette."

A sharp, piercing yowl echoed through the chamber, cutting through the tension like a blade. Yurgir's massive head snapped toward the source of the noise, his molten eyes narrowing as he roared, "Nessa!"

Without hesitation, he loosed a bolt from his massive crossbow, the projectile slicing through the air like a streak of dark lightning. Astarion turned in time to see Shadowheart roll out of its path, the bolt embedding itself into the stone floor with a deafening crack.

Shadowheart clutched the Umbral gem in one hand, its faint violet glow reflecting in her eyes as she swung her mace with the other, narrowly keeping the displacer beast at bay. The creature snarled, its sleek, muscled form darting around her in a blur, its twin shoulder tentacles lashing out like barbed whips.

The chamber erupted into chaos.

The merregons, perched like vultures on the ledges above, leapt to the ground, landing with heavy thuds, their spears and pikes raised. The spiked armor and devilish masks of the infernal soldiers glinted ominously in the torchlight. They moved with unnerving precision, surrounding Astarion and Ashara in moments.

Astarion barely had time to draw his sword before a spear thrust toward his chest. He sidestepped, the weapon grazing his ribs as he brought his blade up in a sharp counter, striking the shaft of the spear and forcing his attacker to withdraw.

Ashara's blade flashed beside him as she parried a pike aimed at her midsection. Her movements were swift, her strikes measured, but Astarion could see the strain in her as more merregons closed in. Their numbers were overwhelming, their attacks relentless. Every clash of steel sent vibrations up his arm, his muscles burning with the effort of keeping them at bay.

"Shadowheart!" Durge's voice rang out, his tone sharp and commanding. He stood near the chamber's entrance, watching the chaos unfold with a smug grin. "Leave the dead weight and bring the gem."

Astarion's heart sank as Shadowheart hesitated for only a moment before vanishing in a swirl of shadow. She reappeared effortlessly beside Durge, the Umbral gem glowing in her hands. Astarion's lips curled into a snarl as Durge chuckled, his gaze shifting to Astarion and Ashara, who were being forced back against the far wall.

"I was going to use you as trap fodder," Durge called out, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. "But I think I like this outcome better."

One of the merregons lunged, its pike narrowly missing Astarion's side as he twisted and countered, his blade slicing a jagged line across its armored chest. The creature stumbled but didn't fall, its glowing eyes unblinking as it advanced again. Beside him, Ashara deflected another blow, her blade cutting a shallow line across the merregon's arm. Their backs pressed against the cold marble wall, and the press of enemies grew tighter.

"We can't leave them there!" Gale's voice broke through the cacophony, desperate and pleading. He stood at Durge's side, his expression pale but determined. "Please, they can still be of use to you."

Durge swatted away a stray merregon with a lazy flick of his clawed hand, his gaze never leaving the fight. "Gale," he said, his tone laced with mock patience, "Thunderwave the doorway and seal them in. I don't want this rabble following us when they've finished off the spawn and his whore."

Ashara's sharp gasp snapped Astarion's attention back to her. Her blade clashed against a merregon's spear, forcing it back as her eyes suddenly glowed faintly with arcane light. "There!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with a mix of triumph and disbelief. "I have it - I have the chains!"

Astarion deflected another thrust, his irritation boiling over. "What in the hells are you on about?" he snapped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Ashara slashed at a merregon's leg, forcing it to retreat a step. "I've severed Durge's control!" she shouted, her voice trembling with triumph. "For both of you!"

For a moment, Astarion hesitated, disbelief flashing across his face. His mind raced as her words sunk in. He glanced toward Gale, who stood frozen, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. Summoning his strength, Astarion reached out with his mind, the connection shaky but unmistakable. "Gale, you're free! Get the hells away from him!"

Gale's head snapped toward him, his wide eyes locking on Astarion's for a moment. But hesitation clouded his gaze, uncertainty rooting him in place.

Astarion snarled as he parried another strike, kicking a merregon back with a sharp motion. "Or stay as Durge's dog," he growled through the mental link, his tone biting. "Your choice."

Gale's hesitation faltered. His eyes flicked to Durge, who was preoccupied swatting away another merregon, and then to Rolan, still crouched on the staircase beside Lae'zel. With a sudden burst of determination, Gale lunged forward, grabbing Rolan by the shoulder and yanking him away from the githyanki's grasp. Light erupted around them, bright and blinding, as the two disappeared from sight.

A moment later, they reappeared just behind the line of merregons surrounding Astarion and Ashara. Rolan looked disoriented, his wide eyes darting around the chaotic scene, but Gale's expression was steeled, determination hardening his features.

Astarion allowed himself a grim smile, his grip tightening on his sword. "Took you long enough," he muttered, before turning to Ashara with a strained look on his face.

"Now my dear, if you would be so kind... bloody shift already!"

Ashara didn't need to be told twice. The power she'd been holding back surged through her like a breaking dam, wild and uncontrollable, unraveling her human form in an instant. Her muscles expanded, her limbs lengthened, and her vision sharpened as the transformation overtook her.

A thunderous growl ripped from her chest as her massive wolf form erupted outward, the sheer force of it sending the surrounding merregons flying backward. Their spiked armor scraped against the marble floor as they tumbled away, their weapons clattering uselessly.

Ashara wasted no time. Her enormous paw swept out in a vicious arc, claws gleaming, and the nearest merregon was hurled into a crumbling pillar with a sickening crunch. Another charged her, its pike raised, but she lowered her head and snapped it up in her jaws, crushing it to a pulp. The violet glow of the chamber lights reflected in her eyes as she turned, her fur bristling and her breath coming in low, guttural snarls.

A sudden blast of heat struck her square on the head, the force of it jarring her momentarily. Flames licked at her fur, and her ears flattened as she snapped her massive jaws toward the source. A figure stood before her, hand outstretched, smoke curling from his fingertips, his scent unfamiliar. Her lips peeled back, exposing her fangs, and she lunged toward him, her massive jaws open wide. How dare this puny little mage attack me!

But before she could strike, another figure darted into her path, his pale hands raised in a frantic gesture. She recognized the scent immediately - Astarion.

"Wait, Ashara!" he shouted, his voice pitched with urgency. "He's not an enemy!"

Ashara paused mid-lunge, her massive body skidding to a halt as her jaws closed like a steel trap inches from his face. She saw the momentary panic in Astarion's eyes before his expression filled with relief.

He turned toward the mage - Gale, her instincts reminded her, though her wolf mind fought to parse the details.

"The terrifying demon wolf is on our side," Astarion snapped, his crimson eyes narrowing at Gale. "But for gods' sake, don't piss her off!"

Gale's expression was a mixture of bewilderment and alarm. He opened his mouth as if to argue but quickly closed it, shaking his head. "Filing away my abundant questions for later," he muttered, taking a careful step back.

Ashara huffed, the air from her lungs stirring the mage's hair as she leaned closer. Her nose twitched as she lowered her head, inhaling deeply. Gale stiffened, his wide eyes darting to Astarion, who gave a faint shrug as if to say Just let her do it. The scent of Gale locked into Ashara's mind, familiar and distinct, and her instincts shifted slightly. She mentally marked him with a single word: friend.

Satisfied, she pulled back, her head swinging around toward the entrance of the chamber. Her gaze locked onto the figure of the white-scaled dragonborn standing there, his eyes watching her with interest. The sight of him sent a hot surge of rage flooding through her veins, her every muscle tightening. Her thoughts narrowed, singular and primal: KILL.

She let out a thunderous roar that shook the walls, her claws scraping against the marble as she lunged toward him. Her vision tunneled, the sound of her own growls drowning out everything else as she charged. But before she could reach him, a blinding pain erupted in her side. The force of the blow sent her skidding across the floor, her claws gouging deep furrows into the stone as she struggled to regain her footing.

Ashara whipped her massive head around, her eyes locking onto her attacker. Yurgir. The infernal devil stood before her, his spiked club gleaming with malicious energy. His molten eyes burned with fury as he hefted the weapon again, his muscles rippling under his crimson skin.

Ashara lunged, her jaws snapping around the club as he swung it toward her again. Her teeth dug into the jagged metal, the taste of rust and sulfur filling her mouth. Yurgir snarled, his massive frame bracing against her strength as they struggled for control of the weapon.

Around them, the chaos of the battle raged on. Astarion darted through the fray, his blade flashing as he struck at the merregons swarming toward Ashara's flanks. Gale raised his hands, a shimmering barrier of arcane light erupting between them and another wave of enemies. Rolan, wide-eyed but determined, hurled bolts of crackling magic from the edges of the fight, his voice rising in frantic incantations.

Yurgir roared and swung the club, dragging Ashara with it. The motion sent her crashing into a nearby pillar, the impact rattling her bones, but she refused to let go. Her ice magic surged, the frost creeping up Yurgir's hands. He bellowed in anger, dropping the weapon as the cold bit into his flesh. Ashara immediately released the club, twisting and slashing out with her claws, catching him across the chest. Deep gashes opened in his flesh, and black ichor spilled from the wounds.

Yurgir staggered, his eyes burning with rage as he swung at her with his own claws, managing to rake her side. Ashara snarled in pain but retaliated with a burst of icy breath. The freezing mist engulfed Yurgir, frost forming across his horns and shoulders as he howled in fury. Taking advantage of his disorientation, Ashara leapt onto him, her massive form knocking him to the ground. Her jaws found his throat, clamping down as her claws raked across his chest again and again.

Meanwhile, across the chamber, Astarion and Gale worked to keep the displacer beast at bay. Its sleek, black form darted between them, its twin tentacles lashing out with deadly precision. Rolan hurled bolts of crackling energy, his spells lighting up the dim chamber, but the creature's agility made it nearly impossible to land a direct hit.

The beast lunged for Rolan, its fanged jaws snapping. Gale shoved the tiefling aside at the last moment, conjuring a shimmering shield of arcane light. The beast's claws raked across Gale's chest, the force of the blow sending him staggering backward, deep gashes vivid against his pale skin.

Rolan, shaken but determined, raised his hands, muttering an incantation. A burst of golden energy erupted from his palms, striking the beast and freezing it in place momentarily.

Astarion didn't waste the opportunity, slashing at its exposed side. Gale, wincing in pain, managed to cast another spell, fire erupting from his hands and engulfing the beast. With a final, pained yowl, the creature collapsed, its body smoking as the light in its eyes dimmed.

Back in the center of the chamber, Ashara stood over Yurgir's crumpled form, her breath heaving, her jaws dripping with black ichor. The devil lay still, his body broken and coated in frost. Ashara's claws flexed against the stone, her bloodlust roaring in her mind, urging her to keep tearing, to destroy everything in her path. She trembled, fighting for control, her breaths coming in low, guttural snarls.

A loud rumble broke through her haze, and her ears swiveled toward the sound. She lifted her head, her eyes narrowing as she saw the entrance to the chamber shuddering. Massive chunks of stone began to fall, the archway collapsing in on itself.

Her gaze snapped to Durge. The dragonborn stood just beyond the crumbling entrance, his white scales gleaming in the dim light. His eyes locked onto hers, and his lips curled into a mocking grin. He raised a clawed hand in a slow, taunting wave before disappearing behind the cascade of rubble.

Ashara's fury surged. She roared, charging toward the collapsing entrance, but it was too late. The rubble came crashing down, sealing the chamber. She skidded to a halt, her claws scraping against the stone as she howled in frustration. Her massive paws clawed at the rocks, sending shards flying, but the barrier was impenetrable.

The way was shut, and Durge was gone.

Astarion approached Ashara cautiously, his movements slow and deliberate. She was frantic, clawing and biting at the fallen stones like a beast possessed. Her growls reverberated through the chamber, low and guttural, vibrating through the cracked marble floor. Her claws scraped deep grooves into the rock, and her jaws snapped, flecks of stone flying with each strike.

Astarion hesitated. The primal energy radiating off her made his instincts scream to stay away, but he pushed the fear down, forcing his feet to move. When he reached her foreleg, he extended a hand and placed it against the blood-matted fur.

"Ashara," he said loudly, his voice steady but cautious. "It's over. He's gone. Stop."

Her massive head turned sharply, the wolf skull gleaming dully in the dim light. Her glowing eyes locked onto him, blazing with frustration and fury. Her jaws opened slightly, and for a moment, he felt the weight of her growl - deep and menacing. She was a creature of pure instinct now, and for a fleeting moment, Astarion wasn't sure if she recognized him.

But then, the glow in her eyes dimmed, flickering as if her mind had regained control. She huffed, a low, resigned sound, and stepped back from the rubble, lowering herself to the ground, her body folding into a crouch as her chin hit the stone with a dejected thud.

Astarion moved around her head, his boots crunching softly against the rubble-strewn floor. He stopped in front of her, his gaze lingering as he finally took her in.

This was the first time he'd seen her like this without an immediate threat bearing down on them. Her massive form was terrifyingly beautiful, her dark fur shimmering faintly with an almost ethereal quality. But his eyes were drawn to the bone-like structure of her jaws, sharp and angular, streaked with blood, both hers and Yurgir's.

Tentatively, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the smooth, cool surface of her muzzle. He hesitated, uncertain if he was crossing a boundary, but when she didn't flinch or growl, he let his fingers trace a small arc along the ridge of her jaw.

Her glowing, icy blue eyes flicked toward him, and for a moment, he felt trapped in their light. Slowly, the ethereal glow began to fade, the pale blue orbs shifting into a more familiar sight. Her eyes - Ashara's eyes. The ones he knew so well. The iridescent silver flecks mingled with the sapphire gleam, catching the faint light of the chamber.

"I'm sure we'll have another chance at him," he said, his voice softer now, almost reassuring.

Ashara let out a deep huff, the sound heavy with disappointment and resignation. It rumbled through her chest and into the ground beneath her, ending in a low groan.

Astarion grinned despite himself, his hand patting her muzzle lightly. "Don't sulk," he teased. "Breaking Durge's control over me was far more important anyway."

Her massive tail gave a single, lazy wag, sending a cloud of dust into the air and nearly knocking Rolan off his feet. The tiefling stumbled, his expression sour as he glared at her. "Watch it!" he barked, brushing ash and dirt off his already battered clothing.

Ashara's eyes flicked toward him briefly, but her focus shifted as Gale approached more cautiously. His face was pale, his hand pressed against the deep gashes on his chest where the displacer beast had struck him. His wide eyes were fixed on Ashara, his mouth slightly agape as if he were about to speak.

Astarion glanced at Ashara, quirking an eyebrow before turning to Gale. "Super secret druid wild-shape," he said smoothly, waving a hand dismissively, "that she's absolutely not allowed to talk about."

Gale's mouth snapped shut, his brows furrowing as he glanced between Astarion and the massive wolf sprawled on the floor. "Right..." he muttered, clearly unconvinced but too tired to argue. He shifted uncomfortably, grimacing as the movement pulled at his wounds. Blood seeped through his fingers, dripping onto the cracked stone floor.

Astarion's gaze flicked to the tiefling standing stiffly nearby. "I don't suppose you'd care to heal him?" he asked Rolan dryly, gesturing toward Gale's bleeding chest. "Seeing as he heroically threw himself between you and that displacer beast?"

Rolan folded his arms, his expression sour. "No," he replied flatly.

Astarion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Really? Not even a thank you? You're truly the embodiment of gratitude."

"I didn't ask for his help," Rolan shot back, his tone defensive. "I can handle myself."

"Oh yes, you certainly looked like you were 'handling' that cat," Astarion quipped, his lips curling into a smirk.

Ashara let out another huff, this one sounding faintly like a growl. Astarion's smirk softened as he reached out to pat her again. "Don't worry, my dear," he said lightly. "They'll get along eventually. Probably."

Gale, still clutching his chest, gave a weak smile. "It's quite all right," he said, his voice strained but carrying a quiet dignity. "I am capable of healing myself."

As if to prove his point, he straightened slightly, only to sway precariously and grab onto the nearest broken pillar for support. "Though I fear I am perhaps too exhausted at this particular moment," he added, his words laced with wry humor.

Ashara let out a faint whine, her massive head turning toward Rolan. Her ears flattened, her body lowering slightly in what could only be described as a pleading gesture.

Rolan folded his arms, his glare fixed firmly on her. "Playing cute won't work on me," he said flatly. "I've had years of dealing with Cal to build up an immunity to puppy dog eyes."

Ashara's ears pinned fully back, her tail bristling as a low, menacing growl rumbled from her throat. She bared her teeth slightly, her massive jaws parting just enough to reveal the sharp glint of her fangs.

Astarion's smirk widened as he noticed Rolan tense, the tiefling's bravado faltering under the weight of Ashara's displeasure. "How about threats?" Astarion said smoothly, his tone light but edged with amusement.

Rolan rolled his eyes but didn't miss a beat. He stepped forward, placed his hand over Gale's chest, and muttered, "Te Curo."

Green light pulsed from his palm, flowing over Gale's wounds like liquid sunlight. The gashes on Gale's chest began to close, the bleeding stemmed as the magic knitted his skin back together. The wizard let out a relieved sigh as the pain ebbed, his posture straightening slightly.

As soon as the spell finished, Ashara extended her head toward Rolan, the tip of her cold nose brushing against his cheek in a surprisingly gentle gesture. Rolan stiffened, his scowl deepening, but Astarion caught the subtle flicker of something softer in his expression. The glare he shot her was half-hearted at best.

"Fine," Rolan muttered, stepping back and brushing at his cheek as though trying to wipe away the contact. "But I'm not making a habit of it."

Ashara rose to her feet, her towering form moving with a fluid grace. She sniffed at the piles of ash that littered the chamber - the remnants of the merregons and Yurgir. Her nose twitched as she took in the scent, her ears flicking as if sifting through the faint traces of magic still lingering in the air.

Astarion watched her with a faint smirk. "Don't go licking them up," he called, his tone light but laced with humor. "You'll make yourself sick."

Ashara turned her head, fixing him with an unamused glare. She huffed, the sound sharp and dismissive, before returning to her investigation. But something about the way she lingered in her wolf form gnawed at Astarion's mind. She didn't seem inclined to change back, and that unsettled him.

Pulling the cloak from his shoulders, he stepped closer, holding it out. "Do you want to...?" he began, his voice quiet, almost uncertain.

Ashara tilted her head, her eyes flicking toward the cloak. Before she could respond, the slow, deliberate sound of clapping echoed through the chamber. The sharp noise cut through the stillness, and everyone turned sharply toward its source.

Standing beside the largest ash pile, Raphael emerged from the shadows, his presence as pristine and unnerving as ever. His maroon doublet was immaculate, the golden embroidery catching the faint light. He smiled, sharp and calculating, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Impressive," Raphael said smoothly, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. "Yurgir truly met his match in you, little godling."

The air in the chamber seemed to freeze, tension thick and crackling as Raphael's words hung in the air. Astarion's stomach churned at the casual way Raphael revealed his knowledge of Ashara's true nature, as though dangling a secret he intended to exploit. He barely had time to process the implication before Ashara's snarl rippled through the air.

Her growl built to a thunderous roar, and in an instant, she lunged. Her massive form propelled forward, jaws wide and glinting, her muscles rippling as frost billowed from her open maw. Astarion barely blinked before Raphael was gone, his form dissolving into nothingness as Ashara's jaws snapped shut on empty air. She landed heavily, her claws skidding across the stone, and spun, her eyes blazing with fury.

Raphael reappeared to one side, his smirk still firmly in place. "Ah ah, bad girl," he chided, wagging a finger at her as if scolding a misbehaving pet. "It's not nice to attack when someone is speaking." His tone was light, mocking, but Astarion caught the way Raphael shifted his weight slightly, his stance just a touch too defensive for his usual bravado.

Ashara wasn't finished. With a snarl that could chill blood, she whirled and launched herself again, jaws wide, frost curling from her mouth like a storm. Raphael vanished once more, his figure dissipating in a swirl of shadows, only to reappear behind Astarion.

"Call her off," Raphael said smoothly, though there was a distinct edge to his voice now. "Or so is the deal."

Astarion turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Raphael's expression. "I get the distinct impression she's still mad about you stripping me earlier," he said lightly.

Raphael's frown deepened, his gaze flicking toward Ashara, who was now stalking closer, her massive body low and predatory, frost coating the ground where her paws touched. Even Astarion felt a prickle of unease as her icy blue eyes locked on Raphael with unrelenting focus.

With a quick motion, Raphael raised his hand, and Astarion tensed. But as he glanced down, his apprehension eased - his original armor and weapons shimmered back into place, settling on him with their familiar weight.

"There," Raphael said, his tone almost nonchalant, though his eyes flicked back to Ashara's form. "A gesture of goodwill."

Astarion raised a hand, halting Ashara's advance. "Wait a moment, darling," he said, his voice calm but firm. He stepped forward, placing himself in front of her, his gaze locked on Raphael. "He still needs to uphold his end of the deal, after all."

He turned his head slightly, throwing a sly smile over his shoulder at Ashara. "You can eat him afterwards if you want though."

Raphael sneered, unimpressed, but his eyes flicked nervously to Ashara's open jaws, her teeth gleaming like jagged shards of ice. He smoothed down his doublet with a theatrical air, straightening his posture and striking a pose that was meant to exude confidence.

"I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours," Raphael said, his voice regaining its usual smoothness. "It's a rather grim tale, even for my tastes." His smirk sharpened. "Brace yourself, Astarion - we're about to unveil your destiny."

Astarion felt the knot in his stomach tighten, dread coiling deep in his chest. He folded his arms, his posture a mask of false indifference. Behind him, Ashara let out a low growl. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze meeting hers briefly.

"I agree," he said, his tone dry as his lips curled into a faint smirk. "I think he's stalling too."

Raphael's eyes narrowed at Astarion, his gaze sharp as a blade. The devil's lips curled in a mockery of a smile, but his irritation was plain as he continued. "Carved into that ivory skin of yours is one part of an infernal contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr. In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed. The Rite of Profane Ascension."

The words hung heavy, and Astarion felt the dread tighten around his chest. His body tensed involuntarily, and Raphael's smirk returned, sensing his unease. "It promises to be a marvellous ceremony," Raphael drawled, each word steeped in mockery. "Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical. If he completes the rite, he will become a new kind of being - the Vampire Ascendant."

Astarion felt what little blood he had drain from his face, but he kept his expression as composed as possible. Before he could muster a response, Gale stepped to his side, his gaze wary and analytical as he looked at Raphael.

"I've read tales of the myth," Gale said, his voice low. "In the forbidden archives of Waterdeep. All the strengths of a vampire will be amplified, and alongside them, they will enjoy the luxuries of the living."

Raphael's eyes lit up at the wizard's contribution. He nodded, a mocking appreciation in his tone. "Just so. The arousals and appetites of man will return to him, and unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun."

Astarion's breath caught in his throat. The thought of such power - such a perverse perfection of what he was - seemed too fantastical to be real. Yet the devil's tone left no room for disbelief. Raphael savored every moment of the tension he was building.

"But the ritual," Raphael continued, "comes with a price. As all worthwhile things do. Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, to ascend." Raphael leaned closer, his voice dipping conspiratorially, like a serpent coiled to strike. "Imagine, then, how he felt when one of those precious spawn simply disappeared into thin air."

Astarion's heart sank, the knot in his chest pulling tighter. Of course. Of course it would come back to him.

Raphael stepped closer, the glow in his eyes illuminating the faint smirk on his lips. "You," he said softly, with the air of delivering a grand revelation, "are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual. Your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life. And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that."

The devil's words struck like hammers, each one pounding against the fragile composure Astarion clung to. He didn't move, his mind reeling as Raphael gave a low bow, his posture dripping with mockery.

Straightening, Raphael turned his gaze to Ashara, his expression sharpening into something more predatory. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said smoothly, "I have another deal to conclude."

Before Astarion - or anyone - could respond, Raphael vanished in a puff of red smoke. The acrid scent lingered in the air, and Ashara threw her head back, a thunderous bay of frustration tearing from her throat. The sound echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the cold stone walls.

Astarion stood there, still as stone, his mind still spinning. All he could manage to utter was a quiet, drawn-out, "Hmm..."

Gale stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "That's all you have to say?" he asked incredulously. "Really?"

"I was... contemplating," Astarion replied, his voice distant, distracted. He folded his arms across his chest, trying to gather his composure. "It's a lot to take in."

A soft nudge against his back brought him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Ashara, looked at him with those glowing icy blue eyes. The sight of her should have been unnerving - her skeletal head offered no expression - but something about her presence steadied him.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "He'll never leave me alone, will he?" he said softly, more to himself than her. "I didn't think he would even when I was just another wretched toy for him to play with. But now..." His voice faltered. "If I'm the key to this power he craves, he'll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn."

Ashara opened her jaws, a deep snarl rumbling from her throat as her teeth snapped repeatedly at the air. The sound was sharp, deliberate, a clear expression of her disdain. Then she lowered her head again, nudging him gently with her nose.

Astarion blinked, a faint, fond smile breaking through his otherwise grim expression. He reached out, his fingers brushing along the top of her smooth, bone-like muzzle. "If that's your way of telling me not to worry, because you'll kill him first-" He was cut off by her rapid, almost enthusiastic nodding under his hand.

A soft chuckle escaped him, warmth blooming in his chest despite the storm still raging in his mind. "Then... thank you," he said quietly, his voice sincere.

Ashara let out a soft whine, her tail wagging with quick, eager swishes as she rose to her paws. Pacing the chamber, her eyes scanned every crevice and corner with restless intent. She paused near the shattered remains of the ledge where Yurgir had stood, her head tilting as she took in the jagged edges.

Rising onto her hind legs, her claws found purchase on the ledge as she peered over it. Her tail wagged faster, the rhythmic movement betraying her excitement. She lingered only a moment before bounding back toward Astarion, her heavy footfalls sending faint vibrations through the floor. Her jaws hung open wide, and she lowered her head toward him

Astarion took an instinctive step back, his crimson eyes widening. "Wait! What are you doing?" he asked sharply, his voice laced with alarm.

Ashara stopped, her head cocking to one side as if confused by his reaction. She tried again, her jaws parting as she reached for him. Astarion's heart thundered in his chest, his mind flashing to how effortlessly those same jaws had snapped through an orc's armor and bone. But he clenched his fists and pushed the fear down, forcing his feet to stay still as her teeth gently closed around his torso.

He held his breath as she lifted him off the ground, his muscles tense and ready to react. But despite the strength he knew she wielded, her grip was impossibly gentle. Her teeth didn't press hard enough to bruise, and her breath puffed warm and steady against him as she padded back to the ledge. Rising onto her hind legs, she placed him carefully atop the platform before stepping back, her tail wagging again.

Astarion straightened, brushing at his clothes with exaggerated precision, though his trembling hands betrayed him. "Urgh... wolf drool all over me," he muttered, his tone carrying a note of theatrical disgust.

Despite his grumbling, he couldn't help but marvel at her gentleness. For all her raw power, she had handled him as though he were made of glass. Not even the faintest pressure mark lingered where her teeth had been. He turned, his gaze drawn to a gap in the cracked walls visible from the ledge. Realization dawned, a grin tugging at his lips. There was a way out.

"Clever girl," he murmured, glancing back at Ashara.

Ashara's tail wagged furiously, the motion nearly toppling her balance as she disappeared from the ledge. Astarion barely had time to ponder her next move before a panicked voice echoed from below.

"Wait... no, not m- Asharaaaa!"

Rolan's flailing form appeared, held firmly in Ashara's jaws as she rose back to the ledge. With no ceremony at all, she dropped the tiefling onto the platform before disappearing again.

Astarion leaned casually against a wall, a hand pressed to his lips as he stifled the laughter bubbling in his chest. Rolan scrambled to his feet, his crimson skin a shade paler as he brushed off his robes with a huff. "I could have just Misty Stepped up here," he muttered under his breath.

Moments later, Ashara's massive head popped up again, this time with Gale carefully held in her jaws. Astarion couldn't help but notice how much more delicate she was with the wizard compared to Rolan.

Gale straightened once she set him down, bowing slightly toward her. "Thank you," he said, his voice tinged with wry humor. "That was quite an experience - being carried in the literal jaws of death."

Astarion sauntered to the ledge, peering down at Ashara below. She stood there, her tongue lolling out as she panted, her tail wagging with obvious satisfaction. She looked thoroughly pleased with herself, as though she'd just solved a puzzle no one else could.

"And how exactly were you planning to join us?" Astarion asked, his tone indulgent and laced with amusement. "The ledge isn't big enough for you like that, and it's too steep for you to climb as an elf."

Ashara's wagging tail stilled, and her jaws clicked shut. She sat abruptly, her massive form settling with a heavy thud. Her expression - or lack thereof - was so comically blank that Astarion had to turn away, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Clearing his throat to compose himself, he turned to Rolan and Gale with a sigh. "Either of you have a rope?" he asked, his tone long-suffering.

Gale reached into the leather bag at his hip, his expression thoughtful as he rummaged around. Astarion's sharp eyes narrowed slightly, recognizing the faint shimmer of magic that clung to the edges of it. From the seemingly bottomless bag, Gale withdrew a neatly coiled rope and handed it to Astarion, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.

As he took the rope, Astarion reached into his own recently restored bag, pulling out a blue silk shirt that glimmered faintly in the dim light. He strode back to the edge of the ledge, the rope slung over his arm, and tossed the shirt and his cloak down to Ashara. "Change back, and we'll haul you up," he called.

Below, Ashara's blue eyes flickered with faint amusement. Then, black smoke began to swirl around her, thick and inky, shrouding her body in twisting shadows. Astarion turned away from the sight, focusing on tying the rope securely to a large chunk of stone that looked solid enough to hold. The knots came easily to his fingers, though his mind was half-distracted by the sound of humming energy behind him.

When the rope was tied off, he walked back to the edge and tossed the other end down. Ashara stood below, now in her normal form, draped in the silk shirt that hung loosely on her frame. The hem reached her mid-thigh, making it passable as a short dress, and she was already fastening his cloak around her shoulders. She looked up at him, her expression soft with gratitude.

Astarion grinned down at her, his crimson eyes sparkling with mirth. "You really need to invest in some clothing that can shapeshift with you."

Ashara grasped the rope, her expression rueful as she called back, "I know. This drives me insane sometimes."

He braced himself and began pulling her up,  but he couldn't stop himself from slipping in a quip. "Well, I'm not complaining about the view."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced, his jaw tightening in frustration at himself. "Sorry," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Just pretend I didn't say that. Force of habit."

There was no immediate response, and he hesitated, cracking one eye open. Ashara wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed downward, her body tense. Astarion followed her line of sight, and his stomach plummeted at what he saw.

Below her, a vortex of dark purple energy had begun to form, swirling violently as it expanded. The air around it rippled with power, and tendrils of crackling energy snaked outward, pulling at the rope like a living thing. Astarion felt the tug, the rope vibrating in his hands as the vortex's pull intensified.

Ashara's wide eyes shot up to meet his, her expression filled with dread. Panic surged through him, and he shouted over his shoulder, "Help me!" His voice cracked slightly, and he didn't care.

Gale and Rolan rushed to his side, their faces taut with alarm as they grabbed hold of the rope. Together, they strained against the pull, the muscles in Astarion's arms burning as the vortex grew more insistent.

"Take my hand!" Astarion yelled, leaning as far over the edge as he dared.

Ashara reached up, her hand trembling as their fingers brushed. Her face was pale, her fear unmistakable. Astarion stretched further, his heart hammering as he finally managed to clasp her hand, gripping her tightly.

"Hold on!" he shouted, his voice raw with desperation.

Before they could act, two thick black tendrils shot up from the vortex, coiling around Ashara's waist like living chains. The pull was immediate, vicious, and overwhelming. Ashara screamed his name, her voice filled with terror.

"Astarion!"

Time seemed to freeze as he looked into her eyes. Then, with a violent jerk, the tendrils yanked her downward. Astarion's grip tightened instinctively, but the force was too great. In a single, shared moment of clarity, he knew he wasn't letting go.

The pull dragged them both into the churning vortex, their forms vanishing into its swirling depths.

Chapter Text

Ashara's consciousness surfaced like a swimmer breaking through dark waters, her awareness sluggish and tinged with pain. Her eyelids felt like lead as she forced them open.

The first thing she registered was the coppery tang of blood coating her tongue, thick and nauseating. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat, each pulse sending sharp spikes of pain through her skull. When she forced her eyes open, darkness greeted her - vast and oppressive.

The chamber stretched around her, seemingly infinite, its stillness heavy and suffocating. Violet lanterns floated along the edges of her vision, their cold light glinting against smooth purple marble walls. She could make out no door, no windows.
Though certain she remained in the Gauntlet, this room was unfamiliar - a dead, featureless void that felt forgotten and timeless.

She tried to move, but her limbs were unnaturally heavy, her arms pulled taut and suspended. Blinking through the haze, she realized why. Tendrils made of the same swirling, dark purple energy that had dragged her here coiled around her wrists like serpents.

The energy pulsed like living veins, each throb matching her shallow breaths. She strained against them, muscles trembling, but they didn't give. Instead, the tendrils tightened, their texture shifting like oil slicks, both solid and ethereal.

Ashara swallowed thickly, her voice cracking as it broke the silence. "Hello? Is anyone out there?"

The words hung in the air, unanswered, until - faint and distant -she heard it. A rustle of fabric, almost imperceptible, but enough to send her heart racing. She twisted in place, eyes darting toward the sound, but the darkness remained impenetrable even to her elven eyes.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice trembled despite her efforts to steady it.

A reply came, deep and melodic, its resonance like the toll of an ancient gong. "What I've always wanted from you, Daughter of Fenrir."

Ashara's blood turned to ice. That voice. Something about it pricked at the edges of her memory. The air grew heavier, the faint tang of ozone crackling around her.

From the shadows emerged a figure, his appearance so sudden it stole her breath. He moved with a fluidity that seemed effortless, his presence cold and overwhelming.

A golden elf, impossibly tall and slender, his blonde hair flowing to his waist like a river of light. The robe he wore shimmered with threads of flame, embroidered rubies catching the faint light like dying embers.

His eyes - dark green and vivid, like malachite polished to perfection - held no warmth. They swept over her, detached and clinical, as though dissecting her with a single glance. He gripped a gold staff crowned with a flame-shaped decoration, and even standing still, he radiated an aura of power, like a mountain looming over an unworthy world.

Ashara's breath hitched. Recognition clawed at her chest, cold dread tightening like winter frost around her heart. There was only one being this could possibly be.

"Bâlorak," she whispered, the name slipping from her lips like a curse.

He inclined his head in a shallow bow, his expression unreadable. "Of course. Who else would dare to chain the scion of a god?"

Bâlorak strode forward, his steps echoing faintly in the chamber. When he was close enough, he extended the tip of his staff under her chin, tilting her head upward. His gaze swept over her, taking in every detail as though appraising a flawed artifact.

After a moment, he spoke, his tone sharp with disappointment. "Hmmm... you're not quite ready yet. You have yet to unlock your full potential."

With a sharp motion, he pulled back the staff and tapped it against the floor. The sound rang out like a judge's gavel. "No matter, there are ways we can remedy that."

The tendrils around her wrists pulsed brighter, their glow searing against her skin. Pain lanced through her body, starting in her arms and rippling outward in agonizing waves. She clenched her teeth, her breath hissing between them as she struggled to contain the scream clawing at her throat.

"If you think you can break me with pain, guess again," she snarled, her voice low and defiant despite the agony.

Bâlorak waved a hand, dismissive and unconcerned. "No, no, we tried that already - one of the first methods, in fact. But I've found I quite enjoy the sight of you in agony."

His lips curled ever so slightly, a stilted imitation of a smile. For the first time, Ashara saw a flicker of emotion in his expression, but it was colder than ice - pure malice, calculated and deliberate.

The tendrils flared again, their energy searing her skin. Ashara's scream tore free, raw and unbidden, echoing in the chamber. She felt her form begin to shift, the beast within rising instinctively to protect her. Muscles rippled under her skin, her senses sharpening, but as the transformation began, a new sensation gripped her - a terrible, nauseating drain.

Her strength ebbed, pouring from her like water from a cracked vessel. The tendrils seemed to drink her energy, growing brighter with each passing moment. Gasping, she forced the shift to halt, the drain easing slightly.

Her chest heaved, sweat dripping from her brow as realization set in. The wolf - her divine inheritance - was what he sought. And he would stop at nothing to take it.

A thick leather-bound tome materialized in Bâlorak's hands, its weight appearing to draw a faint ripple in the air. The edges of its cover were worn, though the embossed symbols glowed faintly with an otherworldly light.

Bâlorak opened it with a single, elegant motion, the pages releasing a soft crackle as though they had not been disturbed for centuries. His eyes scanned the contents, their vivid green glow tracing the arcane text with clinical detachment.

"Previous studies show that pain and fear for your own life are inefficient motivators for you," he murmured, his voice carrying the cadence of someone cataloging a particularly dull observation. He turned a page with deliberate care, the sound sharp in the oppressive silence. "So, perhaps we should try something new this time."

Ashara strained against the tendrils that bound her, their pulse now a low, mocking thrum. Her heart pounded, anger warring with fear as she forced her voice to steady. "Why are you doing this?"

He stopped mid-motion, one pale, slender finger resting on the page. Slowly, he raised his head, his gaze flicking to hers with what might have been mild surprise. "Ah, that's right," he said, his tone as if addressing a particularly slow student. "I keep forgetting this is all new for you, isn't it?" His lips twitched, but no smile formed. "Well, allow me to explain. The powers that Fenrir bestowed upon you are of great value to—"

Ashara's voice cut through his monologue, sharp and dismissive. "I've already figured that part out. The energy-draining beams were a bit of a clue. And I'm not interested in the fine details of your master plan. Just the endgame."

Her words hung in the air, defiant yet measured, but her pulse quickened. She watched his reaction carefully, hoping to provoke him - or at least unbalance him.

Bâlorak blinked, his head tilting in a precise motion, like a bird appraising an unfamiliar object. For a moment, he simply studied her, his features inscrutable.

"Curious," he said at last, his tone even but faintly intrigued. He closed the tome with a resounding thud, letting the sound linger. "You sound almost like the vampire. Has he been giving this iteration of you lessons in bravado?"

The mention of Astarion sent a jolt of cold terror through her chest. Her body went rigid, her breath hitching. She masked the spike of fear as best she could, but her fingers curled into fists where the tendrils allowed her movement. "Astarion..." she said, her voice low and tight. "Where is he? What have you done with him?"

The corners of Bâlorak's mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile but enough to send a chill down her spine. He turned his attention back to the energy beams pulsing around her. The beams pulsed brighter under his gaze, their glow throwing jagged shadows across the chamber's smooth marble walls. For a moment, he appeared lost in thought, his head cocked slightly, his expression contemplative.

Bâlorak turned back to her, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that felt like a scalpel slicing through her defenses. "Perhaps..." he murmured, his voice soft and disturbingly thoughtful, "sorrow?"

Ashara's stomach twisted at the word. She didn't understand his intent, but the chilling finality in his tone struck a nerve. She forced her expression to remain defiant, but her heart pounded violently in her chest.

Bâlorak raised his staff, its surface catching the dim light and sending fractured reflections across the chamber walls.

"Please excuse me for a moment. I'll be right back."

Before Ashara could respond, he vanished in a brilliant flash of gold light. The air where he had stood shimmered faintly for a moment, then stilled. The silence that followed was deafening.

Ashara's breaths came shallow and quick, her chest rising and falling as she stared at the empty space he left behind. Fear coiled tighter in her gut, her pulse a drumbeat of rising panic. She twisted her wrists against the tendrils that bound her, their pulsing energy biting into her skin. Her muscles screamed with effort, but the restraints refused to yield.

The waiting was unbearable. Each second stretched into an eternity as her mind spiraled. Her thoughts churned, desperate and chaotic. She reached for fragments of memories - anything that could help her understand Bâlorak's methods, his weaknesses - but her past lives remained an infuriating void. How was she supposed to defeat someone so ancient, so calculated?

A pang of longing struck her, sudden and fierce. Onyx. The wolf's steadfast presence, his unwavering loyalty, felt like a distant dream. A single tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a cold line against her skin before falling soundlessly to the floor.

The golden light flared again, breaking the silence, and Bâlorak reappeared as effortlessly as he had vanished. He stood tall and composed, but there was a sharpness to his features now, a flicker of annoyance. In one hand, he held a knife, the blade slick with fresh blood that dripped in slow, deliberate drops onto the pristine marble floor. His other hand was tucked behind his back, hidden from view.

"Well," he said, his tone clipped and irritated, "that was unnecessarily messy. Such a violent little pet you had there."

Ashara's heart stopped. Her gaze locked on the bloodied blade, then darted to the arm concealed behind his back. A sickening dread coiled in her stomach, twisting tighter with every passing second.

"What did you—" Her voice cracked, trembling as she forced the words out.

Bâlorak's lips curled in a faint, detached smile as he brought his concealed hand forward and tossed something across the floor.

The object hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled, leaving a faint smear of blood in its wake. Ashara's stomach lurched, her mind screaming at her not to look, but she couldn't stop herself.

Time seemed to freeze. The severed head lay still, its silver curls matted with blood, crimson eyes staring lifelessly into the void. Ashara's breath caught in her throat, the scream ripping free before she could stop it.

"Astarion!" The name tore from her lips, raw and broken, as if by naming him she could undo the horror before her.

Bâlorak tilted his head, his expression one of detached curiosity. "Interesting," he murmured, as though taking notes on her reaction.

Ashara's legs buckled, and she collapsed as far as the tendrils allowed. Her eyes remained fixed on Astarion's face, her mind rejecting the reality of what lay before her. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be him.

Bâlorak's expression shifted ever so slightly, a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his otherwise cold demeanor. "I'll just let this simmer for a while," he said, and without another word, he vanished in another burst of golden light.

The tendrils around Ashara's wrists slackened, their energy dimming, and she crumpled forward onto the floor. Her hands hit the marble, palms slick with sweat, and she crawled toward the severed head, each movement heavy with disbelief.

When she reached the head, her trembling fingers hovered just above Astarion's cheek. His skin was cold, lifeless, and the sensation shattered whatever fragile control she had clung to. A sob erupted from her chest, sharp and guttural, and she threw her head back with a scream that echoed through the chamber like a dying animal.

Her body convulsed as waves of grief consumed her, her tears falling freely now. She curled into herself, her arms wrapping tightly around her middle as though trying to hold herself together.

But it wasn't enough. The emotions surged, unstoppable and overwhelming. Her breathing turned erratic, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. She clawed at her arms, her nails raking across her skin until blood welled beneath her fingers. Her hands shot to her hair, tugging at it violently as she rocked back and forth, the pain doing little to drown out the agony in her soul.

The violet light flickered weakly as if the tendrils themselves recoiled from her overwhelming anguish. But Ashara was beyond noticing. Her cries echoed endlessly in the chamber, a sound of pure, unrelenting despair.

Astarion's fingers pressed against the invisible wall separating him from Ashara, the faint hum of energy beneath his palms a cruel reminder of the barrier he couldn't breach. He leaned forward, his crimson eyes fixed on her trembling form as Ashara's tears streamed freely, carving pale tracks through the grime on her face.

Her fingers raked across her arms, leaving angry red welts that blossomed into beads of blood. She pulled at her hair in violent fits, her body writhing as though consumed by an inner torment too vast for her mortal frame to contain.

Astarion could feel her pain as if it were a blade twisting in his own chest, each gasp and choke wrenching something vital out of him. He pressed harder against the barrier, his fingers curling into claws, frustration and helplessness boiling within him. His throat tightened as he fought against the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, an ache building behind them like a storm held just at bay. He swallowed hard, his fangs biting into his lower lip as he struggled to make sense of what he was witnessing.

He hadn't moved since Bâlorak had tossed that grotesque imitation of his head at her feet. Time had slowed to a crawl as the scene played out in excruciating detail - the sickening thud, Ashara's scream, her fingers trembling as they reached for his likeness.

He hadn't expected this. Sadness, yes. A solemn nod to the loss of an ally, perhaps even a friend. But this? This was the grief of someone who had lost a piece of themselves. And it wasn't feigned or manipulative - it was utterly, painfully real. It was... love.

The realization sat like a stone in his gut. Love? No, it couldn't be. He hadn't seduced her, hadn't even truly tried yet. She wasn't supposed to care about him like this, not without the lies, the charm, the careful manipulation that had worked so flawlessly on others.

For a moment, Astarion wondered what it would feel like to deserve that kind of love. The thought came unbidden, slipping past his defenses before he could stop it. He shook his head sharply, as if to dislodge it, but the weight of it lingered.

To his right, Bâlorak stood motionless, his presence as cold and detached as ever. The sorcerer’s golden hair shimmered faintly in the light of the dome, his green eyes trained on Ashara with the dispassionate focus of a scholar observing an experiment. Astarion's gaze flicked toward him, his lip curling in a snarl.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Astarion said, his voice low and venomous.

Bâlorak didn't respond. He didn't even glance Astarion's way. It was as though Astarion didn't exist, a mere ghost trapped in this accursed energy dome.

He remembered the moment he'd woken in this chamber, the disorienting swirl of purple energy still fresh in his mind. He'd barely had time to register Ashara lying unconscious nearby before Bâlorak's towering form had come into focus. The elf had stood over her with an expression of serene detachment, his golden robes shimmering faintly in the dim light.

When Bâlorak's hand reached out, lifting Ashara as though she weighed nothing, Astarion's instincts had kicked in. He had drawn his blade in a heartbeat, his feet carrying him forward in a blur of motion.

It hadn't mattered. His sword had rebounded harmlessly off the field of energy encasing Bâlorak, sending him staggering back. He'd tried again, and again, his attacks growing more desperate with each failed attempt. Bâlorak hadn't even acknowledged him, his indifference a deeper insult than any taunt could have been.

When the dome had been erected and Astarion forcibly teleported within it, he had been left to watch as Bâlorak hoisted Ashara into the air like a puppet, binding her with those accursed tendrils. His helplessness had burned then, but now it threatened to consume him entirely.

Astarion's nails bit into his palms as his fists clenched. He couldn't bear to look at Ashara anymore - her broken cries, the blood staining her arms, the despair radiating from her every movement. But he couldn't look away either.

His voice dropped, cracking under the weight of his anguish. "Ashara... please. Don't do this to yourself."

Astarion closed his eyes briefly, trying to block out the image of her. But her sobs still reached him, faint and agonizing, and when he opened his eyes again, the tears he'd fought so hard to suppress glistened on his cheeks.

His gaze locked onto the imitation of his severed head. The craftsmanship of it turned his stomach - a pale, lifeless mimicry of himself, smeared in blood, its curls matted and limp. He shuddered, though the motion was almost imperceptible. So, this was how he'd looked in death. Not quite the noble visage he might have preferred - nor the way he envisioned satisfying his curiosity about his appearance.

When Bâlorak had first conjured the grotesque effigy, Astarion had laughed. The sorcerer had stood over a lump of raw, unrecognizable flesh, muttering incantations that twisted and reshaped it with every syllable. Astarion had sneered, arms folded across his chest as he watched the process.

"A waste of your precious energy," he'd said, his voice laced with disdain. "She won't break over me. You've miscalculated."

Now, as Ashara's screams echoed through the chamber, he bit back the bitter irony clawing at his throat.

Bâlorak's voice broke through his thoughts, smooth and detached. "It would appear your assurance that your death would not adversely affect her is incorrect."

Astarion's lips curled into a scowl as he tore his gaze from the doppelgänger. "Believe me," he said, his voice cold, though a flicker of unease lingered beneath it, "I'm as surprised as you."

Bâlorak tilted his head slightly, his golden hair catching the eerie violet light of the chamber. His lips twitched - not quite a smile, more a faint tightening at the corners.

"However," the sorcerer murmured, his tone more introspective than conversational, "grief has yet to turn to rage. If results are not forthcoming soon, I may have to resort to different methods."

"What are you hoping to achieve with all these theatrics?" Astarion snapped, his voice sharp as he stepped closer.

Bâlorak turned his back on him, his robes billowing out slightly as he moved. With a flick of his wrist, a set of glowing runes materialized in the air before him, their light casting intricate, shifting patterns against the chamber walls. He leaned closer, examining them, his fingers tracing invisible lines as he hummed a discordant tune under his breath.

Astarion ground his teeth, stepping closer to the barrier that separated him from Ashara. "You need her to transform before you can drain her power," he said, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "And I'm guessing just asking nicely hasn't worked well for you in the past?"

Bâlorak didn't look up from his work, though his head bobbed slightly, acknowledging the question. "The subject has proved unusually stubborn in that regard, yes," he said, his voice as measured as ever as his fingers flicked through the runes, shifting their arrangement as he continued. "Extreme emotions override her control. However, it is a delicate balance between triggering a shift and provoking her too far."

Astarion smirked, his fangs catching the faint light as he folded his arms across his chest. "You mean you overplay your hand and she breaks free, sending you scurrying for the hills with your tail between your legs?"

The runes flickered briefly, a subtle tremor passing through them as Bâlorak's hand froze mid-motion. Slowly, he raised his staff in a single, deliberate gesture. Pain ignited in Astarion's chest, radiating outward in searing waves that stole his breath and forced him to the floor. His vision blurred, dark spots clouding the edges as he gasped for air.

"A strategic retreat," Bâlorak said calmly, his voice steady as Astarion convulsed, "has often been required."

Gritting his teeth, Astarion forced himself to rise. His legs trembled beneath him, his breathing ragged, but he refused to stay down. He lifted his head, crimson eyes blazing with defiance. "Touched a nerve, I see," he spat.

Bâlorak finally turned, his green eyes gleaming. "It would be wise for you to refrain from provoking me, spawn," he said, his tone calm yet edged with menace. "Lest I exchange the flesh construct for the genuine article."

Astarion held his ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He knew he was powerless here, but that didn't mean he had to make it easy for Bâlorak. If nothing else, he would be a thorn in the sorcerer's side until his last breath - or until he found a way to rip that smug expression off his face.

"I'll keep that in mind," Astarion muttered. But inwardly, his thoughts churned. He needed to find a way out of this - before Bâlorak's patience ran out, and Ashara's suffering became something irreversible.

He turned back to her, anxiety sinking deeper into his bones. She hadn't moved much, save for her trembling fingers now hovering near the severed head's cheek again. Her touch was gentle, reverent, as though she were afraid it might shatter. Another sob escaped her lips, soft and broken. Astarion winced, unable to look away, as if he were bound to her in this moment of devastation.

"That's not me..." he whispered, his voice catching. His fingers dug into the barrier as if he could tear it down with sheer will.

Then something shifted.

Ashara's brow furrowed slightly, tears streaking down her cheeks. With her other hand, she reached out, this time slower, exploring the contours of the illusion's face. Her fingers traced the jaw, the slope of the nose, pausing briefly at the hollow curve of the eyes.

Her frown deepened as her fingers mapped the face with the same careful precision he remembered that night by the fire, her voice soft as she described him. Her fingers had moved like they were tracing constellations, her focus unwavering as if committing his likeness to memory. That same attentiveness lingered now in her movements, though her touch trembled with grief and disbelief.

For the briefest moment, her movements stilled, her head tilting slightly. Astarion's breath caught, his crimson eyes locked on her as hope flared in his chest. She knew. Somewhere deep inside, she knew.

"That's right," he whispered, his voice low and urgent. He pressed his palms harder against the barrier, fingers splayed. "Figure it out. That's not me, Ashara. I'm right here... I'm alive."

Astarion's eyes flicked to the Balorak, his lip curling in silent disgust. He was so insufferably smug, so convinced of his own superiority. He hadn't noticed Ashara starting to pull herself together, hadn't felt the shift in her demeanor - a spark trying to reignite.

Ashara sat up straighter, her expression hardening into something sharper. Her fingers paused against the illusion's face, her eyes narrowing. For the first time, she looked at it not with grief, but suspicion.

Astarion sagged against the barrier, relief flooding through him. "That's my girl," he murmured, the faintest smile breaking across his face, soft and unguarded.

Ashara staggered to her feet, her breaths ragged and uneven, each one shuddering through her frame. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her knuckles white as her gaze fell on the writhing tendrils still wrapped around her wrists. The violet energy pulsed faintly, tightening as if in response to her defiance.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, her body taut with concentration. A faint blue glow began to emanate from her hands, soft at first but quickly intensifying. The air around her shifted as the temperature in the chamber dropped sharply, a brittle chill that sent faint wisps of frost spreading along the floor.

The glow brightened as she gripped the tendrils, her fingers digging into their oily, writhing surface. The ice came next, creeping upwards like a living thing. Frost crackled as it spread, encasing the energy restraints in crystalline cold.

From his place behind the barrier, Astarion straightened, the sight igniting a flicker of hope in his chest. She was fighting back. And it was working. His lips curled into a grin, but the triumph in his eyes dimmed as Bâlorak appeared beside him, his movements fluid and unhurried.

"Hmm..." the sorcerer murmured, his gaze fixed on Ashara with an almost bored detachment. "This is an unfortunate development."

Astarion's grin sharpened, his crimson eyes glinting with mockery. "I'd pick up your skirts and start running if I were you."

Bâlorak didn't respond immediately. His chin tilted downward slightly, his fingers brushing against it in a contemplative gesture. The ice continued to climb the tendrils, crackling audibly as it consumed the restraints. "Anger has been achieved," he said, almost absently. "But it is too controlled and focused."

Astarion rolled his eyes, feigning nonchalance, though his fingers twitched where they rested against the barrier. "Yes, I'd say she's quite pissed about the little trick you played on her," he said, his voice dry.

Bâlorak turned toward him then, and Astarion's breath hitched. Those green eyes, vivid and cold, fixed on him with an intensity that pinned him in place.

For the first time, he noticed the pupils were slitted, almost reptilian and Astarion felt a chill skitter down his spine. A realization began to form, a dreadful, creeping suspicion that he couldn't yet articulate. Something ancient, primal, and terrifying lay behind that gaze.

Before he could dwell on it, Ashara let out a cry of anger. She lunged forward, the ice spreading faster now, splintering and cracking with every pulse of her glowing hands. With a sound like breaking glass, the tendrils shattered, sending shards of jagged ice flying in every direction. Some fragments bounced harmlessly off the barrier, their sharp edges glinting in the cold light.

Astarion's eyes darted to her face, and his grin returned when he saw the realization dawn in her expression. Her gaze locked on the barrier, her head tilting slightly as she quickly crossed over to it. Her lips curved into a small, triumphant smile as her hand pressed firmly against the energy field.

Astarion raised his own hand, pressing it against the other side of the barrier where hers rested. The faint hum of the wall vibrated beneath his palm, and though she couldn't see him, he willed her to feel his presence, to know he was there. His lips parted, a silent word on the tip of his tongue, but before he could speak, the moment was broken.

"I see a more traditional method is required," Bâlorak remarked. The sorcerer's lips twitched into what might have been amusement - or perhaps disdain.

Before Astarion could react, he felt an iron grip close around the back of his neck. The sorcerer's fingers were impossibly strong, cold as the ice still scattered across the floor. Astarion stiffened, his breath catching as he tried to twist away, but the pressure only increased.

"Stand perfectly still," Bâlorak commanded, his voice low and cold, "or I will be forced to snap your neck."

For a fleeting moment, Astarion's defiance wavered. His jaw tightened as he exhaled sharply through his nose, his body rigid beneath Bâlorak's hand. "Fine," he said, his voice low and caustic. "But you'd better pray she doesn't get to you first."

Bâlorak's grip pulled him back from the barrier towards the centre of the dome. His fists clenched at his sides, his crimson eyes burning with a fury he refused to let fade. Whatever was coming next, he would be ready.

Ashara's fingers trembled as they pressed against the now-flickering barrier. The energy beneath her touch pulsed erratically, like a dying heartbeat. She hardened her jaw, her breath hissing through clenched teeth as the anger simmering inside her began to boil.

This was it - this had to be where Bâlorak had hidden Astarion. The thought of the sorcerer's cruel trick, of that grotesque illusion meant to break her, sent her rage burning hotter, sharper. She drew her hand back, icy blue light flaring to life along her arm, frost creeping over her fingers like living armor.

Her fist clenched tight, knuckles straining under the pressure, and she drove it forward with all her might. The impact rippled through the barrier, spiderweb cracks blooming outward, refracting the faint violet light of the chamber.

Encouraged, she struck again. Shards of frost splintered with each blow, the cracks widening and spreading until the barrier groaned under the strain. One more. The thought reverberated through her mind, and she delivered a final, bone-shaking punch.

A burst of golden light erupted outward, illuminating the chamber in blinding brilliance. Ashara shielded her eyes with her arm, the shockwave rattling through her body. When the light faded, her chest swelled with triumph - but it was fleeting. Her gaze fell on the figure standing just beyond the broken wall, and the elation curdled into dread.

Bâlorak stood just beyond the ruined barrier, unbothered and pristine, as though the chaos hadn't touched him. His golden robes caught the remaining light, shimmering faintly like molten metal. His hand, however, was wrapped tightly around Astarion's neck.

Her heart stuttered. Astarion dangled from Bâlorak's grip, his boots scraping against the floor in a futile attempt to find purchase. His crimson eyes locked onto hers, sharp and clear despite the strain that flushed his face.

Ashara froze as fear slithered up her spine like a cold hand. But she forced herself to hold her ground, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Let him go."

Bâlorak's head tilted, his expression detached, as though appraising her demand. "Gladly," he said, his tone smooth and dispassionate. "Once you comply with my request."

Ashara's gaze darted to Astarion. Somehow, even now, he found a way to smirk. "I'm a little disappointed it took you so long to figure out that dreadful illusion wasn't me," he rasped, his voice strained but tinged with humor. "Surely I'm a lot more handsome than that thing?"

Her lips twitched in a tense smile, her throat tightening at his forced bravado. "Shock blinded me for a moment."

The moment of levity was brief. Bâlorak's grip tightened around Astarion's neck, and the vampire winced, his body jolting in pain. Ashara's muscles tensed, her instincts screaming to act, but fear rooted her in place.

"I am not in the habit of being ignored," Bâlorak said. His emerald eyes met hers, their slitted pupils narrowing with menace. "Please do not force me to eliminate my bargaining tool prematurely."

Her fists clenched, and she forced herself to meet his gaze, even as her pulse raced. "What do you want?" The words came out sharper than she intended.

Bâlorak sighed, a long, exaggerated breath that bristled with condescension. "Must I repeat myself?" he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "This iteration of you is remarkably lacking in intelligence."

Before Ashara could respond, he shifted his grip on Astarion. With an almost casual motion, he lifted the vampire higher, dangling him fully off the ground. Astarion's hands clawed at Bâlorak's fingers, his struggles growing weaker as his breaths came in choking gasps.

"I will simplify this for you," Bâlorak continued, his voice calm yet suffused with deadly intent. "Transmute this feeble body of yours into your demigod form, and sit quietly while I drain your essence. If you do not comply, I will wrench this disgusting creature's head from his shoulders. And I assure you, it will be no illusion this time."

Ashara's blood roared in her ears. Her gaze locked on Astarion as he struggled against the iron grip around his neck. His lips moved faintly, forming words she couldn't hear, but his meaning was clear: Don't.

Her breath hitched. The wolf within her stirred, growling low and feral, its presence pushing against her control. Her magic pulsed at her fingertips, aching to be unleashed, but she didn't move. She couldn't. Every second dragged like an eternity, the weight of the sorcerer's ultimatum pressing down on her.

Bâlorak's expression tightened, his mouth a thin, disapproving line. His eyes narrowed further as he regarded Ashara's hesitation. Without warning, his grip on Astarion's neck shifted, and a sharp, choked cry tore from the vampire's throat. The sound hit Ashara like a physical blow, her heart seizing as tears pricked at her eyes.

"No!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation. Her hands shot forward as if to reach for him, though the distance made it futile. "Stop! Please... don't hurt him! I'll do it - I'll do whatever you want. Just please, let him go."

Bâlorak's lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile. He released his grip, letting Astarion fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. The vampire's body hit the cold marble with a dull thud, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as he struggled to push himself upright. Beside him, Bâlorak raised his staff, the air around him shimmering as purple tendrils of magic materialized.

The tendrils lashed out, coiling around Astarion's wrists and neck. He flinched as they tightened, their pulsing energy digging into his pale skin. Before Ashara could react, similar tendrils lashed out toward her. They wrapped around her limbs and torso with a speed and strength that left no room to dodge. She struggled, her muscles straining, but the moment she pulled against them, Astarion let out another cry of pain, his body jolting as though struck.

"Stop!" she yelled, freezing in place. Her chest heaved as she locked eyes with Bâlorak, her voice trembling with fury and fear. "Leave him alone!"

The sorcerer's calm, dispassionate gaze settled on her. "I am not the one causing him pain - you are," he said, his tone flat and almost bored. "This magic now binds you to each other. Every time you resist, the spawn will suffer."

Ashara's breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts as she stared at Astarion helplessly. Tears spilled down her cheeks, dripping onto the marble floor beneath her. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you."

Astarion barked a laugh, though it was laced with pain. "Me?" he rasped, his fangs glinting as he forced a weak smirk. "For gods' sake, stop worrying about me and fight this bastard!"

Her voice trembled as she shook her head, her tears falling faster. "I can't... he'll hurt you."

Astarion's lips curled into a snarl as he gritted his teeth. "You honestly think he'll let me live once he's through with you? I've endured worse," he growled. "Believe me."

Bâlorak's expression didn't change, though a faint flicker of amusement played in his cold green eyes. Without a word, he raised his staff, and the purple tendrils coiled around Astarion began to glow. His body convulsed violently as the energy burned into him, and a scream tore from his throat. His back arched against the tendrils, his hands clawing at the air as agony consumed him.

"Stop it!" Ashara screamed, her voice raw and shaking. "Please, stop! You're killing him!"

The glow faded, and Astarion slumped forward, his head hanging limply as his breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps. Sweat and tears mingled on his face, and his hands twitched weakly at his sides. Slowly, he lifted his head, his crimson eyes glassy with pain. "Maybe not..." he murmured, his voice faint and hoarse, before his head dropped again, his body going utterly still.

Ashara's sobs broke free, sharp and uncontrollable. Her chest heaved as she fought for air, her heart shattering at the sight of Astarion's limp form. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she reached deep within herself, calling to the beast that lay dormant beneath her skin. A low growl rumbled in her chest as her form shifted, her body contorting into the massive frame of her wolf form.

The tendrils reacted immediately, tightening around her like living chains. They dragged her to the floor, forcing her massive paws to splay out beneath her. More tendrils snaked around her muzzle, clamping her jaws shut.

She let out a pitiful whine, the sound filled with sorrow and fear, but she didn't dare move. Her glowing eyes stayed fixed on Astarion, her gaze unwavering even as she felt the tendrils begin to drain her energy. The pull was slow but insidious, a creeping numbness that spread through her body.

Bâlorak stepped closer, his robes brushing against the floor as he regarded her with a look of detached satisfaction. "Like father, like daughter," he mused, his voice dripping with contempt. "Fenrir allowed attachment to a lesser being cloud his judgment and weaken him. It is fortunate for me, that you appear to suffer from the same disease."

Ashara growled low, her eyes narrowing, but the tendrils holding her jaws tightened further, silencing her.

Bâlorak turned his attention back to Astarion. He stood over him, his long, slender fingers curling into the vampire's hair. Lifting Astarion's head up, he studied the pale face, tilting it as though examining a specimen.

"What a curious emotion love is," Bâlorak murmured, his green eyes glinting with cold fascination. "It serves no functional purpose, and yet it can be one of the most powerful driving forces mortals possess."

Bâlorak's words struck Ashara like an arrow in her chest, reverberating through her and leaving her breathless. Her mind reeled. Was that what this feeling was?

Love?

The question sent her spiraling inward, pulling at the tangled threads of emotion twisting in her chest. Yet the more she considered it, the more undeniable the answer became.

This bold, sometimes infuriating vampire had somehow woven himself into the fabric of her being. In a matter of weeks, this stranger who had once pressed a dagger to her throat had become the most important person in her life, second only to Onyx.

Her pulse quickened as memories flashed through her mind - his fierce defiance against the chains of his past, the way he stood unbroken despite everything that had been done to him. She admired his strength, but it was his rare moments of gentleness that had drawn her to him. The quiet moments when his walls came down, and she saw the warmth he so carefully hid beneath that sharp, gilded mask.

He had seen her, truly seen her, even at her most terrifying, and instead of recoiling, he'd stayed at her side. She thought of the way he teased her naivety, yet still sought to help her navigate a world she didn't fully understand.

Astarion had lit a spark in her soul, something she hadn't thought possible. Now, the thought of losing him, of that light snuffed out forever, was unbearable.

Her throat tightened as the realization hit, and for a moment, the room blurred around her. It was love. Fierce, terrifying, undeniable.

Bâlorak had called her weak. He had called Fenrir weak. But in this moment, Ashara knew with a bone-deep certainty that her father's so-called weakness had been his greatest strength. Love was not a weakness. It was the raw, unstoppable force that pushed her now, that made her want to rip apart the heavens and hells alike to save Astarion. She clung to that spark, fanning it into something larger, something defiant.

Ashara closed her eyes, drawing a slow breath. The tendrils binding her bit into her fur, their energy draining her strength with every heartbeat, but she reached past the pain. Her mind stretched downward, through the temple's cold stone, deeper into the earth.

This might be Shar's domain, her dark power steeped in every shadow, but beneath it lay something older. Something primal. The land itself - the heartbeat of the wild, Fenrir's dominion long before the gods of Faerûn ever walked this plane.

Her thoughts whispered into that vast, ancient power. "Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt. Hear my plea. Give me the strength to break the chains that bind me. Lend me your might."

For a moment, there was only silence, vast and unbroken. Then, a faint voice brushed against her mind, like the whisper of leaves in a distant forest. "Be brave, Ashara. You are not alone. Hold on just a little longer, my dearest daughter."

A surge of warmth flooded her chest, an energy unlike anything she had felt before. It roared through her veins like the crash of waves against cliffs, rekindling her strength. Her glowing eyes snapped open, their cold light burning brighter than ever.

She met Astarion's gaze and her breath hitched - his crimson eyes, weary but open, were locked onto hers. Relief flooded through her, and she shifted her focus to Bâlorak.

He stood over Astarion, his hand still tangled in the vampire's hair, but something in his posture had changed. His shoulders stiffened, and his head tilted slightly, as though listening to an unseen whisper. Slowly, he turned toward Ashara, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"What have you done?" he hissed, his tone low and sharp. His mouth opened as if to speak further, but the words died on his tongue as a sound interrupted him - a long, mournful howl that echoed through the chamber, low and haunting. The sound sent shivers racing down Ashara's spine, but not from fear. She knew that call. She would recognize it anywhere.

Onyx.

Ashara raised her head, her ears pricking forward, and for the first time since this nightmare began, a thrill of exhilaration coursed through her. The great wolf's call reverberated through the chamber, shaking the very stones beneath her feet. It was a promise, a warning, a battle cry. He was coming - and woe betide any who stood in his way.

The sound of the howl sent a jolt through Astarion's body, a fierce, unrelenting spark that momentarily chased away the haze of pain. His heart soared, a flicker of hope reigniting within him. The world seemed to shift around that sound, its primal, resonant energy vibrating through the chamber's oppressive stillness. Bâlorak's grip on Astarion's hair loosened as the sorcerer turned, his sharp gaze snapping toward the shadows.

Astarion followed his line of sight, his breath hitching as faint blue light began to bleed into the edges of the chamber. It wasn't the cold, oppressive glow of the sorcerer's magic but something wilder, older, and it grew brighter with every passing moment. His eyes widened as the light took form, and his jaw dropped.

Countless spectral wolves emerged from the shadows, their translucent bodies shimmering like mist under moonlight. They moved as one, their glowing eyes locked onto Bâlorak with unyielding malice. Their jaws hung open, snarls frozen on their ghostly faces, each step silent but heavy with intent. The chamber seemed to pulse with their hatred, the air thick with a feral, electric charge.

Bâlorak's composure wavered for the first time, his slitted eyes narrowing as he took a step back. The confidence in his posture cracked, and as he shifted his staff slightly, a bolt of lightning struck the floor where he had stood moments before.

The shockwave of light illuminated the chamber in blinding brilliance, and Astarion's weak grin broke through his pain as he called out hoarsely, "For pity's sake, aim, Rolan!"

A familiar voice answered, far too cheerful for the chaos unfolding. "Go to hell, Astarion," came the tiefling's reply, his tone laced with mockery as he stepped from the shadows. Rolan moved with deliberate confidence, his dark robes swirling around him as the spectral wolves flanked him on either side, their blue light making him look almost otherworldly.

Bâlorak's staff snapped upward, its golden tip glowing with gathering power as he aimed it toward Rolan. Before the sorcerer could unleash his spell, three crimson bolts of energy struck him in rapid succession, slamming into his back with crackling force. The sorcerer staggered forward, his grip on the staff faltering.

Astarion twisted his head to follow the origin of the attack, his breath catching as he spotted Gale standing at the far end of the chamber, his hands raised, arcane energy shimmering around them. The wizard's expression was grim, his eyes fixed on Bâlorak with unwavering focus as he prepared for another strike.

The sorcerer whirled, his malachite eyes blazing with fury, but before he could retaliate, a crossbow bolt sliced through the air, ricocheting off the energy field surrounding him. The deflection sent sparks dancing through the chamber, and Astarion's gaze darted toward the source. The bolt had come from the opposite corner, but before he could identify the shooter, a bloodcurdling battle cry rang out.

Astarion's head snapped back toward the center of the chamber, his throat tightening as a one-armed tiefling, wreathed in flame, charged into view atop a massive direwolf. His breath hitched, and he almost sobbed in relief as he whipered, "Karlach, you magnificent beast of a woman."

Onyx was a radiant beacon, his once-grey fur now a glistening silvery white, as if he had been dipped in liquid moonlight. His fangs gleamed as he lunged forward, carrying Karlach with ferocious speed. She raised her battle axe high, the flames licking along its edge casting wild shadows across the walls.

Bâlorak barely had time to react before the axe connected. The impact sent him flying, his body crashing into the far wall with a resounding crack. His staff clattered to the floor, the golden tip dimming momentarily as he slumped against the stone.

The energy tendrils binding Astarion's wrists and neck flickered, their grip weakening for a heartbeat. He gasped, the sudden slack allowing him to straighten slightly. Glancing toward Ashara, his chest tightened at the sight of her still pinned.

Her glowing eyes were locked on Onyx, and though her body trembled with exhaustion, her tail wagged faintly against the stone as she watched him spin to face Bâlorak once more.

Onyx growled low, his fur bristling as he planted his massive paws firmly, ready for another charge. Karlach leapt from his back, her flaming hair casting wild shadows across the chamber. She landed heavily beside the wolf, her battle axe still gleaming with power as she squared off against the sorcerer.

Bâlorak rose to his feet, his golden robes scorched and his composure frayed. His green eyes burned with fury, though the faintest flicker of unease passed over his face. He picked up his staff, its golden head flaring with renewed light as he faced the growing force arrayed against him.

The air in the chamber crackled with tension as the battle erupted. Onyx lunged toward Bâlorak, his powerful frame a blur of motion. Karlach followed close behind, flames licking at her armor and battle axe as she charged with a guttural roar. Around them, the spectral wolves surged like a tide, their ghostly forms closing in on the sorcerer from all sides.

Bâlorak's staff swept upward, and a shield of golden energy flared to life around him, the brilliance of it blinding as it deflected the first wave of attacks. Onyx's claws raked across the barrier, sparks flying from the impact, while Karlach's axe struck with bone-rattling force. The sorcerer grimaced, muttering an incantation under his breath, and the shield pulsed outward, throwing them both back momentarily.

The spectral wolves pressed the assault. They darted and leapt, ghostly jaws snapping at the barrier with relentless precision. Bâlorak thrust his staff downward, and bolts of crackling energy exploded from its tip, striking the wolves with unerring accuracy. One after another, the spectral forms dissipated with mournful howls, their shimmering essence fading into the air.

Behind the chaos, Gale and Rolan sprinted toward Astarion and Ashara. Rolan paused briefly, casting a protective ward around them, while Gale knelt beside Astarion, his face etched with concern.

"Are you all right?" Gale asked, his voice steady but his eyes betraying a flicker of worry.

Astarion forced a smirk, though his body felt like it might give out at any moment. "Aside from feeling like I've just been doused in grease and set on fire? Just peachy, thanks for asking."

Gale's lips twitched into a small smile as he placed a reassuring hand on Astarion's shoulder. "Don't worry, my friend. We'll get you both out of here."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Bit presumptuous of you to assume we're friends now, isn't it?"

The words landed with a weight he hadn't intended. Gale's expression faltered, and he withdrew his hand quickly, his confidence slipping. "Of c-course," he stammered. "Forgive me. I let my enthusiasm at seeing you both alive get the better of me."

Astarion groaned, exasperation coloring his voice as he shifted uncomfortably against the magic binding him. "Gale, at this point I'm practically ready to call you my blood brother if you can just get these blasted arcane chains off me and Ashara."

Gale blinked, then nodded, his hands moving to inspect the glowing tendrils that coiled around Astarion's wrists and neck. As his gaze shifted to Ashara, Astarion continued, his tone sharper. "The tendrils are draining her powers, but she's too afraid to fight back. If she resists, the magic punishes me instead."

Gale frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. "Do you know how the tendrils are conjured?"

Astarion inclined his head toward the raging battle behind them. "I think it's his staff."

Gale's eyes followed the gesture, locking onto Bâlorak, who stood at the center of the chaos. The sorcerer's staff glowed with golden light, and as Karlach's axe came down again, he conjured a towering wall of flame that roared to life, cutting off her advance. Onyx skidded to a halt, his growl low and menacing as the heat shimmered in the air between them.

The air around Gale and Rolan crackled with raw energy as they rejoined the fight, their spells rippling through the chamber like the first strikes of a storm.

Gale's hands glowed with swirling blue light as he slowed his stride, chanting in a steady, commanding tone. A shimmer in the air coalesced into the form of a massive water elemental, its liquid body swirling with tidal force. With a roar that echoed like crashing waves, the elemental surged toward Bâlorak, its powerful arms slamming against the wall of flames the sorcerer had raised. Steam rose as gaps appeared in the barrier, allowing Karlach to charge forward.

Rolan followed closely, his eyes glowing with electric intensity. With a sharp motion, he raised his hands, and a concussive wave of sound and force exploded outward from him. The thunderwave struck Bâlorak's mage armor, shattering it with a deafening crack. The sorcerer was thrown back against the far wall, his body colliding with a sickening thud.

Gale capitalized on the opening. With a guttural cry, he raised his arms, and the ground beneath Bâlorak rumbled ominously. Massive slabs of stone ripped free from the floor, surging upward in a cascade to pin the sorcerer against the wall. The weight of the stone pressed him in place, his staff falling from his grip and clattering to the floor.

"I'll take that," Gale muttered, darting forward and snatching it up.

The golden glow dimmed slightly as Gale turned and sprinted back toward Astarion and Ashara, clutching the staff tightly.

Behind him, the stones imprisoning Bâlorak began to crack. The sorcerer's furious incantations filled the air, his power growing as Onyx and Karlach pressed their advantage, keeping him occupied.

Gale skidded to a halt beside Astarion, his breathing uneven as he studied the staff. Its surface glowed faintly, the intricate carvings along its length pulsing with dormant energy.

"Now's not the time to admire craftsmanship, Gale," Astarion snapped, his voice cutting through the noise of battle. "And don't you dare eat it."

Gale's brow furrowed, his focus unbroken. "This is an ancient and powerful artifact..." he murmured, half to himself. "To use it safely, I'd need to attune to it first."

Astarion's voice rose, sharp with urgency. "We don't have time for that!"

Gale's eyes flicked to Ashara, her glowing gaze locked on Astarion even as she shuddered under the tendrils' draining magic. Concern darkened his expression, and he gave a slight nod. "You're right. We don't have time."

Taking a steadying breath, Gale raised the staff. He pointed it at Astarion, his voice strong as he chanted an invocation. Golden light burst from the staff with blinding intensity, and Gale's head snapped back, a cry of pain escaping his lips. The force of the spell sent him collapsing to the ground, blood streaming from his nose and ears as the tendrils around Astarion flickered, then vanished entirely.

Astarion stumbled forward, his hands immediately reaching for the wizard. "Gale!" he exclaimed, his voice tight with panic. He knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders. Blood streaked Gale's pale skin, but a wry smile tugged at his lips.

"That's why it's not a good idea to use an unattuned artifact," he rasped.

"Will you be all right?" Astarion asked, his tone softer now, the sharp edges replaced with genuine concern.

Gale nodded, though his breaths were shallow. "Just a few burst blood vessels and a headache for the next few days. I'll be fine."

Astarion hesitated, then grasped Gale's shoulder firmly. His crimson eyes met Gale's, and his voice dropped, heavy with sincerity. "Thank you... my friend."

Gale's smile widened slightly, but Astarion had already turned his attention to Ashara. She remained bound, her eyes locked on his as he moved closer. "I'm free, Ashara," he said, his voice steady as he gazed into her eyes. "You can fight back now."

Her head trembled, and she nudged him gently, the gesture filled with exhaustion and relief. Astarion leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her muzzle. "Beat the living daylights out of him for me, darling won't you?" he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

A soft voice brushed against his mind, and he froze, his breath catching. "I'm scared," it whispered.

He pulled back, his crimson eyes widening as he met her glowing gaze. "Why?" he asked, the question escaping before he could think. He didn't question how he could hear her now - only that he could.

"I don't want to forget you," the voice whispered again, heavy with sadness.

Astarion's chest tightened, his breath shaking as he exhaled. "Then don't lose control," he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You won't forget me, Ashara. I won't let you."

A triumphant roar echoed through the chaos, and Astarion whipped around, his eyes locking onto Karlach. She stood tall and proud, her flaming axe poised inches from Bâlorak's throat. The sorcerer knelt before her, his once-pristine robes torn and bloodied.

Blood dripped steadily from his nose, staining the marble beneath him in dark rivulets. His face twisted with fury as he dabbed at the crimson streak with trembling fingers, his slitted green eyes narrowing when he saw the blood.

"Enough!" he snarled, his voice like the crack of a thunderclap.

The air around him shifted, thick with burgeoning power. Before Astarion could shout a warning, a burst of golden energy erupted from Bâlorak's body. The shockwave surged outward in a blinding explosion of light, the force of it slamming into everyone like a physical blow.

Astarion raised his arms to shield his face, but it was like standing in the heart of an inferno. The impact knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling across the cold marble floor. His back hit hard, driving the breath from his lungs.

For a moment, all was silent. Astarion groaned as he pushed himself onto his elbows, blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision. His head throbbed, his ears ringing from the sheer force of the blast. He turned his gaze toward the center of the chamber - and his heart plummeted.

Where Bâlorak had knelt moments ago, a massive, awe-inspiring form now dominated the room. Astarion's breath caught in his throat as he took in the creature before him.

It's body glistened like molten gold, each scale catching the light and throwing it back in blinding brilliance. Its serpentine form coiled in midair, its movements impossibly graceful for something so enormous.

Crimson frills framed its elongated neck and the edges of its massive body, rippling like liquid fire as they undulated. The creature's wings, vast and elegant, spread outward with an otherworldly grace, their translucent membranes catching the faintest gleam of light.

Astarion's gaze caught on its head - a sharp, angular visage with ridged horns that curved back like the blades of a scythe. Its malachite-green eyes blazed with malice, slitted pupils narrowing as it surveyed the room with undisguised contempt. Smoke curled lazily from its flared nostrils, its long jaws parting to reveal rows of dagger-sharp teeth, each one glinting like ivory polished to a deadly sheen.

Astarion's stomach sank further as the creature's voice erupted, deep and thunderous, rattling the walls and sending small shards of stone crumbling from the ceiling.

"Miserable insects! You dare defy me?!" The Gold Dragon reared its head back, its frilled neck expanding with the motion. "I am Bâlorak the Golden Heretic, and you shall bow before the superior being!"

The words, laced with raw, unbridled arrogance, rolled over Astarion like a wave. His hands curled into fists as he pulled himself to his feet, his body aching from the blast.

He glanced around, noting that Karlach, too, was struggling upright, her axe still in hand, her expression one of fierce determination despite the awe flickering in her fiery eyes. Onyx stood beside her, his silvery coat bristling, a low, guttural growl emanating from his throat as his luminous eyes fixed on Bâlorak.

Astarion's gaze returned to the dragon, his mind racing. The sheer size of it, the raw energy radiating from its form - it was unlike anything he had ever faced. Letting out a tired sigh he pulled out his sword and glanced back at Ashara, a rueful grin curling on his lips.

"Darling... now might be a good time to dig deep and unleash your inner demigod. Otherwise, we are all well and truly fu—"

Chapter Text

The chamber groaned under the weight of its ancient stone. Purple veins of energy pulsed along the marble walls and pillars, casting a shifting, malevolent light. Ashara lay pinned against the floor, her massive wolf form straining against the energy tendrils that coiled around her limbs and throat. They burned as they tightened, sapping her strength with every passing moment. Her growl faltered, then deepened, as the golden nightmare towered before her.

"—cked."

The tail end of Astarion's words sliced through her haze, but they did nothing to cut the weight crushing her chest. Fear surged, raw and instinctual, as her eyes locked on the towering dragon. His scales shimmered like molten metal, a blinding, unearthly gold that defied the dim light around him. His gaze was a weapon in itself - two pits of molten hatred, promising ruin. Her body trembled, not from the chill she wielded but from the ancient, primal terror clawing at her mind.

Onyx's voice tore through the air. "Don't hold his gaze, Ashara! He's using his fear aura to intimidate you."

The sharp sting of something striking her nose broke the spell. She flinched, eyes snapping to Astarion. "Eyes on me, darling," he barked, his tone commanding yet tinged with urgency. He crouched beside her massive form, fingers gripping the matted fur of her neck for stability. His crimson eyes burned with an intensity that rivaled the dragon's fire, pulling her out of the abyss. "I'm the prettier picture. Focus."

Ashara growled low in her throat, shaking her head violently. The sound of her growl reverberated through the chamber, but the oppressive energy tendrils twisted tighter around her limbs, anchoring her to the floor. Her gaze snapped back to Astarion, grounding herself in the sheer defiance etched into his smirk.

"Stop wasting time and get in there," he hissed, his fangs bared - not in mockery, but in genuine determination.

Bâlorak reared back, wings unfurling with a slow, deliberate menace. Each vein seemed etched in fire, and when he brought them together, the resulting blast ripped through the chamber. Ashara ducked low, snarling as the wind tore past her. Astarion clung to her back, his weight a sharp reminder of the need to overcome her fear. The stone beneath her trembled, cracks forming in the ground as debris rained from above.

Ashara braced herself, her claws digging into the floor with enough force to gouge deep grooves. Her snarl deepened, the sound raw and guttural. Ice crackled along her limbs, spreading outward in intricate, frostbitten patterns as she tapped into her magic. The tendrils of energy that had pinned her began to buckle, frost climbing their shimmering lengths like ivy choking a wall. With a snap and a howl, she broke free, the shards of magical ice scattering like broken glass.

Ashara surged forward, her massive frame lurching upright. Ice glinted along her fur, spreading up her limbs and rippling along her spine, transforming her into a snarling specter of frost and fury. She planted herself between Astarion and the dragon, gleaming fangs bared in hatred.

Bâlorak's laughter boomed, low and resonant, like the grinding of tectonic plates. "So," he rumbled, his voice dripping with disdain, "it's to be a battle to oblivion again. How tedious."

Bâlorak lunged, his claws carving furrows in the marble as he surged toward Ashara. She leapt to meet him, her ice-coated fur a blur of black and silver. Her jaws snapped shut on his foreleg, teeth sinking through golden scales into the sinew beneath. Frost spread from her bite, creeping along his limb as her magic surged. Bâlorak roared, his massive tail whipping around in a blur.

The tail struck Ashara's side like a battering ram, the force sending her hurtling across the chamber. She slammed into a pillar, the impact cracking the stone and forcing a pained yelp from her throat. She rose unsteadily, blood matting the fur along her flank where the tail's spines had torn through her hide. Her growl deepened, resonating through the chamber as frost spiraled from her maw.

Onyx bounded forward, a massive silver blur of motion. His ice-coated claws left jagged frost trails on the floor as he launched himself at Bâlorak's exposed flank. His teeth tore into the dragon's wing, freezing the thin membrane in an instant. The dragon's roar turned to a snarl as he twisted violently, throwing the direwolf aside. Onyx hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet, unyielding as frost rippled outward from his stance.

"Good boy, Onyx," Karlach's voice boomed as she charged into the fray, her infernal engine glowing brighter with every step. She swung her greataxe in a wide arc, the blade igniting with flames that clashed brilliantly with the chamber's frost. The strike carved into Bâlorak's tail, forcing the dragon to roar and twist away from her.

Behind her, Gale's voice rang out, sharp with urgency. He conjured a spiraling orb of frost and hurled it toward Bâlorak. The ball struck the dragon's shoulder, briefly diverting his attention. Ashara seized the moment. She charged, ice spreading beneath her paws with every step, her jaws open as she unleashed a breath of Frostfire.

The icy inferno engulfed Bâlorak's head, the combination of freezing cold and searing heat forcing a bellow of rage from the dragon. His wings beat against the air, creating a tempest that extinguished the frostfire and hurled Ashara backward. She dug her claws into the floor to stop her slide, but Bâlorak was already on her.

His claws raked down her side, splitting flesh and sending fresh streams of blood spilling onto the frozen floor. Ashara snapped at his chest, her teeth finding purchase and ripping away a plate of gold scales. Bâlorak reared back, his jaws opening to unleash a torrent of molten fire.

A sudden crack of lightning arced across the room, slamming into Bâlorak's neck and forcing him to stumble. Rolan stood at the edge of the chamber, his hands raised, arcs of electricity dancing along his fingers. "How's that for aim, Astarion!" he laughed wildly, sweat pouring down his face.

From somewhere behind her, Ashara heard Astarion's voice call back, "An improvement, but - as I'm assuming you were aiming for his head - it clearly still needs work."

"Piss off!"

A laugh rumbled in Ashara's throat despite the pain she was in. The ease at which her companions found the courage to banter in the midst of battle sent a surge of pride through her heart. They were facing impossible odds, yet refused to be cowed.

She leapt onto Bâlorak's flank, claws scraping for purchase on his slick scales. He twisted violently, throwing her free. She slammed into the chamber wall with a sickening crunch, crumpling to the ground in a heap. For a moment, she lay still, blood pooling beneath her.

Astarion's voice cut in, sharp and confident. "This should sting." He loosed an arrow tipped with an explosive rune. The projectile struck Bâlorak's side, detonating in a burst of green fire.

The dragon turned his rage on the vampire spawn, his molten breath building in his throat, but Karlach was already moving.

"Not so fast, scales-for-brains!" she bellowed, her greataxe slamming into the dragon's exposed flank. Sparks flew as the blade struck true, forcing the breath to dissipate in a harmless gout of flame.

Ashara forced herself upright, trembling and bleeding but unrelenting. Her growls echoed as she darted forward again, aiming for the exposed gap in the dragons scales she'd torn earlier. Her teeth met flesh, and this time she clamped down, refusing to let go. Frost erupted from her bite, spreading deep into the wound. Onyx followed, his massive jaws clamping down on the dragon's hind leg, locking him in place.

Ashara's grip held despite being shaken around like a rat in a terriers jaws as Bâlorak thrashed, his claws raking deep into her side and sending blood spraying across the frost-covered floor. The dragons tail struck Onyx with a bone-shattering crack, hurling the silver direwolf into a wall. Onyx collapsed in a heap, but his low growl persisted, vibrating through the chamber as he forced himself upright.

Ashara's ribs groaned with every labored breath, her body barely obeying her will. Her black fur was streaked with blood, the frost clinging to it melting where crimson trails ran thick. Pain rippled through her limbs with every movement, but her teeth remained buried in Bâlorak's exposed flesh. Frostfire erupted from her maw, the icy blaze surging over his massive form. The chamber lit up with an otherworldly glow as frost and fire waged war against the dragon's molten armor.

Bâlorak roared, the sound shaking loose shards of stone from the chamber walls. His massive claws wrenched her free, slamming her to the ground with bone-jarring force before he hurled her across the room. She crashed into pillar, the impact rattling her skull and sending jagged cracks through the marble. Her body crumpled, blood pooling beneath her as she struggled to rise, her claws scrabbling against the frost-coated floor.

Her gaze darted to Bâlorak, who stood at the center of the room, steam rising from his golden scales. Deep rents ran along his chest and limbs, where her frost had bitten into him and held. Molten blood oozed from the wounds, hissing where it met the frozen ground. Yet his movements were deliberate, his glowing eyes sharp with malice. He saw her falter and capitalized on it, stepping forward with terrifying grace.

Ashara could see the calculation behind his fury. She felt the weight of it, the memory of a past victory she couldn't recall, mocking her now. How had she ever defeated this being? The thought cut deeper than the claws raking her sides.

Then, his gaze shifted. Bâlorak's eyes locked onto Astarion. The vampire stood several paces away, bowstring drawn, his body taut as a wire. His crimson eyes gleamed with concentration, his next explosive arrow ready. The dragon's lips curled into a wicked grin, exposing rows of serrated fangs. His chest expanded, and Ashara's heart froze as his jaws opened wide.

The cone of flames surged out like a tidal wave, roaring toward Astarion. He dove to the side, his movements quick, but not quick enough. The edge of the inferno caught his leg, spinning him to the ground. He gritted his teeth, stifling a cry, but his hand instinctively shot to the burn.

Ashara's eyes widened. Time seemed to slow as she saw the flames sweep toward him, hungry and all-encompassing. Her legs moved before she could think. The battered wolf surged forward, her body screaming in protest, but she ignored it. She planted herself between the flames and Astarion, her massive frame shielding him from the dragon's wrath.

The fire hit her with a force that stole the air from her lungs. It seared through her fur, biting into her flesh. The smell of burning hair filled the chamber. She howled, the sound a raw, piercing cry of agony. Frost erupted from her body in jagged waves, but the intensity of the flames overwhelmed it. The stones beneath her paws began to glow, faint cracks spidering outward as the heat intensified.

Astarion cowered beneath her, his eyes wide with fear. His hands instinctively covered his head as flames licked at her sides, singeing her fur and charring the skin beneath. His voice broke through the roar of the flames, strained and panicked. "Ashara! Move, damn it - get out of the way!"

But she didn't move. She planted herself over him, her claws digging into the heated stone to hold her ground. Her frost aura sputtered and surged, the cold battling the overwhelming heat, but she didn't relent. The dragon stepped closer, pressing the full weight of his fiery breath against her. Her growl turned into a low, agonized whine, her vision blurring as the pain became a relentless wave.

Her frost magic surged one final time, the cold biting into her limbs as she forced the flames back just enough to hold her ground. Bâlorak snarled, his breath finally subsiding as he drew back, steam rising in thick waves from the scorched ground. Ashara wavered, her body trembling as she turned her head to glance at Astarion. His burns were evident, but his crimson eyes held a deep gratitude, sharp and quiet.

Ashara growled low, her battered body refusing to give in as Bâlorak loomed closer, bloodied but far from defeated.

Bâlorak's molten eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction as he stepped closer, each ponderous movement sending tremors through the chamber. His massive claws scraped against the cracked stone floor, leaving deep furrows in the ice and blood-covered surface. His golden scales glinted even under the dim light, his towering form radiating unrelenting menace.

"What foolish loyalty you display to such an insignificant, detestable creature..." His voice dripped with mockery, reverberating off the broken pillars and fractured walls. His fanged grin widened as he stared down at Ashara, trembling at his feet. "Pitiful."

Astarion's jaw clenched, the words igniting a cold fury deep in his chest. His fingers tightened on the bowstring still in his hand, though his arrows now felt feeble in the face of the towering beast. He swallowed the anger, turning instead to the battered wolf trembling beside him. Her head hung low, each labored breath rattling like splintering glass. He crouched beside her, his pale hands gripping the icy fur at her nape, fingers trembling with urgency.

"Damn you, Ashara!" he hissed, his voice sharp with fear he refused to name. "Get up. You need to get up... right now or we're all finished!" He tugged harder, but her massive frame barely shifted, her strength dwindling.

In the distance, Karlach charged again, her greataxe blazing with hellfire. The blade crashed into Bâlorak's flank, carving a gash into his molten armor. The dragon barely reacted, his massive tail sweeping across the room in retaliation. Karlach was sent flying, her body slamming into a wall with a sickening thud. Gale's arcane bolts exploded against Bâlorak's golden hide, and Rolan's lightning coiled around his chest, but their efforts were swatted aside as if they were no more than buzzing insects. The dragon's attention remained fixed on Ashara.

The air shifted suddenly, sharp and electric, making Astarion's skin prickle. The faint smell of rain cut through the acrid stench of blood and fire. The dragon's head jerked up, his molten eyes narrowing. His nostrils flared, drawing in a long, deliberate breath.

Then, the sound came.

A keening wail tore through the chamber, an unearthly, soul-rending cry that crashed into Astarion like a wave. The force of it struck his chest, driving the air from his lungs. Grief, raw and all-consuming, swallowed him whole, as though the collective anguish of a thousand lifetimes had been unleashed in a single, mournful cry. His legs buckled under the weight of it, his hands clenching instinctively around Ashara's fur as he fought the overwhelming urge to weep.

Across the chamber, Onyx's silver form went rigid, his fur bristling like a storm-battered thicket. The direwolf tipped his head back, his haunting howl rising to meet the wail. It filled the space, the sound cold and primal, laced with sorrow so deep it chilled Astarion's soul more than any frost Ashara could conjure. His skin crawled, every nerve alight with the unbearable weight of that sound.

Bâlorak hissed, his lips curling in irritation. His head snaked back and forth, moving like a predator scenting something just out of sight. "The child of Selûne is no more..." His voice dropped into a guttural snarl, tinged with something almost like unease. "And Shar walks these halls in triumph."

He dug his claws into the frozen ground, raking deep furrows into the stone. His tail lashed, cracking against the floor with a sound like thunder. The dragon's molten gaze seemed to pierce the very fabric of the chamber, as though peering beyond what mortal eyes could perceive.

"Gods," he spat, the word dripping with disdain. "Too many gods. I sense another rising from the depths... even now."

Astarion's grip tightened on his bow, but he didn't move. He couldn't. The overwhelming pressure of the keening wail, Onyx's mournful howl, and the dragon's dreadful words rooted him in place. The air itself seemed to shudder, charged with something vast and unknowable.

Bâlorak's head snapped back to Ashara. His molten eyes burned into her battered form, a snarl rumbling deep in his throat. "We will continue this at some other time," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "When there are fewer... observers."

Before Astarion could process the words, the air behind the dragon split open. A swirling portal, vast and black, tore through the chamber, its edges shimmering with dark energy. The dragon stepped backward, his massive frame vanishing into the void. His molten eyes burned into Astarion one last time before the portal sealed shut with a resounding crack, leaving the chamber in an eerie, oppressive silence.

Astarion exhaled shakily, his body still braced for a fight that had evaporated in an instant. He turned back to Ashara, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for her fur. "You're alive," he murmured, his voice a mixture of relief and disbelief. "Impressive, considering you seemed determined to turn yourself into wolf-shaped kindling."

Ashara let out a low, pitiful whine, her eyes slipping shut as her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Astarion's stomach twisted. Her strength, the overwhelming force she had wielded moments ago, was now a fragile thread threatening to snap. He turned sharply to Onyx, his voice laced with urgency. "Something's wrong..."

The direwolf padded over, his steps deliberate despite the stiffness in his movements. Behind him, the rest of their companions stumbled into view. Bruised, burned, and bleeding, they looked like survivors of a war that had lasted an eternity.

Karlach leaned heavily on her greataxe, using it as a crutch. Her armor was scorched, a long, shallow gash carving across her bicep. Still, she let out a strained laugh, her voice raspy from the effort. "Damn! Not gonna lie, seriously had my doubts about our chances there for a minute."

Onyx stepped closer to Ashara, lowering his massive head to nudge her gently. His voice was steady, calm despite the tension in the room. "Well done, little one."

Astarion's lips quirked despite himself. "Little one?" he echoed, his tone edged with disbelief as his crimson gaze swept over Ashara's hulking form.

Gale's weary voice chimed in as he approached, his face pale and drawn. "A curious choice of words, considering she's the size of a small hill giant."

Astarion's fingers stroked absently along Ashara's side, his sharp eyes darting between her trembling body and Onyx's calm demeanor. "She's... not going to turn into a baby, is she?" His voice was deadpan, though the faintest hint of unease bled into his words.

Karlach snorted, wincing as the movement jostled her injuries. "Come again?"

Onyx huffed a laugh and shook his head. "No. She didn't unleash her full powers, so she is in no danger of rebirth, though she's close to her limit. Right now, she's in a great deal of pain."

Without a word, Gale knelt beside Ashara, his hands already weaving intricate patterns in the air. A soft, green light began to emanate from his fingers, flowing over Ashara's trembling form. Rolan followed suit, his lightning magic dimming as he focused on channeling soothing waves of healing energy.

Karlach stood beside Ashara's head, her hand stroking the wolf's bloodied ears with surprising gentleness. "You're okay now," she muttered, her gravelly voice soft. "You've done enough, big girl. Time to rest, yeah?"

Astarion's gaze flickered between them all, taking in the bruised faces, the exhaustion that hung over them, and the quiet concern etched into every movement. A warmth spread through him, sharp and unfamiliar. It stirred something deep in his chest - something that made his fingers still against Ashara's side for a moment longer.

Shaking it off, he cleared his throat and fixed his attention on Karlach. "How did you even find us? And how are you here? Last I heard, you were rotting in a dungeon."

Karlach leaned back, wincing as she adjusted her weight. She jabbed the blunt end of her greataxe into Gale's shoulder with a lopsided grin. "You can thank this ex-dirtbag for the rescue."

Gale flushed, his hands never pausing in their work. "I prefer 'reformed miscreant'," he muttered, then glanced at Astarion. "When you and Ashara disappeared, Rolan and I didn't have many options, so we went back to Moonrise. Freeing the prisoners seemed... logical."

Rolan nodded, his voice clipped and efficient. "Gale's True Soul act got us inside. We cleared out the guards, freed the last surviving refugees and some Ironhand Gnomes. There was an underground river in the dungeons. It led us straight to Last Light."

Astarion tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. "What about Halsin and Zevlor?"

Karlach's expression darkened, her smile vanishing. She let out a long breath, her fingers tightening around the haft of her weapon. "Taken somewhere else. Don't know where, but... from what I heard, they're set for implantation."

Astarion's lip curled. "And the cleric - Isobel or whatever her name was?"

Karlach shook her head. "Rolan asked about her too, but I didn't see anyone like that."

Ashara's faint voice echoed in his mind, fragile but insistent. "She must have been brought directly to Ketheric... or killed."

The words sent a flicker of unease through Astarion's chest, but he quickly shoved it aside. Instead, he turned his attention to Onyx, his crimson eyes narrowing. "So, who's protecting the inn while you're here? And what's with the new look?" His gaze flicked over Onyx's pure silver coat, his brow raised in skepticism.

Onyx sat back on his haunches, his massive frame radiating calm despite his obvious exhaustion. "Selûne allowed me to leave my post when she sensed Bâlorak had taken Ashara. She temporarily transferred her blessing to another to ensure the sanctuary remains protected, then told me where to find you."

Astarion's brow arched, suspicion evident in the sharp tilt of his head. "Dare I ask who?"

Onyx's teeth flashed in a wolfish grin. "Vaarl."

Astarion's jaw dropped, and he sputtered in disbelief. "Vaarl?! That gangly, starry-eyed Gith? You have got to be joking."

Onyx's shoulders shook with a soft chuckle. "Selûne values his purity of heart and reluctance to harm others. She found him worthy to become one of her Clerics, if he so desires."

Astarion blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching toward a scowl. "Goes to show the gods will recruit just about anyone these days," he muttered, his tone dry as ash. Then, softer, under his breath, "Except vampires."

The chamber fell quiet as Gale and Rolan's magic took hold, the green glow settling over Ashara's battered form. Her breathing grew steadier, her shivering less pronounced. Astarion let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his hand lingering against her fur as he watched her carefully.

Ashara's voice whispered again into his mind. It was faint, strained, each word weighed down by pain. "It hurts... it hurts so much. But I'm glad you're okay."

The lump in his throat rose so suddenly it nearly choked him. He forced it down, his hand moving over her fur in quick, desperate strokes as if the action could soothe her - or himself. His fingers trembled slightly, brushing over patches of frost-matted fur and dried blood, avoiding the wounds that still seeped faintly.

"You'll be fine," he murmured, though his voice cracked on the words. "Just... hold on."

Gale stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides as the glow of his spellwork faded. His exhaustion was evident in the slump of his shoulders, and he wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. "That's as best as I can do," he admitted, his voice tight with regret. "I'm sorry to say I don't have very many healing spells in my repertoire, and I've exhausted all my magical energy."

Rolan grunted, running a hand through his disheveled hair before gripping one of his horns in frustration. "Same," he muttered, his tone sharp. His fingers twitched as if itching to cast another spell, but the faint sparks of power flickering at his fingertips faded almost as quickly as they appeared.

Onyx moved closer, his massive silver form radiating calm. "You have both done enough," he said, his voice low but firm. "Rest now."

Astarion opened his mouth to argue when a swirling black smoke began to rise from Ashara's body. His eyes widened in alarm, his grip tightening instinctively on her blood-matted fur. "She's shifting back," he said, his voice urgent. His gaze darted around the chamber, searching for something to cover her with.

Rolan didn't hesitate. Without a word, the tiefling unclasped his cloak and thrust it into Astarion's hands. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Astarion gave him a rare, grateful look before quickly turning back to Ashara.

The smoke coiled tighter around her before dissipating entirely, leaving her elven form behind. Astarion's breath caught. Her skin was raw, angry red burns covering her arms, shoulders, and face. Blisters marred the worst of the damage, and shallow cuts wept sluggish trails of blood. She let out a faint whimper, her eyes shut tight, tears slipping unbidden from the corners.

Astarion's hands faltered as he adjusted the cloak, his usual confidence abandoned in the face of her pain. He wrapped her carefully, wincing every time she flinched beneath his touch. The soft cry that escaped her lips felt like a dagger twisting in his chest.

"It's alright," he whispered, though his voice wavered. "I've got you."

Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her gently, cradling her against his chest. She felt fragile, her body limp and unnervingly light. He adjusted the cloak to shield her fully, her head resting against his shoulder as her breath rasped against his neck.

Looking up at Onyx, his face was grim, his sharp features unusually bare of their usual sardonic mask. "She's badly hurt," he said, his voice tight and low. "We need to get her to a proper healer - fast."

Karlach stepped forward, leaning heavily on her greataxe. "You two go ahead," she rasped, her rough voice softening with a trace of warmth. "We'll make our own way there. Just get her safe."

Onyx's ears flicked back briefly before he let out a low, rumbling bark. The sound reverberated through the room, and before Astarion could question it, a glowing blue portal shimmered into existence. The swirling light bathed the chamber in an otherworldly glow, and beyond the portal's edge, Astarion saw the familiar exterior of the Last Light Inn.

Karlach let out a relieved laugh, her grin wide despite her bruised face. "Gods, I love you, mate," she said, reaching out to scratch behind Onyx's ears.

Onyx's tail wagged once, the faint motion betraying his satisfaction. "Go," he said simply, his golden eyes locking onto Astarion's. "The sanctuary will take care of her."

Astarion held Ashara closer, her shallow breaths tickling against the hollow of his neck. He didn't look back as he stepped through the portal, the light swallowing them whole.

As soon as he emerged on the other side, the noise hit him immediately: the clamor of refugees moving about, Harpers shouting orders, and the occasional sob of someone finally feeling safe enough to break. He had no time to take in the scene before a voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the din.

"Astarion," Jaheira barked, striding toward him with the kind of authority that made even seasoned soldiers flinch. Her green eyes narrowed as she approached, the lines of her face etched deeper with frustration. "What in all the Nine Hells is going on? I come back from a scouting mission to find Tiefling refugees and Ironhand Gnomes everywhere, and the safety of my Harpers in the hands of a spindly Githyanki barely old enough to start shaving."

Her words hit like a barrage of arrows, but Astarion barely registered them. His focus was on Ashara, her head lolling against his chest, her breaths shallow and labored. He growled, the sound low and dangerous, as he swept past Jaheira. "Healing first, questions later."

Jaheira's gaze shifted to the barely conscious woman in his arms, her expression hardening into something unreadable. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her sharp eyes assessed Ashara's burns and trembling form. "Bring her inside," she said curtly, pivoting on her heel and heading for the inn.

Astarion followed, his steps hurried but careful. The inn's common room blurred as he trailed Jaheira into a bunk area tucked in the back. The small space was dimly lit, the faint smell of herbs and poultices hanging in the air.

"Over here," Jaheira said briskly, gesturing to a vacant bed. Astarion moved swiftly, laying Ashara down as gently as his trembling hands allowed. His sharp eyes darted to the other occupied bed, where a dark-skinned man shivered violently, his voice mumbling disjointed phrases and half-sung melodies. The sound grated on Astarion's already frayed nerves.

Ashara whimpered as her back hit the thin mattress, the sound cutting through him. Jaheira wasted no time pulling back the cloak, her sharp intake of breath betraying her reaction to Ashara's injuries. The sight of her raw, blistered skin made Astarion's stomach churn, and he stepped instinctively in front of her to block the view from the others entering the room. His crimson eyes flicked to Rolan and Gale, who quickly averted their gazes, both suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the wooden beams or the scuff marks on the floorboards.

Karlach leaned heavily against the wall before sliding down with a groan, her greataxe clattering to the floor beside her. "Damn," she muttered, her voice rasping as she wiped soot from her face. "Feels like my lungs are full of dragon fire—reminds me of Avernus."

Onyx padded into the room and collapsed beside her, his massive silver body radiating exhaustion. His tongue lolled out as he panted heavily, his glowing coat dimmed with streaks of dirt and blood. Karlach reached over to scratch behind his ears, her expression softening as his tail gave a weak wag.

Jaheira muttered an incantation under her breath, the air around her hands glowing with soft green light as she began weaving druidic healing magic over Ashara's battered form. "Fetch the burn salves and bandages," she called to a Harper lingering by the doorway. The man nodded and disappeared.

Astarion kept his eyes fixed on Ashara's face, his jaw tight enough to ache. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the desire to do something burning in his chest. Pacing to release the restless energy, his boots creaked on the wooden floor as he moved back and forth.

Jaheira's gaze flicked up to him, irritation flashing across her face. "Perhaps you could direct some of that energy into telling me what the hell happened?"

Astarion froze mid-step, then exhaled sharply. "Where do I even begin—"

"Before you do," Jaheira interrupted, her sharp eyes cutting toward Gale and Rolan. She arched an eyebrow, a faint look of disdain tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Why is there a man with you who's dressed like a brothel worker?"

Gale froze, his face flushing a deep crimson. He crossed his arms instinctively over his chest, though the movement only drew more attention to the leather straps on his torso that barely counted as clothing.

Astarion's lips curled into a grin, the tension in the room shifting slightly. "Jaheira, that's no way to talk about Rolan. He put a great deal of effort into that outfit."

Rolan didn't miss a beat, raising his middle finger in response without looking up from the floor.

Gale cleared his throat, his voice stiff. "For the record, this is not my usual or preferred form of attire."

Jaheira's eyebrow arched higher, and she gestured toward him with her free hand. "So the dog collar is just a fashion statement, is it?"

Gale's hand shot up to his neck, his fingers brushing against the leather collar as if noticing it for the first time. His face darkened, the flush giving way to a simmering anger. With deliberate movements, he unfastened the collar and held it in his hands, staring at it for a long moment. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, shuddering breath before he hurled it toward the nearest window. The leather strap sailed through the broken glass, disappearing into the night.

The tension in the room shifted. Astarion's smirk faltered as he watched Gale, a faint flicker of something unspoken tightening his chest. Empathy, sharp and unwelcome, twisted in his gut as he saw the wizard's usually calm façade crack.

Gale turned back to Jaheira, his expression stony but composed. "If you'll excuse me," he said tightly, his voice controlled and brittle, "I need some air." He turned on his heel and left the room, his steps brisk.

Jaheira stared after him, her mouth tightening briefly. "I'm not sure I want to even ask what that was about."

"Good," Astarion snapped, surprising even himself with the defensive edge to his tone. He scowled, his eyes narrowing. "Because it's none of your damn business."

Jaheira's eyes flicked to him, her expression hard, but something softened at the edges when she saw the look his face. Without another word, she turned back to Ashara, her hands glowing faintly as she carefully applied salve to the burns on her shoulders.

After a moment, she spoke again, her voice steady but quieter. "So... care to tell me what happened now?"

As Astarion begin his recounting of the past few chaotic hours, Onyx turned his head, catching the sight of Gale slipping out the door, shoulders hunched with unspoken tension. With a quiet huff, Onyx stood, his muscles aching as he padded after the wizard, leaving the murmur of the inn behind.

The courtyard was a sea of quiet activity, Harpers attending to the needs of the rescued prisoners and gearing up for some kind of foray. Onyx padded silently across the worn cobblestones, his sharp golden eyes catching Gale's slumped figure by the dried-up fountain. The wizard sat with his head bowed, shoulders tense, as though the weight of the world pressed on his back. The fountain, long empty and cracked with age, seemed a fitting backdrop for Gale's brittle silence.

Onyx paused, his breath misting in the cool air. Just as he began to step forward, a Tiefling woman burst from the shadows, her steps heavy and purposeful. The sharp sound of her boots striking stone made Gale's head snap up, his face clouded with confusion.

"You!" she snarled, pointing a trembling finger at him.

Gale scrambled to his feet, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Miss, I'm not—"

Her open palm cracked across his cheek before he could finish. The sound of the slap echoed sharply in the enclosed courtyard, and Onyx flinched, his ears twitching at the sharpness of it. Gale staggered slightly, his hand flying to his cheek as he stared at the woman, wide-eyed and frozen.

"How dare you have the gall to show your face here, you bastard!" she hissed, her voice shaking with fury. Her red eyes brimmed with tears, her face contorted in grief.

"I..." Gale began, his voice faltering as she cut him off.

"You're one of the monsters who attacked the grove," she spat, her words trembling with raw anger. "You... you killed my husband!" Her voice broke, and tears spilled freely down her face. She clenched her fists as though the act alone kept her upright.

Gale's expression twisted, anguish carving deep lines into his face. "I... I didn't want to hurt anyone..." he stammered, his voice barely audible. "But I had to defend myself."

The words sounded hollow, even to Onyx. A murmur rippled through the rest of the former prisoners, their numbers growing as more emerged from the shadows and the edges of the inn's yard. Onyx could feel their hostility building, a simmering wave of resentment and pain directed entirely at Gale. A Tiefling man stepped forward, his voice low and accusing.

"I saw you, wizard. You did more than defend yourself. You fought on the side of the goblins. You fought with that damned Drow."

Gale paled, his breathing quickening as he stepped back, his heel catching on the edge of the fountain. His trembling hands rose as though to fend off their words, but his voice cracked as he spoke. "You don't understand... I didn't have a choice."

The crowd pressed closer, the anger radiating from them sharp and palpable. A few brandished weapons - a rusted axe, a chipped sword, a heavy stick gripped tightly in white-knuckled hands. Onyx could see Gale's shoulders tense, his trembling fingers beginning to spark with faint arcs of magic. The wizard's eyes darted from face to face, wide and fearful, like a cornered animal.

Onyx didn't hesitate. He let out a single, deafening bay, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like thunder. The force of it seemed to shake the very ground beneath their feet. Every head snapped to him, the crowd freezing in place.

He moved with slow, deliberate confidence, his massive frame bristling with frost as he padded to Gale's side. He sat heavily beside the trembling wizard, his silver coat catching the faint moonlight and his cold breath misting in the air. Onyx let his presence speak for him, his sheer size and calm dominance sending an unmistakable message to the crowd. Enough.

The refugees faltered, their anger tempered by nervous glances at the direwolf. Onyx could feel the faint shift in the air as the threat of violence receded slightly.

Beside him, Onyx felt Gale shift closer, almost unconsciously. The wizard's shoulder brushed against his fur, seeking reassurance. Onyx didn't move, didn't flinch. He held his ground, his gaze steady and unyielding as he scanned the crowd. The frost around him deepened, tendrils of cold spreading across the stones at his feet.

The crowd broke apart, their tension dissipating as they stepped back, one by one. The weight of Onyx's presence made their earlier anger feel futile, small. He waited, still and silent, until the last weapon lowered and the murmurs began to fade. Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse, muttering as they backed away. The tiefling woman lingered for a moment, her tears still flowing, but she turned with a sharp sob and disappeared into the shadows.

As the courtyard emptied, Onyx sat back on his haunches, the frost on his fur melting as the tension ebbed away. Gale sank onto the fountain's edge, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Thank you," Gale murmured hoarsely, his voice barely audible.

Onyx tilted his head, his golden eyes watching the wizard carefully. After a moment, he nudged Gale gently, his cold nose pressing against the humans arm. "Follow me," he said, his voice low and steady.

Gale hesitated, his posture stiff, but the weight of Onyx's calm presence pulled him from the chaos of the courtyard. Without another word, Onyx turned and padded toward the riverbank that flowed beneath the stone bridge near the inn. The night air carried a chill, and the gentle murmur of water filled the silence between them. Moonlight danced on the surface of the river, its pale light softening the jagged edges of the broken world around them.

When they reached the bank, Gale stopped, his shoulders rigid as if bracing for an unseen blow. He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers gripping at his exposed skin. Onyx settled beside the water, his silver fur gleaming faintly. He sat in patient silence, watching Gale with eyes that glimmered with quiet understanding.

After a long pause, Gale broke the silence. His voice was brittle, each word edged with bitterness and guilt. "They were right to be angry. I deserve their hatred. Every bit of it. I've done terrible things. Things I can't undo."

Onyx's gaze didn't waver. "Fear can make people do unimaginable things," he said, his tone even but weighted with meaning. "The fight for survival has a way of bending the soul."

Gale closed his eyes, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's no excuse," he whispered, the words barely audible. "It doesn't change what I've done."

"No, it doesn't," Onyx replied, dipping his head slightly. "But it explains why it happened. That's a start."

Gale's hands fell to his sides, his fingers curling into fists. He moved to a nearby boulder and sank onto it, his body folding inward as he put his head in his hands. His fingers gripped his hair tightly, his breaths coming shallow and uneven. "Mystra forgive me," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I've been a coward. I let that gods-damned dragonborn turn me into his puppet - all because I was too afraid to face death."

Onyx's ears flicked, and he tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering as he recalled what Rolan had revealed about Gale's unique condition. "You feared more than your own death though, didn't you? The Orb, its potential for devastation - that weighed on you, too."

Gale lowered his hands, his expression twisting with self-loathing. "Does that make it better?" he asked, his voice sharp. "Because my actions weren't entirely selfish?"

Onyx didn't flinch, his steady gaze meeting Gale's. "Did you want to stay with Durge?"

"Of course not!" Gale snapped, his voice rising sharply. He froze for a moment, realizing how vehement his reply was, and then slumped, his head falling forward.

"Exactly," Onyx replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "He was the only option you had at the time, but when the moment came, you turned against him. You chose to fight for something better. That choice - despite the risks - speaks to the man you are."

Gale stared down at his hands as if they were coated in blood only he could see. His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "And what kind of man is that? One who betrays himself, his principles... his humanity? I feel like I've already become a monster, even without the tentacles to prove it."

Onyx shifted slightly, lowering his massive head. "If you were truly the monster you think you are, you wouldn't be standing here, mourning the lives you took. Monsters don't mourn, Gale. They revel in destruction."

Gale looked away, his shoulders curling inward as he exhaled shakily. "Every day with Durge felt like a battle to stay human," he said after a long pause. "You wouldn't think it, seeing the way he fights with a blade, but he's a sorcerer. He uses magic as a weapon in ways that are... cruel. He took great delight in tormenting me. Belittling me. Because I'm 'just' a wizard."

His gaze dropped to his chest, his expression twisting into a scowl as his fingers brushed the flimsy straps of his attire. "Even this - we found it in an abandoned house, and Durge though it would be funny to make me wear it," he snorted bitterly. "It was his way of keeping me weak. Exposed. Reliant on him for protection. The irony is he was the one who caused the most harm. I was his punching bag. His... plaything."

Onyx straightened, his ears twitching slightly. The thought that had been hovering in the back of his mind pressed forward, sharp and unwanted. "Did he ever try to harm you in... other ways?" he asked, his voice quiet but weighted with an underlying meaning.

Gale went pale, his hands clenching in his lap. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he processed the question. "No," he said finally, his voice trembling. "Thank the gods, no." He hesitated, his gaze darting to the water before continuing. "He tried once. When he was drunk." Gale's lip curled, a faint flash of anger breaking through the sorrow on his face. "Fortunately, Shadowheart is the jealous type. She demanded his attention, and he was more than happy to oblige." A bitter laugh escaped him. "I think that's the only time I've been grateful for that Sharran bitch."

Onyx let out a slow breath, his eyes watching Gale closely. He didn't speak immediately, letting the weight of the moment settle. Finally, he said, "You survived him. And now you've turned against him. That's more than most could say."

Gale's shoulders slumped further, but some of the tension eased from his frame. "Maybe," he murmured. "But it doesn't feel like enough."

"It's a start," Onyx replied, his tone resolute. "And sometimes, that's all we can ask for."

Gale didn't answer, but the smallest nod betrayed that he'd heard.

Onyx rose silently from the riverbank, his powerful frame moving with fluid grace as he padded closer to Gale. The wizard sat hunched, his shoulders curled inward, every line of his body radiating a heavy, oppressive weight. Without a word, Onyx lowered himself behind Gale, pressing his massive body against the man's back and lowering his head to rest over Gale's shoulder. The gesture enveloped Gale in a cocoon of warmth, a silent, unspoken embrace.

Gale stiffened, his breath hitching at the unexpected contact. For a moment, he remained frozen, his hands gripping the edges of the boulder. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached up to ruffle the fur along Onyx's neck, his fingers trembling slightly. The motion was awkward, but a faint flicker of relief passed across Gale's face as he allowed himself to lean back into the direwolf's steady presence.

"You are safe now, Gale," Onyx murmured, his voice calm and low, resonating with quiet authority. "For as long as you stay with Ashara and her pack, Durge can never reach you, and the tadpole will not transform you."

Gale's breath hitched again, sharper this time. Onyx felt him tense beneath his head, his fingers pausing mid-motion in the wolf's fur. The air between them grew heavy, thick with emotions that Gale seemed to be fighting to suppress.

"Leave your past actions where they belong," Onyx continued, his voice steady and deliberate, each word chosen with care. "In the past. What matters now is that you do not repeat them. Focus on making up for them in the present."

For a long moment, Gale didn't respond. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained, as if dragged from somewhere deep within. "I intend to..." he whispered, his words carrying a weight that Onyx didn't miss.

Onyx shifted, his ears flicking back. He sensed the darkness lurking beneath Gale's tone, a shadow that refused to be banished so easily. Gently but firmly, he pressed his chin more snugly against Gale's shoulder, his warmth a steadying force. "Throwing your life away will not make up for the things you have done," he said, his tone firm but gentle. "It is only a way to escape the consequences. But the ones you wronged? They're still left with the pieces."

Gale stiffened again, his head tilting downward as if ashamed. "Not according to Mystra," he said, his voice tight. "She demands that I sacrifice myself to destroy the Absolute."

Onyx growled softly, the sound low and rumbling, more a vibration than a noise. It wasn't anger - ait was disapproval, laced with a trace of sadness. "I see..." he said carefully. His sharp eyes watched Gale's profile, noting the deep lines etched into his face. "And do you intend to do so?"

"Yes." Gale's voice was steady now, but it carried a hollow ring. "It's the only way I can atone for everything I've done."

For a moment, Onyx said nothing. He simply watched Gale, his steady presence unyielding. The faint rustle of the river filled the silence, the moonlight casting pale shadows across Gale's face.

"Might I suggest a change in deities?" Onyx said at last, his tone even, though there was the faintest edge of dry humor beneath it. "I can recommend one who does not require such drastic measures for absolution."

Gale startled, a bark of laughter escaping him before he could stifle it. It was sharp, brittle, and tinged with bitterness, but it was laughter nonetheless. He shook his head, his fingers gripping Onyx's fur tighter as his voice cracked with bitter amusement. "If only it were that simple," he mumbled.

"It could be," Onyx countered, his voice calm but resolute. He shifted his head slightly, his golden eyes piercing as they locked onto Gale's profile. "Choose to live. Take one day at a time on the road to redemption. It is not a simple path, but it is a path nonetheless."

Gale stared at the river, his gaze distant and unfocused. The moonlight caught the faint glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away quickly, his expression tight.

Onyx pressed on, his tone firmer now. "What does Mystra's forgiveness mean if you're gone? Would the people you've harmed care about a god's absolution?"

Gale's shoulders slumped slightly, his posture less certain than it had been moments ago. He didn't speak, but Onyx sensed the turmoil in the silence.

Onyx leaned closer, the weight of his presence both steadying and unyielding. "You can't undo the past," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "But you can do something for the living - now. That's where your debt lies. Not in the approval of a deity who asks for your death but in the lives you can still save. In the wrongs you can still right."

Gale sat motionless, his fingers curling and uncurling in Onyx's fur as he stared at the river flowing quietly before them. His breathing evened out, but the fight inside him was still visible in the tense set of his jaw and the flicker of emotion in his eyes.

"Maybe..." Gale began softly, his voice uncertain, almost hesitant. "Maybe you're right."

Onyx didn't respond immediately, allowing the quiet to settle between them. The faint rustle of leaves in the wind and the gentle ripple of the river filled the space as the wizard's resolve began to shift. When Onyx finally spoke again, his voice was low, almost a whisper.

"You've already taken the first step, by helping Ashara the way you did," he said. "Keep walking. One day, you'll find the redemption you seek - not through death, but through life."

Gale's hand stilled against Onyx's fur, and the wizard nodded faintly, the smallest spark of hope beginning to glimmer in his eyes.

Onyx's ears flicked as Astarion's voice broke the quiet with dry irreverence. "On that inspiring note, how do you feel about risking your life on a mission to kill an unkillable cult leader?"

Gale and Onyx both turned, catching sight of the vampire lounging against the stone bridge, his arms crossed and his crimson gaze glinting. He tossed a bundle of clothes toward Gale with a flick of his wrist. "You'll probably want to get changed first, though."

Gale caught the bundle with a frown, unfolding it to reveal a set of suspiciously familiar mage robes. Onyx tilted his head, one silver brow lifting as he glanced at Astarion.

Astarion grinned, his fangs just visible in the moonlight. "Yes, I stole them from Rolan. He seems quite enamored with his new 'evil cult member' disguise anyway. Frankly, I think it suits him."

Gale's lips twitched, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through his otherwise grim expression. He began undoing the straps of his tattered clothing, his movements slow but more deliberate than before. "I take it we're going after Ketheric again?" he asked, glancing at Astarion as he worked.

Astarion nodded, the faint grin on his face fading into something more serious. "Jaheira believes the death of Selûne's daughter and Bâlorak's cryptic remark about 'another god rising' might be tied to Ketheric's immortality." He paused, his tone turning wry. "I personally think it's a bit of a stretch... but if Durge had a hand in it, I wouldn't put it past him to have figured out Ketheric's weakness."

Onyx settled back on his haunches, his silver coat catching the moonlight as he spoke. "Durge may be our enemy, but his goal in destroying Ketheric could work to our advantage."

Astarion nodded, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Precisely Jaheira's thinking. She's assembling a task force to assault Moonrise, and - lucky us - we've all been invited to the party."

Onyx's gaze flicked toward the inn, his voice quiet but firm. "And Ashara?"

Astarion's face softened for a brief moment before he huffed, his tone slipping into mock grumbling. "She's blissfully asleep, utterly unaware of how much stress she's causing me. But," he added with a sharp glint in his eye, "if that insufferable dragonborn shows his snout at Moonrise, I fully intend to make good on my promise to put an arrow through it. So, naturally, I've already volunteered."

Onyx turned to Gale, who was now dressed in the dark red robes. The sharp lines of his shoulders and the steadier set of his jaw hinted at a shift in the wizard's demeanor. The flicker of vulnerability that had clung to him moments ago was replaced by a colder resolve. Gale adjusted the hem of the robe before speaking, his voice darker and more confident. "Count me in. I may not be back to full strength, but I have enough magic left to make it hurt."

Onyx rose to his full height, stretching his massive frame. His tail swayed behind him, and his voice carried a quiet certainty. "Then it's off to Moonrise we go."

Astarion's grin widened, his fangs glinting in the faint light. "Nothing like storming a fortress of despair with questionable odds," he said with a mocking lilt. "Should be fun."

Gale let out a faint huff of laughter, his expression grim but resolute. Onyx padded closer, his presence steady and grounding. Together, they began the trek back toward the inn, the moonlight casting their shadows long across the ground as they prepared for the battle ahead.

Chapter Text

Corpses littered the halls of Moonrise Towers, a grotesque tapestry of ruin. Some bodies lay burned beyond recognition, charred limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Others had been hacked apart, their remains strewn across the stone floor in wet, glistening heaps. The scent of blood, acrid smoke, and something worse - something sickly and unnatural - hung thick in the stagnant air.

Jaheira halted, surveying the carnage with a grim expression. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword. "By the gods... what happened here?"

Gale stepped over a severed arm, his face set like stone. He nudged a singed torso with the toe of his boot, sighing. "I'd recognize Durge's handiwork anywhere."

Astarion crouched beside a particularly mangled corpse, his pale fingers brushing the blood-slick floor as he examined the wreckage. With a derisive sniff, he prodded what had once been a man's face with the tip of his dagger. "Yes... no style at all."

Rolan scoffed, arms crossed. "Only you would expect a murderer to have an aesthetic."

Astarion straightened, sheathing his dagger with an elegant flourish. "I pride myself on at least keeping things neat and tidy when I murder someone." He smirked. "A little effort goes a long way."

Jaheira cast him a sharp look over her shoulder. "I'm going to pretend I'm not hearing this conversation, Astarion."

His grin widened, fangs flashing. "Offending your heroic sensibilities, am I?"

Jaheira didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, she raised a hand, pointing toward a trail of fresh, bloody footprints leading up the grand staircase behind the throne dais.

The group pressed forward, their boots squelching against the bloodied stone. Astarion glanced back as Karlach and Onyx crouched over the body of a fallen bugbear. He saw Karlach rummage through the corpse's belongings before slipping something into her palm. Onyx stiffened, his dark fur bristling as his nose twitched.

Astarion arched a brow as they caught up. "Find something of interest?" he asked, his voice light, but his gaze sharp.

Karlach held up a small black iron disk, the surface etched with infernal script. "Soul coins. I can use them to give this engine of mine a boost." She tapped her chest, where the infernal machinery churned beneath her ribs.

Onyx's ears flicked back. "I do not like the idea of using souls as fuel."

Astarion grinned, tilting his head. "Worried she might pop you in her chest for an extra special boost?"

Karlach barked a laugh, shoving the soul coin into her pouch. Onyx huffed, ears twitching in irritation.

They ascended the stairs, footsteps muffled by dust and the distant sounds of battle. The upper floors bore more remnants of slaughter - bodies crumpled in doorways, bones stacked in haphazard heaps. The sound of clashing steel echoed from the roof above, faint but urgent.

Jaheira led them toward the stairwell. The moment her boot touched the first step, the entire building shuddered. A deep, guttural roar reverberated through the stone, rattling dust loose from the rafters.

Gale's head snapped up, eyes wide. "What was that?"

Astarion rolled his eyes, adjusting the laces on his vambrace. "I can't see through ceilings, so I'm as much in the dark as you are... well, almost."

Jaheira pushed ahead, her voice firm. "Then let's go find out. Harpers, with me!"

Astarion made no move to hurry. "I'm behind you all the way... far, far behind," he drawled.

Rolan shoved past him, eyes blazing. "Then I get the first shot at Durge."

Astarion and Gale exchanged alarmed glances before, as one, they both barked, "Wait up, Rolan!"

They burst onto the rooftop, the night sky opening above them in a churning storm of shadow. A throne sat upon the ramparts, crude and jagged, faced by an altar stained dark with old blood. Bones littered the ground in chaotic piles. More bodies lay sprawled, their deaths fresh.

Jaheira knelt beside a fallen cultist, pressing two fingers against the corpse's throat. "Still warm... they were just here."

Astarion stepped lightly over the bones, his eyes scanning the scene. No sign of Ketheric. No sign of Durge. But across the rooftop, one of the outer towers had collapsed, its upper section torn apart as if something enormous had smashed through it. A red, pulsing glow bled through the cracks in the stone, illuminating the ruin with an eerie, otherworldly light.

Onyx sniffed the air, his nose twitching as he followed the scent of blood. He stalked toward the ruined tower, stopping at its edge. He peered down, tail flicking once before he turned back to them. "I think they went down here."

Astarion and the others hurried to his side, gazing down into the depths. The tower's interior had been transformed into something grotesque - thick, fleshy tendrils pulsed against the stone, slick with red slime. Faint, wet sounds echoed from below, something shifting, moving in the dark.

Karlach groaned. "Please tell me we're not jumping into the creepy, glowing hole..."

Jaheira eyed the organic lattice of tendrils draped along the walls. "You can jump if you want, but I'd suggest climbing down."

Astarion wrinkled his nose, poking one of the tendrils with the tip of his dagger. It quivered under the touch, releasing a slick, wet sound. He shuddered. "Ladies first..."

Rolan smirked, crossing his arms. "Good of you to volunteer, Astarion."

Onyx let out a low chuckle as Astarion shot the tiefling venomous glare, before turning to Gale and Rolan. "Do either of you know Featherfall?"

Rolan reached into his satchel, fingers brushing past spell components before pulling out a tightly wound scroll. He held it up with a triumphant flick of his wrist. "Got it on this."

They gathered close as Rolan unfurled the scroll, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Arcane syllables slipped from his lips, the words humming with latent power. A faint shimmer passed over them, a tingling sensation along Astarion's skin, light as mist. The weight of gravity seemed to lessen, their bodies growing oddly buoyant.

They stepped onto the edge of the broken tower, peering down into the yawning darkness below. The air was thick with decay, damp and foul, carrying a scent that coiled in the back of the throat like old meat left to rot. A moment of hesitation. Even with the spell, stepping into the abyss was not a natural instinct.

Then Astarion shoved Rolan.

The tiefling let out a startled yelp, arms flailing wildly as he tipped forward, his boots scrabbling against the crumbling stone. He vanished over the edge, his startled cry fading as he drifted downward.

Astarion smirked, adjusting the collar of his shirt before stepping gracefully into the void. The magic caught him instantly, slowing his descent until he was gliding down with an almost lazy grace. The others followed, drifting downward like autumn leaves caught in an unseen current.

Halfway down, Rolan regained control, crossing his arms as he leveled a glare at Astarion. His molten eyes burned with irritation, though the slow rotation of his body in freefall made the effect slightly less intimidating.

Astarion tilted his head, baring his fangs in a self-satisfied grin.

"You are an absolute menace," Rolan grumbled.

"Thank you," Astarion purred, stretching his arms as though lounging midair.

They drifted downward, the walls tightening around them as the tendrils became denser, pulsing as though the entire structure was alive. Wet, slithering sounds echoed faintly, distant but unmistakably organic. Astarion's stomach coiled as a familiar unease crawled up his spine.

The bottom of the tower gave way to a cavernous chamber, slick and red, the walls lined with thick, undulating growths. The scent of brine and something worse hung in the stagnant air. The ground squelched underfoot as they landed, their boots sinking slightly into the fleshy, veined surface.

Astarion stilled. The sight, the scent - too familiar. A cold memory clawed its way up from the depths of his mind, unbidden and unwanted. The Nautiloid. The endless corridors of wet, living flesh, the scent of mucus and rot, the sensation of the parasite burrowing it's way past his eyeball-

He exhaled sharply, forcing the memory back into its grave.

Onyx prowled forward, his silver fur catching the dim, wet sheen of the room. His nose wrinkled, lips pulling back slightly as he took in the grotesque surroundings.

"If I had to guess..." Gale said, poking a cautious finger against one of the walls. "I'd say this is an Illithid colony."

Jaheira clicked her tongue, one hand resting on the pommel of her scimitar as she surveyed the unnatural expanse with barely concealed distaste. "Of all the beastly lairs I've had to poke my nose into - those are still by far the worst."

Onyx growled low in agreement, claws clicking against the unnatural surface beneath them. "True. I've seen worse... but not by much."

Gale tilted his head, intrigued despite the grim setting. "You've been inside one before?"

Onyx didn't answer immediately. Instead, he padded toward an archway made of slick, dark chitin. He lowered his head, pressing his nose against a raised lump at its center. A moment later, the organic mass quivered, then peeled open with a wet, sucking sound, revealing a tunnel beyond. The walls pulsed, lined with shifting, red-veined flesh. The air inside was warmer, thick with a humid, cloying dampness.

The direwolf let out a slow breath. "About a century ago, yes."

Gale's eyes lit with curiosity. "Fascinating. I'd love to hear more about your experiences, my friend."

Astarion rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at his own arms, as if the feeling of alien appendages restraining him might still linger. "I think we have more pressing concerns than a trip down memory lane," he muttered. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

Onyx nodded, stepping through the threshold without another word. One by one, they followed, vanishing into the pulsating darkness beyond.

Pain pulsed through Ashara's body as she stirred, a deep, aching throb in her muscles. She lay still for a moment, breathing through the discomfort, feeling the dull sting of bruises where Bâlorak had thrown her like a ragdoll. But her skin - her skin was whole. No lingering burns, no charred flesh. Her fingers skimmed over her arms, the ghost of dragonfire still lingering in her mind. She shivered, though the room was warm.

Memory surged up in her throat like bile - Astarion's head at her feet, his crimson eyes dull and unseeing. Bâlorak's cruel gaze, the sickening weight of helplessness. Ashara clenched her fists in the sheets, forcing herself to breathe. It hadn't been real. He had twisted her mind, played with her like a cat with a wounded bird. She exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside.

The room came into focus. Wooden beams stretched overhead, the air thick with the scent of medicinal herbs, damp wool, and the lingering smoke from a distant hearth. Rows of beds lined the walls, most empty, save for one. A man lay curled beneath a threadbare blanket, dark skin slick with sweat. His lips moved in restless murmurs, the occasional half-sung note breaking the silence. Fever dreams clutched at him, pulling him in and out of some distant memory.

Ashara shifted, and fabric brushed against her skin. Someone had dressed her - some simple linen robe, loose at the sleeves, belted at the waist with a plain cord. She ran her fingers along the material, noting the slight stiffness of dried blood. Heat crept up her neck. Had Astarion-?

Before she could entertain the thought further, the door creaked open.

A tiefling woman entered, balancing a wooden bowl of water and a damp cloth. Her golden eyes met Ashara's, widening briefly before she smiled. "Oh, you're up."

Ashara barely had time to register the words before the woman stepped back into the hall and called out, "Mirkon! Vaarl! She's awake!"

A rapid patter of feet, a blur of movement - then something small and solid slammed into her.

Ashara staggered, her knees buckling as Mirkon threw himself against her with all the force his small frame could muster. His arms latched around her waist, face buried in her stomach.

"By the Hells - ow!" She winced, catching herself against the bedpost. "Mirkon, careful! You're squeezing too hard."

The boy only clung tighter, his fingers curling into the fabric of her robe. His breath came in uneven huffs, and she felt the damp warmth of his face pressed into her abdomen.

"Sorry..." he mumbled. "I was scared you'd never wake up."

The raw emotion in his voice unraveled something inside her. She exhaled, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing slow circles on his back.

"It's okay," she murmured. "I'm alright now. Just a bit sore."

A shadow moved in the doorway.

Vaarl stood there, arms stiff at his sides, his sharp Githyanki features pulled into something uncertain. He stepped forward, then stopped himself. His voice came small, uncertain. "C-can I hug you too?"

Ashara's lips curled into a smile, genuine despite the lingering aches. "Of course you can."

Vaarl hesitated only a moment longer before closing the space between them. The youth held himself stiff at first, unsure, but when she pulled him in, his grip firmed. She felt the tension ease from his shoulders as he exhaled against her. She laughed softly, shifting to fit them both against her, ignoring the lingering pain in her ribs.

"The others, where are they?"

Mirkon perked up instantly, pulling back to give her a satisfied smile. "They've gone off to kill the baddies!"

That gave her pause. She lifted her gaze to Vaarl, silently pressing for an answer.

The Githyanki cleared his throat, stepping back and gesturing toward the hall. "Onyx, Astarion, and the others left with Jaheira and most of her Harpers. They've gone to attack Moonrise Towers."

Ashara's heart lurched. She gripped Mirkon's shoulders a little too tightly. "What?" She pushed past them, moving toward the door. "When did they leave?"

Vaarl fell into step beside her, leading her out into the common room where the fire in the central hearth burned low, casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. A few tieflings and gnomes sat scattered about, murmuring in hushed tones over bowls of stew, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and smoke.

Vaarl gestured toward an empty bench, urging her to sit. "A few hours ago," he said. "They think the Kith'rak - I mean, the general - has been weakened. Something happened while you were fighting Bâlorak."

Ashara barely heard him. Her mind spun, her pulse hammering against her temples - they were fighting without her. Charging into the heart of Moonrise Towers while she had been lying here, unconscious, useless.

Mirkon scrambled onto the bench beside her, practically vibrating with excitement. "Did you really fight a dragon?"

Ashara exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus. She nodded, settling onto the wooden bench, her fingers curling around the edge. "Yes... but he left before the fight ended."

Mirkon grinned, chest puffing out. "He was probably scared of you."

A wry smile tugged at her lips. She rested a hand on his head, ruffling his curls. "I don't think it was me he was scared of..." She cast a glance toward the fire, her mind drifting. "But I'm glad he's gone. For now."

She turned back to Vaarl. "Did Onyx say when they'd be back?"

Vaarl's hands flexed at his sides, his shoulders drawing up as if bracing himself. "No... but he told me to order you to stay here and rest."

He tried for authority, but his shifting weight and averted gaze betrayed his nerves.

Ashara's brows lifted. "Did he now?"

Vaarl swallowed, nodding stiffly.

A muscle in her jaw ticked. She dragged a hand down her face, inhaling slow through her nose. Every fiber of her being screamed against waiting. Against inaction. But Onyx had given an order, and if he thought she wasn't ready...

Ashara exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples before forcing her hands to relax. The weight in her chest refused to ease, but she pushed it down. Her voice came lighter than she felt.

"So... did I miss anything interesting while I was gone?"

Mirkon, ever eager, perked up instantly. His small legs swung beneath the bench as he grinned. "Fire lady can hug people now!" he blurted, bouncing slightly as if this was the most exciting news in the world. "She gives nice, warm hugs."

Then, just as quickly, his expression dimmed. His fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, his voice dropping to a quieter murmur. "But she's also sad about it for some reason."

Vaarl, standing beside the table with arms crossed, cleared his throat. "One of the prisoners Rolan and that new wizard freed - his name's Dammon - he's something called an 'infernal blacksmith.' He... fixed up Karlach's engine."

Ashara tilted her head. "Fixed up?"

Vaarl nodded, shifting his weight. "It lets her cool down now. She can touch people without burning them."

Mirkon, momentarily distracted, reached out as a beetle scuttled across the table. He cupped his hands, watching it crawl onto his palm with wide-eyed fascination.

Vaarl glanced at Ashara again, hesitation flickering across his features. He kept his voice lower this time, meant only for her ears. "But he also told her..." He inhaled sharply, flicking another glance at Mirkon before finishing. "He told her that she has to go back to Avernus soon, or else the engine will overheat."

Ashara's stomach lurched. She forced herself to remain still, to school her expression into something unreadable. No point in worrying Mirkon, not when he was so blissfully unaware of what that truly meant.

"You mean... she's..."

Vaarl gave a quick nod. "She doesn't want to go back, though. She said she wants to live her life to the fullest here."

Ashara pressed her lips together, throat tight. She had seen Karlach's joy, her open-hearted laughter, her eagerness to embrace the world - only for this fate to be thrown at her. And Onyx... Ashara swallowed hard, forcing herself not to imagine what he must be feeling. She was aware he'd grown fond of the boisterous tiefling.

Mirkon piped up again, seemingly oblivious to the weight in the air. "Dammon gave her a cool new arm too!"

Ashara blinked, pulled from her spiraling thoughts. "Did he?" She glanced at the boy's excited expression, forcing a small smile. "That's... nice."

Her attention wavered as a group of gnomes nearby broke into a heated argument. One jabbed a finger at another's chest, voices rising in sharp, clipped words. She barely registered the details before a voice cut through the noise.

"Vaarl! It's time!"

Vaarl stiffened instantly, his entire body tensing as his head snapped toward the stairs. His eyes widened. "Tsk'va!" He hissed the word under his breath before turning on his heel and bolting up the steps without another word.

Ashara turned, baffled. "What-?"

Mirkon, unbothered, picked up the beetle and let it crawl over his hand. "He has to go and fix the moonlight bubble."

Ashara raised a brow. Before she could press further, another figure approached.

Allorn, the tiefling Harper who had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on Vaarl and Mirkon, strode up and eased himself onto the bench beside her with a faint chuckle. His crimson skin gleamed in the firelight, his curling horns casting long shadows against the wall. He stretched one arm lazily over the back of the seat, glancing toward the stairs where Vaarl had disappeared.

"The lad needs to learn how to count the hours better," he said, shaking his head with mild exasperation.

Ashara glanced toward the stairs where Vaarl had vanished. "What exactly is he doing up there?"

Allorn shifted, resting his elbow against the table as he poured himself a mug of ale from the nearby pitcher. "He has to complete a ritual every couple of hours to keep Selûne's blessing intact," he explained, rolling his shoulders. "Isobel only had to do it twice a day, but she was an experienced cleric. Vaarl's still learning - " he took a slow sip of ale, pausing before adding, " - and a bit scatterbrained."

Ashara's chest tightened. She lowered her gaze, fingers absently tracing the worn grooves in the wood beneath her palm. "I'm sorry we couldn't find Isobel."

Allorn sighed, his eyes lowering to his drink. "She always knew her father would come for her eventually."

Ashara stiffened. Her fingers curled slightly against the table's edge. "Her father?"

Allorn took another slow sip before setting his mug down with a quiet clink. "Ketheric Thorm."

Ashara felt the breath leave her lungs. She straightened slightly, blinking. "Oh... wow, that's..."

Allorn gave her a wry smile, tilting his head. "Complicated?" He lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. "Most families usually are."

Ashara turned her gaze toward the fire, watching the flames flicker and snap against the blackened logs. The heat licked at her skin, but her thoughts drifted toward something far colder.

"She broke ties with him years ago," Allorn continued. His voice had softened, as if discussing something already long past. "Fled when the corruption in his soul became too great. She built this sanctuary as a beacon of hope, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he closed his fist around her and dragged her back to his side."

Ashara's jaw tightened. The weight of those words sat uncomfortably in her chest. A daughter fleeing from a father who had become something monstrous, knowing he would never stop looking for her.

She swallowed against the bitter taste of the thought and pushed herself to her feet.

"I need to go beyond the barrier for a little while," she said, rolling her shoulders, shaking off the lingering stiffness. "Can you make sure Vaarl doesn't worry too much?"

Allorn gave her a long, measured look, his tail flicking lazily against the bench. "Are you sure that's wise?"

Ashara met his gaze, steel threading through her voice. "I have my Frostfire." She flexed her fingers slightly, feeling the cool pulse of power beneath her skin. "I just need to find somewhere private to speak to my father."

Allorn's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright. Just try not to get yourself killed."

Ashara gave him a small, wry smile. "I'm not panning to."

The fire crackled behind her as she turned toward the exit, the cold night air seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. The battle at Moonrise raged without her. And she hated waiting.

Grabbing a cloak and slipping out of the inn, she kept her movements quiet, instinctively avoiding eye contact with the gathered refugees and the Harpers stationed to guard them. The dim lantern light caught the wary glances of those still awake, eyes hollowed by exhaustion, faces etched with lines of uncertainty. The hum of whispered conversations and the occasional clatter of equipment filled the air, a constant murmur of survival and tension.

She tightened her cloak around her shoulders, an uneasy prickling crawling up her spine. Without Onyx by her side, the presence of so many people felt suffocating. He had always been the shield between her and the outside world, his mere presence an anchor in chaos. Without him, she was too exposed.

Keeping her head low, she crossed the ruined courtyard, boots crunching over loose gravel and shattered stone. The bridge stretched ahead, its once-proud arch now marred with cracks, leading toward the pulsing shimmer of the protective barrier. Beyond it, the cursed land waited, dark and lifeless.

The moment she stepped past the barrier, the chill of the Shadow Curse clawed at her skin. A wave of exhaustion crashed over her, the oppressive weight of the darkness gnawing at her energy, whispering of decay and oblivion. She barely hesitated before summoning a flame of Frostfire, the cold-blue fire crackling to life in her palm. It flickered and danced, casting eerie light against the twisted, skeletal trees around her, driving back the suffocating blackness.

The air grew thick with the scent of damp rot and stagnant water. The forest loomed in gnarled silence, its branches curling like skeletal fingers against the starless sky. She moved carefully, boots skimming over roots and crumbling stone, her flame casting shifting shadows against the ancient, warped trunks.

At last, she reached a cluster of jagged rocks, their surfaces slick with lingering condensation. Choosing the largest, she crouched and scratched arcane runes into the surface with a jagged stone, the markings glowing faintly in response to her touch.

She stepped back, lowering her head slightly as she whispered, "Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt. Your... daughter desires to speak with thee."

The air around the stone shifted, crackling with latent energy. The runes pulsed, then flared to life, a bright blue light swirling within their grooves. Smoke poured from the stone's center, thick and curling, its unnatural motion almost sentient. But there was no face. No form.

Ashara's throat tightened. Disappointment flared, but she crushed it down, straightening her shoulders.

"I know you can hear me," she called out, her voice sharp against the dead air. "Stop hiding from me."

A low rumble echoed from the depths of the swirling mist.

"I'm not hiding," Fenrir's voice reverberated, carrying the weight of distant thunder. "I'm... observing from a safe distance."

Ashara scoffed, crossing her arms. "I don't bite."

Laughter rippled through the portal, a deep, rolling sound that carried more amusement than warmth. "Oh, you do," Fenrir mused, his tone thick with meaning. "Just not with your jaws."

The smoke twisted, coalescing into the shape of a massive wolf's skull, its empty sockets burning with eerie blue light. The bone gleamed unnaturally in the flickering glow of her Frostfire.

Ashara arched a brow but let her arms drop to her sides, exhaling slowly. "Thank you," she murmured, the words quieter, more sincere. "For helping me. Back when I was trapped."

Fenrir's spectral gaze bore into her. "It was the least I could do," he rumbled. "I had not expected Bâlorak to find you so soon... he must have already been near when your divine powers began to manifest. More than likely drawn to this place by the stirrings of the Dead Three."

Ashara frowned, tilting her head. "What are you talking about?"

Fenrir let out a long exhale, his blue-flamed eyes flickering. "Selûne came to visit me shortly after she spoke with you. She told me everything the gods know about this 'Absolute' business." His voice darkened. "It seems the Dead Three - Myrkul, Bhaal, and Bane - have hatched a sinister little plot to take over Faerûn with the help of an Illithid invasion."

Ashara's stomach knotted. "What?!" She took a half step forward, the Frostfire in her palm flaring slightly. "How? And why would Selûne tell you this? Isn't that-" she hesitated, then gestured vaguely, "-classed as interfering?"

A low chuckle rumbled from the massive skull. "Nothing in the rules says a god can't share information with another god. Or a demigod..."

She exhaled through her nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "You like pushing your luck, don't you?"

Fenrir's skeletal jaws stretched in a toothy grin, but he remained silent.

Ashara let out a slow breath and moved to sit on a nearby fallen log, the wood damp and cold beneath her. She stayed quiet for a long moment, watching the flickering tendrils of mist shift in the air.

Then, softer, her voice laced with something heavier, she asked, "How have I managed to defeat Bâlorak so many times in the past? And why is he even doing this? I thought Gold Dragons were supposed to be wise - more aligned with the forces of good than most other dragons."

Fenrir's glowing eyes burned through the mist. "He is something of a pariah, even among his own kind," the god intoned. "Hence the name Golden Heretic. He rejected Bahamut - the king of metallic dragons - and instead aligned himself with Tiamat. His arrogance is so vast that he believes dragons are the only beings worthy of ascending to godhood."

The mist curled tighter, wrapping around the wolf's spectral form. "He sought to use my power to eliminate all non-draconic pantheons."

Ashara inhaled slowly. "You were really that powerful?"

The weight of Fenrir's presence seemed to deepen. "I was the Spirit of the Wild and the Sword of Ao," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying the weight of ages. "His loyal hound, sent to hunt down the gods during the Time of Troubles and bring them before him. So yes. I was that powerful, once." He paused, his burning eyes narrowing slightly. "No more, though."

A spark of mischief glinted in Ashara's eyes as she leaned forward slightly. "Now you're locked away for being a bad dog..."

The mist around Fenrir twisted violently as a deep, guttural growl thundered through the air. The sound rumbled through the ground beneath her feet, making the trees tremble.

Ashara paled, her spine stiffening as she quickly averted her gaze. "Sorry," she muttered.

Fenrir let out a long, dramatic sigh, the growl dissipating into an almost exasperated grumble. "I knew it," he rumbled, eyes narrowing further. "I knew that damn vampire would be a bad influence on you!"

Ashara's spine stiffened, her breath hitching as Fenrir's words settled over her like a cold shroud. Astarion - a bad influence? The very thought sent a sharp spark of defiance through her chest, chasing away any lingering hesitation.

Her fists clenched at her sides as she pushed herself to her feet, the damp earth shifting slightly beneath her boots. The frostfire she had conjured flickered in response to her agitation, the pale blue light casting wild shadows against the twisted trees.

"He's not a bad influence!" The words left her lips before she could temper them, raw and heated. "Astarion gives me courage. He's suffered through two centuries of hell, yet he still finds humor in the darkest moments."

She faltered, a sudden tightness gripping her throat. The vulnerability creeping into her own voice made her uneasy, but she pushed forward. "I... I really like him." Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, gripping it like an anchor. "I admire how strong he is - how he still fights, even after everything."

The swirling mist around Fenrir stilled for a moment. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Then, with a deep, unimpressed hmph, Fenrir's burning eyes narrowed.

"Well," he drawled, his voice thick with condescension, "when he's spent several millennia chained up in an actual hell... then we can swap notes."

The dismissiveness in his tone sent a fresh wave of anger surging through her veins. Her fingers twitched, itching to lash out - not in violence, but in sheer frustration.

"Why can't you just be happy that I have a friend?" she snapped, her voice breaking slightly at the end.

Fenrir's burning eyes flickered, his spectral glow dimming as the swirling mist around him slowed. His massive skull tilted ever so slightly, as if her words had struck something deeper than he wanted to admit.

A silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken. Then, at last, a deep sigh rumbled from his form, his voice losing its usual sharp edge.

"I can't do this, Ashara."

Her frustration flared anew. "Do what?" she demanded, stepping closer, her hands trembling slightly as she clenched them once more. "Be my father for one godsdamn minute?"

The light around Fenrir dimmed further, the mist curling inward like a wounded beast retreating into itself. His next words came as a muttered admission, almost too quiet to catch.

"Onyx is so much better at this than I am..."

Ashara inhaled sharply. The words stung in a way she hadn't expected.

She turned away from the swirling portal, pressing her palm over her mouth for a brief moment, willing herself to steady her breath. Her fingers curled into her sleeve, gripping the fabric as if it could ground her. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, controlled.

"In all my... rebirths," she asked, staring out into the cursed forest beyond, "have we ever formed any kind of bond?"

The hesitation in Fenrir's silence was answer enough.

"No," he admitted at last, the weight of the word settling between them. "I... thought it best if I stayed out of your life." A pause, then, softer, "I'm not exactly in a position to be there for you in the ways you need."

Ashara exhaled, long and slow, before turning back to face him. "That doesn't matter," she said, her voice laced with something raw. "I'm not asking you to hold my hand in the dark or tell me bedtime stories. I just... want to know you."

Fenrir's form wavered slightly, his skeletal visage shifting within the mist. For a moment, he looked almost lost.

"I hardly know myself anymore," he admitted, and this time, his voice was quieter, carrying the weight of something ancient, something broken. "My mind skirts the edge of madness every day I remain in this prison. Some days, the despair consumes me, and I'm left clawing at my chest, trying to rip my own heart out."

The imagery sent a shudder down her spine and Ashara's breath hitched. She had never heard him speak like this before - so exposed, so broken.

Her fists loosened as she stepped forward, her voice softening. "Then let me help you," she murmured. "Talk to me. Let me be there for you."

Fenrir's glowing eyes flickered, his skull turning slightly away.

"No," he said, and though the word was firm, it carried a heavy grief. "If I grow to love you even more than I already do, then my grief will become dangerously all-consuming when I inevitably lose you again."

Ashara inhaled sharply. It felt like being struck.

Her shoulders stiffened as she let the words sink in, the weight of them pressing against her ribs like iron. Her hands twitched at her sides. "So because you fear loss... you'll never fully open your heart?"

Fenrir let out a quiet, humorless laugh. His skeletal jaws parted in something that almost resembled a grin, but there was no joy in it.

"Behold, the great wolf god - scourge of Faerûn... spineless as an ooze."

Ashara let out a breathless, almost bitter chuckle, shaking her head. "I don't blame you," she murmured, gazing into the depths of the glowing portal. "Losing someone you... care about hurts like nothing I've ever known."

Fenrir's ethereal glow brightened just slightly. His massive skull tilted, his burning eyes narrowing slightly.

"Oh?"

Ashara's heart skipped a beat.

Shit.

She knew that look. That tone. If she so much as breathed Astarion's name, Fenrir would never let it go. He already disliked the vampire - the last thing she needed was for him to latch onto this.

Her pulse quickened. "One of my friends is a tiefling," she deflected smoothly, "forced to serve in Avernus. She fought in the Blood War as a soldier. She finally escaped the Hells a couple of weeks ago, but..." Ashara exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her temple as she sat down again. "Because she has an infernal engine for a heart... it's going to kill her."

Fenrir's burning gaze remained steady. The mist stilled.

"An infernal engine?" His voice rumbled with intrigue. "Hmm... interesting." A pause. "Those aren't meant to be used outside of the Hells. I'm surprised she's lasted this long."

Ashara's jaw tightened. "Is there a way to fix her?"

Fenrir's gaze darkened, as if considering.

"There... might be."

Hope surged through her so suddenly that she almost felt dizzy. She shot upright, her breath quickening. "You mean it?"

Fenrir let out an exasperated huff. "Calm down. I said might." His glowing eyes narrowed. "I'd need to have a good look at it first."

Ashara nodded, determination solidifying in her gut. "As soon as my friends return from Moonrise, I'll bring her to you."

Fenrir watched her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a slow, measured nod, his form began to dissipate. The mist thickened, curling inward, his skeletal grin lingering a moment longer before the runes dimmed.

Ashara exhaled, sensing she wouldn't be able to call him back again any time soon. The night was silent again, save for the distant rustling of cursed leaves in the wind.

One battle at a time.

"Whew! That was quite a battle."

Astarion glanced over at Karlach as she planted a boot on the twitching corpse of a mindflayer, gripping the haft of her greataxe with one hand as she wrenched it free with a wet, sickening crack.

"Loving this new arm though," she added, holding up the hammer-like contraption that served as a temporary replacement for her lost limb. Dammon had rigged it together on the fly, but Astarion had to wonder what kind of impressive contraption the smith was capable of creating, given more time. Hopefully, they would all live long enough to see.

The chamber they were in reeked of blood, viscera, and brine. The walls pulsed with unnatural life, wet and glistening, flesh fused with metal in grotesque mockery of a living thing. The remnants of battle were everywhere - slain illithids, ichor pooling at their feet, and the broken remnants of the pods that had once imprisoned their victims.

Astarion flicked his sword to the side, sending a spray of silver blood onto the floor with an elegant motion. He curled his lip in disgust.

"Mindflayers truly are revolting," he drawled, examining the streaks of shimmering gore on his gloves. "All this blood, and I still can't drink a single drop of it."

Karlach let out a bark of laughter and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, nearly sending him off balance. "Cheer up, fangs! I'm sure there'll be some cultists skulking about for you to snack on."

Astarion huffed, rolling his shoulders to shake off the force of her hit. "Oh, how thoughtful of you. A lovely little consolation meal."

His crimson eyes swept the ruined chamber. The remnants of their battle were everywhere - shattered glass, the twitching remnants of illithid bodies, and among them, survivors. Halsin and Zevlor stood amidst the wreckage, their expressions still heavy with the weight of their near transformation.

Zevlor approached, relief softening his worn features. His smile was genuine, warm despite the exhaustion lining his face. "It is good to see you again, my friends," he said, voice steady but filled with gratitude.

But then his gaze slid past them, landing on a figure behind them.

Gale.

The wizard had remained near the back, keeping his head slightly bowed, as if willing himself unseen. But Zevlor saw him. His entire posture stiffened, his tail lashing once behind him. The veins in his hands stood out as he curled them into fists.

He took a single step forward, jaw tight with barely restrained fury.

Astarion moved without thinking, slipping between them in an instant, one hand raised in a placating gesture, the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His voice was light, almost lazy, but there was steel beneath it. "Let's not do this again," he drawled. "Gale is on our side now. Durge was... controlling him, in a manner of speaking."

Zevlor's amber eyes burned with unspent rage. He looked between Astarion and Karlach, then past them to where Onyx stood, watching in silence.

"You... you trust this wizard?" Zevlor's voice was tight, the hurt still raw beneath his anger.

Onyx stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the ruined floor. He met Zevlor's gaze evenly, unflinching. And then, with a single, deliberate nod, he answered. "I do."

Zevlor's shoulders rose and fell with a sharp exhale, his fists unclenching slightly, but the tension didn't leave him.

Gale stepped forward then, his hands open at his sides, his expression one of quiet remorse. "I know my actions are unforgivable," he said, his voice steady but solemn. "But please, allow me to offer my sincerest apologies and condolences. I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to help you enact vengeance on those responsible for the deaths of your people."

Zevlor's lips pressed into a thin line. Then Halsin moved, stepping up beside the tiefling, his presence a steadying force. His hazel eyes bore into Gale, unflinching.

"Do you include yourself in that promise?" Halsin's voice was low, the accusation barely veiled.

Gale flinched, but only for a second. He squared his shoulders, inhaling deeply before lifting his chin to meet the druid's gaze head-on.

"Yes," he said, the word carrying no hesitation. "Once the Absolute is dealt with - if I survive - I will hand myself over to your judgment. I will face whatever punishment you deem fit for my crimes."

Astarion's brows lifted, a flicker of surprise flashing through him. He had expected the usual self-flagellating nonsense from the wizard, but this... this was something else. There was no performative martyrdom in Gale's words, no grandstanding - just cold, unwavering conviction.

Even Halsin seemed taken aback. His eyes searched Gale's face, looking for weakness, for hesitation. He found none.

Then, without warning, he, Zevlor, and Gale all let out simultaneous gasps of pain, their hands flying to their temples.

Astarion barely had time to react before a sharp, sickening squirm tore through his skull. His tadpole twisted inside him, sending a pulse of foreign memories - Halsin's rage, Zevlor's grief, Gale's guilt - crashing into his mind like a flood.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the connection snapped, leaving only the phantom ache in its wake.

Astarion's vision cleared in time to see Halsin's expression shift. The hostility in the druid's eyes softened as whatever he had seen in Gale's memories unraveled the wall between them. His fingers twitched at his sides, then, slowly, he reached out, clasping a firm hand on Gale's shoulder.

Gale's breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the unexpected touch.

"I understand," Halsin murmured, his voice carrying a weight that spoke of hard-earned wisdom. "I am not certain I would have chosen differently if I were in your place."

Gale's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as though trying to process the sudden shift. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he only gave a single, small nod.

Astarion let the silence hang for just long enough before stepping forward and clapping his hands together.

"Well," he drawled, "now that we've all caught up and finished our mandatory guilt-tripping of the wizard - how about we go find the bastard responsible for all of our collected misery?"

For a beat, no one spoke.

Then-

Rolan rolled his shoulders with a sigh. "Sounds good to me."

Zevlor exhaled slowly, then bent down, picking up a discarded sword from one of the broken pods. He turned it over in his hands, testing the weight, before nodding.

"Lead on."

Astarion faltered for a moment, his usual glib confidence slipping as every eye in the chamber turned expectantly toward him. His fingers twitched, but he caught himself before he made an irritated gesture.

"Don't look at me - Jaheira's the one leading this charge." He gestured toward the Harpers, who had already begun moving through the chamber, their weapons drawn as they advanced toward another grotesque, pulsing flesh-door. The twisted walls of the colony shuddered faintly, as if aware of their intrusion.

Before they could move further, Onyx stepped up to Halsin and Zevlor, his dark fur bristling, ears twitching as if listening to something beyond their range. His golden eyes flickered, and he took a slow breath before closing them.

"There," Onyx murmured, the faintest ripple of power emanating from him. "You are both shielded now. The Absolute's voice is strong here - almost a roar."

Halsin let out a slow breath, his massive frame visibly relaxing as the tension in his shoulders eased. "I can still feel the pressure," he admitted, "but it's distant now. Manageable."

Zevlor, however, still looked unsettled, his tail flicking once before stilling. He flexed his fingers as if testing his own will against the foreign presence in his mind. After a moment, he nodded, exhaling sharply. "Much better. Thank you."

Karlach adjusted her grip on her greataxe, her tail flicking behind her. "Well, let's not keep her waiting."

The group pressed deeper into the illithid colony, winding through chambers thick with decay and the remnants of unspeakable horrors. Endless corpses littered the floor - some little more than husks, their skin dried and shriveled from whatever nightmarish experiments had been performed upon them. Others lay half-transformed, their bodies twisted into unnatural, half-formed mindflayers, as if they had been frozen mid-ceremorphosis.

They pushed forward until they reached an immense chitin door, its surface pulsing faintly as if breathing. As they neared, Onyx tensed, his ears flattening, teeth baring in a low growl.

"Whatever is controlling these tadpoles," he rumbled, "is beyond this door."

Karlach lifted her axe, resting it over one shoulder. "Then let's not waste any time."

A weighted pause. Then, without hesitation, Jaheira pressed forward, shoving against the fleshy surface. The door shuddered - then peeled apart, revealing the chamber beyond.

The sight that awaited them stole the breath from Astarion's lungs.

A vast, open expanse stretched before them, the ceiling high and lined with strange, glowing veins. Suspended in the air like dark omens were Nautiloid ships - dozens of them. They hovered in eerie stillness, their grotesque tendrils curling in the air like waiting predators.

"By the gods..." Gale breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's an entire fleet here."

Astarion narrowed his eyes, taking in the full scale of what lay before them. "This isn't just a cult..." His fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of his rapier. "This is a full-scale Illithid invasion."

Jaheira strode to the edge of the platform they stood upon, looking down at the lower levels. Her expression darkened. "And that..." she muttered, "is not good."

The others joined her, gazes locking onto the center of the chamber.

There - hovering above a massive, ringed platform - was a brain. Enormous, grotesque, its surface pulsing with malevolent energy. Atop it rested a strange metal crown, its structure radiating raw power, arcane runes flickering along its surface.

Three figures stood upon the platform, surrounding the elder brain, each holding a crystalline artifact that pulsed with unnatural energy, their gazes locked onto the behemoth before them.

Gale's breath hitched, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Look at that! Incredible..."

Karlach, less enraptured, let out a low whistle. "Yeah, that's one big brain."

Gale barely heard her. His eyes gleamed as he fixated on the crown atop the brain. His hands flexed slightly, his lips parting as he took a half-step forward. "Not just the brain," he murmured, voice thick with barely restrained longing. "Look at what's on it. That crown. It radiates power unlike anything I've ever seen. To have it... to hold... oh, if only I could-"

Astarion turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Gale. The wizard's expression was almost feverish, his voice thick with want.

"Gale," Astarion said sharply.

Gale barely reacted, his focus still locked onto the crown.

Onyx's fur bristled. "That's an elder brain," he growled. "That crown must be powerful indeed to enslave such a malevolent creature. It's definitely the source of your tadpoles... and the voice that commands them."

Gale's breath hitched. He turned to Onyx, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Then, in a quieter voice, he murmured, "Then I must do as Mystra commands... end this thing before it threatens all of Faerûn."

Onyx's ears flattened, and a deep, warning growl rumbled from his chest. "Don't even think about it..."

Astarion dragged a hand down his face with an exasperated groan. "What is it with wizards and their unwavering need to die dramatically?"

Before Gale could respond, Rolan cleared his throat loudly, his voice thick with dry amusement. "Perhaps you could hold off blowing all of us up," he said, "until I've had a chance to personally blast that dragonborn bastard down there into oblivion?"

All eyes snapped to where he was pointing.

Down below, just out of sight of the three figures controlling the brain, a separate group moved through the shadows. Four of them.

Astarion's blood ran cold as his gaze locked onto a figure that stood just apart from the others. White scales gleamed under the eerie glow of the chamber, the familiar glint of armor catching the light.

Durge.

Astarion stood rigid, his eyes flicking to the figures on the platform as two of them broke away from the others and approached the hovering elder brain. A ripple of dark energy pulsed from the massive organ, swallowing them whole in a flash of black void. When the energy dissipated, they were simply gone - vanished into whatever hellish machinations had been set into motion.

All that remained on the platform was Ketheric Thorm.

Astarion's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening as he tracked the movements below. Durge and his companions advanced on Ketheric, their postures tense, the air around them crackling with hostility. The exchange that followed was heated, sharp gestures punctuating clipped words. Even from this distance, Astarion could see the fury in Durge's stance, the way their tail flicked in barely restrained aggression.

Then Ketheric moved.

A wave of necrotic energy burst from him, slamming into Durge's group with the force of a thunderclap. The force sent two of them staggering, the air thickening with the sickly scent of rot and decay. In an instant, the entire platform erupted into chaos.

The first of Ketheric's undead lurched into existence, clawing their way out of the fleshy floor, their bodies twisted and grotesque. They shambled forward, their hollowed eyes glowing with cold malevolence.

Then the mindflayers came. Three of them slithered out from the shadows, their tentacles twitching, psionic energy rippling around them like heat off a fire.

Astarion felt his gut twist in sick anticipation as the tension among his own group thickened.

Jaheira exhaled sharply, stepping forward. "Let them fight each other," she ordered, her tone brokering no argument. "Once they've whittled down each other's energy, then we strike."

Astarion barely registered her words before he felt it - the weight of eyes on him.

He turned his head, and sure enough, Halsin, Rolan, Karlach, Zevlor, and Gale were all staring at him. There was no need for words - their intent was clear.

They weren't waiting.

Astarion met their silent demand with a smirk, but there was no humor in it. Only cold, sharp resolve. He turned fully to Jaheira, his tone smooth but laced with steel.

"Sorry, but no," he said. "We all have a score to settle with that dragonborn, and I'm not about to let Ketheric steal that from us."

Jaheira's brows drew together, her lips pressing into a thin line. "This isn't up for debate," she snapped. "Stay back until Ketheric is weakened."

Astarion didn't acknowledge her.

Instead, he pivoted on his heel, striding toward a nearby structure - a fleshy contraption, pulsing faintly as if it were alive. He recognised it from his time aboard the Nautiloid - an elevator platform. He turned back, raising a brow at his companions as if daring them to follow. One by one, they moved to join him, stepping onto the platform without hesitation.

Jaheira's teeth clenched audibly as she let out a frustrated huff. Her fists curled at her sides before she finally growled under her breath, turning to the Harpers.

"Move!" she ordered. "We go together."

As the platform shuddered and began its slow descent, Astarion cast Jaheira a sideways glance, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"You could have stayed up there and waited for the next one," he mused, a smirk playing on his lips. "But, either way... the rest of us were going down there now."

Jaheira glared at him but said nothing.

The platform shuddered beneath them as the elevator descended, the battle below unfolding in visceral, brutal strokes. Astarion's grip on his sword tightened as his crimson eyes followed Durge's relentless assault, their blade a silver blur as they cut through Ketheric's defenses. The death knight staggered back, his armor cracked, necrotic energy sputtering around him like dying embers.

Then - Durge struck.

The blade plunged deep into Ketheric's chest, piercing through the corrupted flesh, black ichor spilling out in thick, steaming rivulets. The battlefield seemed to pause for a single heartbeat as Ketheric Thorm - so mighty, so wretchedly immortal - let out a choking breath and crumpled, his lifeless body tumbling backward into the pit at the center of the ring.

Silence.

Astarion's breath remained held in his chest, something wrong prickling at the back of his neck.

Then the chamber groaned.

A terrible, ancient force shuddered through the walls, rattling through the very bones of the world. The pit - an abyss of unnatural, swirling green light - boiled with energy.

The air plummeted in temperature. The scent of rot and dust, of earth long undisturbed, clawed at Astarion's senses.

Then-

A hand - a massive, skeletal hand - lunged out of the abyss.

It crashed against the stone ring, fingers curling with impossible weight. Bone, blackened and ancient, creaked as it pulled itself upward, a deathly groan echoing through the cavernous space.

A second hand emerged, fingers dragging along the stone, digging deep grooves into the floor as it heaved itself further from the pit. From the debris below, something long-buried shifted - a weapon, half-consumed by time, lifted from the rock as if answering an unspoken command.

A scythe.

It flew into the skeletal grasp as if it had always belonged there, the gleaming, curved blade catching the sickly light of the chamber.

Then the voice came.

A rasping, dreadful thing that settled into the bones and coiled in the marrow.

"You dare end one who belongs to me?"

The words reverberated, rattling the very walls, pressing down like the weight of centuries forgotten.

Astarion's fangs clenched, his body locked in place as he felt the ancient presence sink into the world around them.

The skeletal figure that emerged from the green pit was like nothing Astarion had ever seen. Its body was impossibly tall and thin, composed of ancient, pitted bone that gleamed with an eerie yellow-green light. The ribcage was warped, jagged like broken iron wrought into unnatural symmetry, its center holding the suggestion of a void where a heart might have once been. Chains hung from its skeletal frame, rattling faintly with every deliberate movement, and skulls swung like macabre ornaments at the ends of the links.

Its head was crowned by a triangular, bone-carved sigil, adorned with smaller skulls that seemed to grin mockingly from their sockets. Shredded, blackened drapery hung from the figure like decaying funeral shrouds, billowing faintly despite the still air. Wisps of pale smoke curled from ornate censers that swung lazily at its sides, the scent of ancient death and forgotten crypts wafting into the chamber.

The scythe it gripped was equally grotesque, its blade impossibly long and jagged, etched with the screaming faces of the damned. The haft was adorned with twisted bone and infernal gold, its entire form exuding an unnatural power that seemed to chill the very air around it.

The figure's hollow eyes burned with green fire, its gaze sweeping across the chamber with a weight that froze the blood in Astarion's veins. Then it spoke again, and the sound reverberated through every stone, every trembling bone, every fragile soul within its reach.

"I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull. I am the regrets of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone. I am the haunt of mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk. I am Myrkul, Lord of Bones, and you have slain my Chosen."

Astarion's grip on his sword tightened reflexively, though he doubted the weapon would do anything against such a being. His throat tightened as he cast a glance toward the elevator controls.

"I don't suppose," he said, his voice cutting through the atmosphere of dread, "there's a reverse button on this thing?"

Jaheira let out a sharp breath through her teeth, the sound more frustration than fear. Her glare could have withered even the most hardened adventurer.

"This," she growled, her knuckles white as she gripped her scimitars, "is why I told you to wait."

The elevator continued its slow, inexorable descent. Below, the figure of Myrkul turned its burning gaze toward Durge and the others on the platform, the very air trembling with the weight of its malevolence.

Astarion's chest tightened as the realization settled over him: they were descending straight into the maw of death itself.

Chapter Text

The ruined House of Healing loomed over them like a corpse left too long to rot. The air inside was thick, stale, filled with the mingling scents of mildew, old blood, and something worse - something rancid, like burnt flesh masked poorly by alchemical remedies.

The once-grand tiled floor was slick with dried gore, the intricate blue patterns marred by blackened smears, drag marks that spoke of bodies moved long after life had left them. The faint glow of stained-glass windows cast fractured, sickly light over the wreckage of what had once been a place of healing. Now, it was little more than a graveyard wearing a hospital's skin.

Ashara stepped carefully, boots barely making a sound. Vaarl, on the other hand, had no such grace. His foot kicked a broken vial, sending it clinking across the floor. He winced, shifting uncomfortably as his eyes darted toward the shadowed corners of the ward.

"I still don't think this is a good idea," he muttered, shifting the weight of his crossbow uneasily. "Onyx will definitely be mad at me for disobeying him."

Ashara didn't slow. "He told you I wasn't allowed to chase after Astarion and the others at Moonrise," she reminded him, stepping over a bundle of blood-stiffened sheets that were clearly wrapped around something humanoid. "He never said we couldn't investigate an abandoned hospital to look for clues about an unconscious Flaming Fist. Besides, with the shadow-curse suddenly poofing out like that, it's not as if you're needed at the inn anymore."

Allorn, walking a step behind them, let out a low chuckle, though it held little amusement. "I'm fairly certain Onyx wouldn't approve of this little excursion," he mused, his sharp eyes scanning the ruined ward. His tail flicked once in unease. "And I don't think this place is quite as abandoned as we'd hoped."

He lifted a weathered hand and pointed.

A figure stood in the dim light at the far end of the ward, framed against a row of dilapidated beds. The shape was hunched, its form draped in the tattered remains of what had once been a healer's uniform. Its posture was unnaturally still, save for the occasional twitch of thin, gloved fingers over the prone body on the bed beside it.

It was muttering.

"Don't call the doctor yet," the voice rasped, fevered and urgent. "I've got potions, sutures - I know I can do this..."

Ashara's breath stilled in her throat.

The body beneath the figure wasn't alive.

Even from a distance, she could smell it. The sickly-sweet scent of long-dead flesh, half-preserved by whatever lingering magic infected this place. The second bed held another body, its sheet drawn up to its hollowed-out face. Neither were breathing. Neither could be saved.

And yet, the figure worked. Hands moving in erratic, delicate patterns, adjusting unseen bandages, pressing against lifeless limbs as if checking for a pulse that had long since faded.

The closer they got, the more Ashara realized something was wrong - beyond the obvious.

The woman's veil was all-consuming, draping over her upper face completely. There were no slits, no openings, no space through which any creature should be able to see. And yet, she turned toward them before they even made a sound.

"Oh," she breathed, her voice strangely soft, almost pleased. "You're a patient."

She stood straighter, her head tilting at an unnatural angle. The cloth of her veil never moved, never suggested even the shape of eyes beneath. And yet, Ashara felt her stare settle on them, crawling over her skin like an insect's touch.

"This is the children's ward," the nurse continued, gesturing vaguely behind her, where rusted, bloodstained cribs lay overturned in the shadows. "Triage is back that way."

Ashara forced herself to keep her voice even. "Who are you?"

The figure's head snapped upright, fingers folding neatly over her apron. The cloth there was stiff, dark stains creeping up the fabric like veins.

"I am Sister Lidwin."

Vaarl tilted his head, his expression twisting into something uncertain. "...Why are you treating a dead body?"

Sister Lidwin's hands twitched. "Not dead," she whispered. "Merely medicated. To ease the pain."

Ashara inhaled sharply. The bodies reeked of decay. One of them had a dark, sunken wound in their side where something had burrowed.

"Uh... no," Ashara said, glancing at the corpse. "I'm pretty sure he's dead. Has been for a while."

Sister Lidwin didn't so much as blink.

"The patient is asleep," she insisted, her voice laced with an eerie, almost sing-song certainty. "The sedative is quite strong, you see."

Ashara opened her mouth, the words ready to cut through whatever delusion had rotted this woman's mind, but before she could speak, a warm, firm hand pressed against her arm.

Allorn.

She turned, finding the Harper's expression carefully schooled, though his tail twitched once in subtle warning. His voice, when he spoke, was as smooth and respectful.

"Of course, Sister," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly. "We wouldn't dare interfere with your... excellent treatment of these patients."

Ashara's skin prickled as Sister Lidwin seemed to preen at the words, her fingers fluttering slightly in a self-conscious, pleased sort of way.

Allorn continued, his voice steady, unwavering. "We're simply looking for information on another patient of yours. A man named Art Cullen."

Silence.

Her head tilted as if listening to something only she could hear. Then she murmured, "He was here once... so very long, long ago. No more. Gone now."

Sister Lidwin let out a soft, almost childlike hum. "I remember," she continued, rocking slightly where she stood. "He made such pretty music."

Something about the way she said it made Ashara's stomach coil in discomfort. The way the word music left her lips - reverent, yet hollow.

Sister Lidwin's head jerked slightly, the veil over her face shifting as she let out a low, regretful sigh. "He can't make music anymore, though. You can't play music without an instrument." Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling like a spider testing its web. "Silly little boy left it behind."

Ashara exchanged a cautious glance with Allorn.

She stepped forward carefully, her voice slow and measured. "Where is his instrument?" she asked. "Maybe we could... give it back to him?"

The nurse's posture stiffened as if the thought hadn't occurred to her before. Then, slowly, she turned toward them, despite the veil that obscured her face completely.

"The doctor has it," she said simply. Then, with an air of finality, she smoothed the stained front of her uniform. "Now please, hush. My patients need their rest."

Ashara clenched her teeth. There was no arguing with her - at least, none that wouldn't end in something breaking.

Allorn caught Ashara's eye and gave the subtlest incline of his head. Let's move on.

Without another word, they turned and left Sister Lidwin to her... patients.

The deeper they ventured into the ruined House of Healing, the worse the atmosphere became. The once-sterile walls were now stained with a mixture of old, dried blood and something far darker - something that pulsed, like the remnants of an infection refusing to die.

Vaarl walked stiffly, gripping his crossbow with white-knuckled tension. His free hand absentmindedly twisted at the edge of his gambason, as though seeking reassurance in the fabric. His ears twitched at every sound, his breathing shallow.

Allorn was ahead of them, his sword drawn, his stance loose yet ready. His eyes scanned the halls with a soldiers wariness.

Then, they reached the edge of a mezzanine and peered down.

Ashara's breath hitched.

Below them lay what had once been an operating theater. Wooden benches formed a semi-circle around a raised stage, where a surgical table was positioned under the dim glow of flickering lanterns. Bloodstained parchment littered the tiled floor, medical notes reduced to near-illegible fragments.

But the true horror lay at the center of the stage.

Several more of the eerie, veiled Sisters surrounded a table. Their stiff, corpse-like hands moved with unnatural precision, tending to a man strapped to the operating slab.

He was alive. Barely.

Blood slicked his bare torso, pooling beneath him in sticky rivulets. His body twitched, fingers spasming against the leather bindings that dug into his wrists. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, throat too raw, too spent to make another cry for help.

The Sisters ignored his suffering. Their movements were clinical, purposeful - as if they were conducting routine surgery rather than tormenting a still-breathing man.

At the head of the table stood something far worse.

The figure was grotesque, half-man, half-machine - a towering creature wrapped in a patchwork of necrotic flesh and cold, polished brass. His limbs were reinforced with skeletal metal frames, joints clicking as he moved. One of his arms had been entirely replaced with a nightmarish mechanism, a series of jagged scalpels and wickedly curved tools affixed to it, each one gleaming in the dim light.

His face was a mask of bone and metal, a hollow-eyed thing that might have once been human but had long since abandoned that state. The Doctor.

He lifted one of his many cruel instruments, letting it catch the glow of the lanterns as he inspected it with a disturbingly casual air.

The Doctor's voice oozed through the stale air, reverent, almost tender in its cadence.

"The objective of the scalpel, Sisters, is to soothe, for the scalpel, indeed, is an extension of Shar."

He moved with the slow precision of a man savoring his craft, his scalpel-fingered hand hovering above the bound figure on the table. The man whimpered, his body a ruin of fresh wounds and barely clotted gashes, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Ashara's stomach twisted into knots the moment the Doctor lowered one of his gleaming scalpel fingers and dragged it down a deep wound on the man's shoulder.

The reaction was immediate.

A scream ripped through the air, raw and wretched, filled with the kind of agony that left no room for dignity. The man arched against his bindings, veins straining against his skin, his body convulsing as fresh blood spilled over the already soaked table.

Vaarl flinched, his breath hitching as his fingers curled tighter around his crossbow. A soft, distressed sound escaped him before he could stop it, his throat tightening in an anxious reflex.

Allorn, in contrast, was still. His sharp gaze flicked across the chamber, assessing, planning.

The Doctor let out a pleased exhale, like an artist admiring a brushstroke. He straightened, lifting his bloodied scalpel to display it to the silent, watching Sisters.

"See how the patient reacts when I but stroke the right nerve," he mused, tilting his head as though listening to some unseen whisper. "Hear its comfort. Hear the very melody of mercy."

The Sisters did not respond - only watched, their heads tilted in eerie unison.

Vaarl swallowed thickly. "I don't think that thing's a real ghustil..." he murmured, barely above a whisper.

Ashara inhaled through her nose, forcing control over the growl bubbling in her throat. "See if you can distract them," she said under her breath, "while I change into something more... murdery."

Allorn flashed her a grim smile, the kind that came before bloodshed. Without hesitation, he moved to a broken section of the mezzanine railing and began his descent, his form disappearing into the shifting shadows below.

Ashara turned to Vaarl, her voice firm but low. "Stay up here. Cover us."

The young Gith nodded, jaw tight as he positioned himself, crossbow gripped with determined hands.

Ashara wasted no more time. She slipped into the darkness, moving quickly out of sight behind the shattered remains of a bookshelf. The sounds of the chamber grew muted as she worked, fingers deftly unclasping buckles, unlacing bindings. Her armor dropped piece by piece onto the cold, blood-slicked floor. The air stung against her bare skin, but she hardly noticed it - her pulse was already quickening, her body bracing for what came next.

A scream split the silence again, raw and hoarse. The tortured man had no strength left for a full-bodied cry, only a fractured, broken sound.

Ashara gritted her teeth.

The shift came swiftly.

Muscles stretched, bones cracked and reshaped, fur sprouted along her skin in a rolling wave of midnight black. Her hands curled into massive, clawed paws, her stance shifted, her senses sharpened. The world changed.

The stale air became an assault of scents - old blood, death, damp rot, the acrid tang of suffering. Every movement below was clearer now, every breath, every shift of weight.

She rose, the wooden floor creaking beneath her sheer mass, her fur bristling as she stepped into the dim light.

Vaarl, still crouched by the railing, stared. Awe flickered across his features before he managed to steady himself.

Ashara paid him no mind.

Her gaze locked onto the butcher below, onto the Sisters who stood motionless, waiting, onto the scalpel-handed monster who thought himself a healer.

She thought, distantly, as she prepared to lunge, I wonder what Astarion is doing right now?

Hopefully, something equally violent.

Astarion groaned, pain lancing through his limbs as he lay sprawled beneath a mound of foul, organic debris. The pulsing, slick mass clung to his body like something alive, a grotesque mix of stone and rotting matter. His head throbbed, his vision swimming as he blinked against the dim glow of bioluminescent growths dotting the ruined chamber. The sour stink of burning ichor and necrotic decay thickened the air, settling into the back of his throat like a curse.

Somewhere above him, Jaheira's voice rang out, sharp and commanding despite the exhaustion beneath it.

"All those not dead, sound off."

A chorus of pained groans and scattered responses followed, echoing against the broken walls of their ruined battleground. Astarion turned his head - immediately regretting it as something slick squelched beneath his cheek - before a familiar voice drifted up from somewhere near his feet.

"Gods... I hate undead."

Rolan.

Astarion exhaled sharply, tilting his head down to see the tiefling sprawled on his stomach, propping himself up on his forearms. His robes were torn, his face smeared with dust and blood, and a fresh gash marred his forehead. Despite it all, his scowl was intact.

Astarion smirked. "I share that sentiment," he drawled, shifting his weight to pry his legs free from the tangled mess of viscera and half-dissolved illithid architecture. "They're frightfully tenacious buggers."

Rolan turned his head, flashing him a knowing grin before wincing and touching the wound on his forehead. "Hells," he muttered. "That bastard really did a number on us."

Astarion gave an exaggerated sigh and, with a final push, heaved himself out of the muck, staggering to his feet. His boots squelched against the fleshy ground as he steadied himself, running a hand through his matted curls. Disgusting.

Straightening, he finally took in their surroundings.

The chamber they had fallen into was vast, its walls lined with the grotesque architecture of the Illithid colony. Pulsing veins of unnatural light cast eerie shadows against the organic walls, the space an amalgamation of stone and living flesh. Jagged fissures split across the floor, revealing glimpses of deeper darkness below.

Above them, the remnants of their original battlefield loomed, barely visible through the gaping rupture in the ceiling - a wound torn open by the sheer force of the final blast let out by Myrkul's avatar.

The moment the skeletal monstrosity had somehow - miraculously - been vanquished, it had released one last, devastating wave of energy, its death throes collapsing the chamber in on itself. The ground had simply given way, swallowing them whole, dragging them into the unseen depths below.

The battle itself had been chaos, a blur of blood, steel, and magic. The air had stunk of death, thick with Myrkul's rot. His presence had warped the chamber, waves of necrotic energy rolling over the battlefield, leaving Harpers writhing, their bodies shriveling at the god's touch.

Astarion had felt nothing. The decay washed over him like mist, harmless, inconsequential. He had moved unharmed through the carnage - grateful for his undead nature for once - stepping over corpses as Myrkul's scythe had carved through the living and dead alike.

But the God of Death had not been their only enemy.

Durge had fought through the chaos with terrifying precision, and he had not been alone - Shadowheart, Lae'zel, and an unfamiliar drow woman had fought at his side, cutting through both undead and Harpers alike.

Astarion had tried to reach them. Tried to carve his way through the swarm, to close the distance and end this before the battlefield consumed them entirely.

But wave after wave of Myrkul's minions had stood in his way.

And now—

He turned, scanning the wreckage, the battered remains of his companions pulling themselves from the rubble.

Durge was nowhere to be found. Had he even been among those who had fallen into this chamber?

Astarion's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Somehow, even after all of this, the cursed Dragonborn had slipped away. Again.

Astarion let out a slow breath, steadying himself. His pulse was still racing, his muscles still taut with the lingering rush of battle. He glanced around, scanning the wreckage for the others.

Some were already dragging themselves upright, shaking off dust and debris. Zevlor was limping, gripping his side but alive. Karlach was pulling herself from a heap of broken stone, coughing, but looking thrilled to still be standing. Gale was farther off, pushing himself up on shaking arms, his face pale but determined, while Onyx stood beside a very battered looking Halsin, licking at the druid's wounds.

They had survived.

The same could not be said for many of Jaheira's Harpers. Their bodies lay twisted across the ruin, some half-buried in debris, others in the grasp of corpses they'd slain before falling. Blood slicked the floor beneath Astarion's boots - some of it theirs, some not.

Jaheira stood at the center of the devastation, her scimitars brushing the ground, her knuckles white around the hilts. Her face was carved from stone, but her voice was brittle when it finally broke the silence.

"Ketheric is finally gone... but at what cost?" She glanced over the carnage, gaze lingering on the lifeless forms of her people. "Isobel... my Harpers... even the daughter of Selûne." Her jaw clenched. "And we're still no closer to stopping the Absolute. Now, an army marches on Baldur's Gate."

Onyx stepped up beside her, his voice low but steady. "With Ketheric gone, the curse on this land can finally lift."

Halsin raised his head, his voice softer, tinged with cautious hope. "The land's spirit still needs to be found to fully cleanse it - but for the first time in so long, it feels possible."

Jaheira exhaled, rubbing at her face with a hand caked in dirt and dried blood. "We regroup at Last Light. Tend to our injured. Bury our dead."

Astarion rolled his eyes, dusting gore from his sleeves with a sharp flick of his hand. "You do that," he said, voice light but sharp. "I have a dragonborn to hunt."

Rolan, still slumped against a chunk of broken flesh-wall, gave a weak laugh that turned into a cough. "I'd love to join you, but my insides still feel like they're auditioning for a new role outside my body."

Jaheira's mouth quirked in something like bitter amusement. "Necrotic energy tends to do that."

Astarion waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, walk it off. I'm sure you'll be fine in a few minutes."

Before anyone could respond, Karlach staggered up beside him and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Mate... not everyone has your undead constitution." Her smile faltered as she rubbed her sternum, like she was afraid her ribs might break apart under her fingers. "I feel like bits of me are about to start falling off - and I really can't afford to lose more body parts."

Astarion frowned, really seeing them all for the first time since the battle ended. Blood streaked every face, clothes torn, bodies bent with exhaustion. Even Onyx's fur clumped with gore and sweat, his tail dragging low with weariness. Every instinct screamed at Astarion to press on, to chase Durge before he could disappear again - but this ragged band wouldn't survive another fight. They were wrecked. Even if the spirit to fight remained, their bodies were too close to breaking.

He exhaled, long and slow, forcing down his frustration. "Fine," he muttered. "Rest and recuperation it is."

Ashara stood frozen, trembling, her massive form dripping blood from countless wounds. Each one felt like a reminder of the battle's brutality - the dull, blunt scalpel blades of the Sisters cutting through her fur and skin like desperate, rabid creatures. Her chest heaved with labored breaths, the stench of blood mingling with the foul, death-sweet air of the room. Every inch of her body screamed in pain, yet she barely noticed it in the haze of her frantic thoughts. Her wide, glowing eyes were fixed on the two figures before her, her ears flicking back in concern.

Allorn was laying on his back on the floor, struggling to breathe. His chest rose and fell sharply as he coughed, face twisted in pain. A deep wound cut across his chest, the blood seeping steadily from the gash, painting the floor around him a dark crimson.

Vaarl hovered over him, his fingers glowing with an unsteady green energy. The light flickered erratically, as if struggling against some unseen force. His face was scrunched up in concentration, sweat beading on his brow, but his hands trembled as he tried to keep the healing spell flowing.

"I'm sorry," Vaarl murmured, his voice tight with frustration. "I only learned this spell earlier today..."

Allorn reached up with a pained grunt, placing his hand on the youth's shoulder in a gesture that was meant to be reassuring, but was filled with strained effort.

"Don't worry about it, lad," he rasped, his voice rough, but still attempting to sound calm. "Just do your best. It's not fatal, just hurts like all the hells."

Ashara's head tilted slightly to one side, her ears flattening against her skull. She whined, a low, mournful sound. Allorn's words were meant to comfort, but she could see the truth beneath the facade. The wound was serious - too serious for what little healing magic Vaarl could muster. The blood loss alone could be enough to take the Harper down if they didn't act quickly.

Her eyes flicked to the table beside them, where the Doctor's final 'patient' lay. His body was now still, serene even. Death had claimed him quickly after the Doctor's attack - one swift slice of the scalpel-hand, and the tortured soul was freed from his agony. The image haunted Ashara as she stared at the man's lifeless form. She couldn't help but feel the sting of failure. She had tried, tried to save him, but in the chaos, it had been too late.

She swallowed hard, guilt creeping up her spine, though in the deepest part of her heart, she couldn't help but feel a faint relief. At least the man would no longer suffer.

Vaarl's hands trembled as the flickering green light around his fingers finally settled into a faint glow. The bleeding slowed, but the color hadn't returned to Allorn's face. The spell was crude, uneven, the work of someone grasping at new magic with uncertain fingers. Still, it was enough - for now.

Vaarl wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand and turned toward Ashara, his voice low and tight. "That's the best I can do... We need to get him back to the inn."

Ashara shifted her weight, lowering her massive body until her belly nearly touched the blood-streaked floor. Her claws dug slightly into the cracked tiles as she steadied herself, her huge frame utterly still as Vaarl looped Allorn's arm over his shoulder, pulling the wounded Harper toward her broad back.

Allorn hissed between clenched teeth, but forced himself to move, his good hand gripping a tuft of Ashara's thick fur to haul himself into place. Vaarl guided him as gently as his shaking hands allowed, murmuring quiet reassurances even as his own nerves frayed.

Once they were both settled, Ashara rose slowly, every movement deliberate, mindful of the weight she carried. The deep gashes across her flank throbbed with each step, blood still matting her fur, but she paid the pain no mind. Her ears flicked constantly, listening for the telltale scrape of movement behind them as she padded through the ruined hospital, careful not to jostle Allorn too much.

They moved through the ruined halls, past the blood-streaked tiles and broken beds, past the Sisters' twitching corpses that lay where they had fallen. The scent of death followed them like a shroud until they pushed out into the open air. The shadow-curse itself may have inexplicably lifted, but the darkness that lingered in it's wake was still thick enough to make Ashara feel like every step was like wading through mud.

Ashara kept her head low, nose skimming close to the broken earth as she tracked their way back toward the Last Light. Before long, the inn came into view, a beacon of dim light in the oppressive gloom.

Her head lifted, eyes scanning the inn's yard for any familiar figures - Onyx, Astarion, Karlach, anyone - but the only shapes moving were Harpers and a handful of refugees. No sign of her companions. Her heart sank slightly, though she wasn't entirely sure if it was worry or frustration that tightened her chest.

Two Harpers broke away from a nearby patrol, rushing toward them the moment they saw Allorn slumped over her back. One - a weathered human woman with her greying hair pulled back into a tight braid - reached them first, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Where in Helm's name have you been?" Her voice rang sharp with both anger and relief. "I was worried sick!"

Her reprimand faltered the moment she saw the blood soaking Allorn's shirt. Her skin paled, and her voice dropped into something softer, frantic. "Oh, gods - what happened to you?" She barely gave him a moment to respond before she barked orders at a passing refugee. "Fetch a healer - now. And bring whatever health potions you can find!"

Allorn forced a thin smile, the expression crooked with pain. He reached out, laying a reassuring hand on her arm despite the trembling in his fingers. "I'm alright, Tasha, my love. Just a little scratch - from a creature that called itself a Doctor. I'm definitely filing a complaint with hospital management."

Tasha's eyes flashed with irritation and relief all at once. She slapped his hand away - not hard, but enough to make her point. "Don't joke about it," she scolded, voice trembling just enough to betray her worry.

Allorn winced - not from the slap, but from the jolt to his wound as he was eased off Ashara's back and onto a waiting stretcher. The moment the pain passed, he grinned weakly up at her. "I'm alive, aren't I? That's worth a bad joke."

Tasha leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to his lips, her fingers briefly tangling in his hair. The kiss lingered, soft and urgent all at once.

Ashara's ears perked, her head tilting slightly as she watched. Something about the gesture pulled at her attention - not just curiosity, but something deeper, something she couldn't quite name.

When Tasha finally straightened, her fingers reluctant to leave Allorn's face, the Harpers lifted him carefully, carrying him inside with her close behind.

Ashara watched them disappear inside, her eyes lingering on the doorway long after they were gone, before Vaarl nudged her gently, holding out a familiar canvas bag. She took it in her jaws, the taste of old leather and damp cloth filling her mouth as she padded quietly around the back of the inn, finding a spot hidden from sight

The shift back to her elven form came quickly, though the pain from her wounds sharpened in the process. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled on her shirt, her limbs still stiff from battle. Her mind, however, wasn't on the pain.

The image of Tasha and Allorn kissing replayed itself in her mind, unbidden. The tenderness in it. The certainty.

She wondered, as she buckled her belt and adjusted her boots, what it would feel like to kiss Astarion. To feel his hand slide into her hair, to feel his cool lips on hers. The thought warmed her, cutting briefly through the ache in her body.

And for a fleeting moment, standing there alone under the cursed sky, it was all she wanted.

The trek back through the Illithid colony was silent, broken only by boots scraping against stone and the occasional pained grunt. The bone-weary survivors made their way out through the collapsed tunnels, retracing their path through the broken husk of Moonrise Towers. The silence weighed heavy between them, the absence of shadow-cursed creatures almost unnatural after so much violence.

As they reached the surface, the air felt different.

Halsin stopped first, his head lifting, nostrils flaring as if he could smell the change. "It's begun," he murmured. "The curse is lifting."

Astarion's own senses confirmed it. The constant drain he'd felt ever since setting foot in these lands was gone. The shadows no longer pressed against his skin like hungry fingers. The darkness still lay heavy, but it was just darkness now.

He didn't dwell on it. His steps quickened without thinking. There was someone waiting for him out in the dark.

Ashara.

Had she woken? Had she healed? Had Bâlorak left her scarred in ways even her divine blood couldn't mend?

The questions gnawed at him faster than the shadows ever had. He didn't slow. The others followed at their own pace, but Astarion barely noticed. Every step closer to Last Light was a step closer to her.

His boots struck the dirt faster than he intended, his stride sharp, pace quickening as if the weight in his chest could be outrun. The air clung heavy, damp with mist curling low across the shattered ground. Moonrise stood broken behind him, the towers silent now, no cursed shadows clawing at his heels. Still, his steps didn't slow.

The soft scuff of hurried footsteps followed him, and even before the voice rang out, Astarion knew.

"Slow down, will you?" Rolan panted, catching up with a hand pressed to his ribs. "It's not a bloody race. You've left everyone else choking on your dust."

Astarion didn't stop, though he spared the tiefling a sideways glance. "Why are you in such a hurry then?"

"Because being alone out here is a death sentence," Rolan muttered, catching up enough for Astarion to catch the flicker of annoyance - and worry - in his expression.

Astarion arched a brow. "How very selfless of you."

Rolan grinned, sharp and quick. "Also, there's a tavern table waiting at Last Light, and on that table? Several flagons of mead with my name carved into them."

Astarion snorted, a dry laugh pulled from somewhere beneath the tension knotting his chest. "Ah, now that's much more believable."

They walked in silence for a few paces, the broken ground shifting underfoot, mist curling around their ankles. Then, Rolan halted.

Astarion slowed, eyeing him warily as the tiefling cleared his throat.

"I know we didn't exactly start off... cordial," Rolan said, voice low, his gaze flicking to the ground. "But, I just want to say that... well... I'm glad I didn't kill you."

Astarion paused, head tilting, something caught between amusement and surprise flickering across his face. "That sounded dangerously like a compliment."

Rolan gave a half-shrug, half-smirk. "Must have hit my head harder than I thought."

Astarion clasped his hands behind his back, nodding sagely. "That would explain the lapse in judgment."

The two stood there for a moment longer, the mist thickening around their ankles, the unspoken weight of everything they'd survived pressing between them. Whatever passed between them in that breath was neither friendship nor forgiveness, but it was something - something solid enough to stand on.

Then Rolan's smile vanished. His eyes widened in alarm, shoulders jerking back as his hand shot out.

"Down!"

Before Astarion could react, Rolan hit him - slamming into his side and dragging him to the dirt as an ice bolt ripped through the air above them, exploding against the ground where Astarion's head had been a heartbeat before.

Astarion rolled, already halfway to his feet, rapier half-drawn - but a white-hot lance of pain drove straight through his gut before he even saw the blade.

His breath caught. His mind blanked.

He looked down.

A sword tip jutted out from his abdomen, slick with his blood.

Rolan's face twisted in horror, frozen in place, unable to move as Durge's voice curled in Astarion's ear, soft as silk, sharp as razors. "Give my regards to the Blade of Frontiers."

The sword wrenched free, a cruel twist that tore muscle and drove fresh agony through Astarion's frame. He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach, blood leaking between his fingers faster than his body could mend.

Rolan's voice rose in a furious shout - but before he could fire a spell, Lae'zel leapt out of the shadows and bludgeoned the tiefling with the hilt of her sword, sending him sprawling. Rolan's head struck a jagged rock with a sickening crack, and he collapsed, unmoving.

Astarion's vision blurred, the mist spinning into darkness at the edges. Through it, he saw Lae'zel and a dark-skinned drow woman seize Rolan's limp form, dragging him into the fog.

Astarion could only kneel, trembling, blood pooling beneath him as Durge stood before him, licking the blood from his sword like a man savoring wine. The grin he wore stretched too wide, a predator's smile, a promise of every unfinished horror yet to come.

"What... what do you want with him?" Astarion coughed, blood bubbling up his throat.

Durge's eyes gleamed in the dark. "You took my pet wizard." He gestured lazily with his sword. "Now, I'm taking yours."

The dragonborn leaned in close enough that Astarion could smell the leather of his armor, the faint scent of oil and metal. "Sorry I can't stay and watch you bleed out, but I have pressing business in Baldur's Gate."

He straightened, turned without another glance, and disappeared into the mist.

Astarion's body pitched forward. His hands scrabbled weakly at the dirt, desperate to crawl after them, to do something - but his strength gave out. His cheek pressed into the cold earth, blood pooling beneath him.

He coughed, more blood spilling from his mouth, soaking into the dirt. His body shook, trembling as that familiar coldness spread from his core outward, the ancient death he had once tasted now returning to claim him again.

Above, the mist parted just enough to show a sliver of sky, stars faint through the gloom. His voice broke as he whispered to them.

"Please... any of you... help me... I beg you..."

No answer came. Not from the gods. Not from anyone.

The cold swallowed him whole.

He knew this feeling - drifting weightless, separated from flesh, untethered, falling into the black void where nothing mattered anymore. It was the same death that had taken him once before, before Cazador's curse had dragged him back into something less.

He sank.

And then—

Something gripped him.

A hand that was not a hand. A presence so ancient it made centuries feel like seconds, seizing his soul before it could vanish into the void.

A voice followed - deep, cracked with age, yet vast enough to fill eternity.

"Fate hath decreed thy journey is not yet over, Astarion Ancunín. Thou art destined for much that has yet to pass."

The void shuddered, and the darkness itself bent beneath the weight of that voice.

Then - pain.

Life slammed back into him like a knife to the chest. His heart lurched, his lungs seized, his body burning with the sudden, brutal return to being.

Astarion's eyes snapped open, breath catching in his throat as dirt and cold air pressed against his skin. His hand flew to his stomach, fingers digging past the hole in his armour into bare flesh, expecting the ragged edges of torn muscle, the slick warmth of his own blood. There was nothing. No wound. No pain. Just skin, smooth and whole.

He sat up sharply, head spinning, vision swimming in the dim light. The ground beneath him was hard-packed earth, not the soaked and bloody dirt where he remembered dying. Around him, three tents stood in a loose circle around a campfire, its flames crackling low. Pixie lamps hovered at uneven heights, their protective glow redundant now.

Astarion staggered to his feet, boots scraping over stone. As he turned, a shadow moved into view - tall, skeletal, wrapped in robes that had once been fine but now hung in faded, tattered folds. The figure's skin stretched taut over bone, its hands wrapped in burial linens, its face shriveled, sunken, barely clinging to the shape of humanity. Its eyes, empty sockets once, now burned with dull, yellow light.

Withers.

The sight of him dragged memories from Astarion's mind - Durge's team cracking open a cursed crypt, unearthing this ancient thing that had followed them ever since, offering resurrection for a price. An unwanted companion who refused to die, who spoke in riddles and prophecy, who watched with the patient silence of one who knew how every story ended.

Astarion drew his rapier halfway, steel rasping in the quiet before sense caught up with him. Confusion flickered behind his eyes. "You brought me back?"

Withers' skull tilted slightly, the barest nod. "Correct."

The word hung in the air, cold and indifferent.

Astarion's grip tightened. "Why? I'm not one of their merry little band anymore. And last I checked, you didn't work for free."

Withers clasped his skeletal hands before him, the faint scrape of bone on bone filling the silence. "Thy name was recorded, and remains as such until fate no longer hath need of thee." He tilted his head slightly. "As for the cost - thy debt is already settled."

Astarion stiffened. "Settled? By who?"

Withers gave no answer. "That does not concern thee at present."

Astarion scowled, irritation rising to mask the unease curling in his gut. Someone had paid for this. Someone had seen to it that he wasn't left to rot. He didn't like debts - especially ones owed to unseen hands.

A thought pushed through the fog, a name he hadn't spoken aloud in too long. "If I gave you the coin," he said slowly, "could you bring back Wyll Ravengard?"

Withers shook his head, slow and final. "The soul in question hath been too long removed from this mortal coil. It now resides in the Hells."

Astarion sighed through his nose, fingers pinching the bridge of it. "Karlach is going to blow a gasket..."

Withers studied him in silence for a moment, then spoke. "Curious, that thou wouldst plead for one who betrayed thee."

Astarion waved it off with a flick of his hand. "Irrelevant." His mind was already spinning ahead, past Wyll, past the void he'd crawled out of, to the one figure who still needed his help. "I need to find Rolan."

He turned back to Withers, eyes narrowing. "Tell me something. If I kill Durge, all it takes is one of his little pets paying you off to drag him back, isn't that right?"

Withers gave another of those slow, creaking nods. "Correct."

Astarion exhaled a low, humorless laugh, pulling both crossbows from their holsters. His fingers settled over the triggers, familiar weight easing into his hands like an old habit rekindled. "Then I suppose the solution is obvious."

No smile, no flourish, just the cold edge of purpose.

"None of them leave that battlefield alive."

Withers said nothing. The silence held no judgment, no approval - just the patient acceptance of a creature who had seen how all stories ended, and knew that blood was always the final ink.

Astarion turned on his heel, slipping into the dark without another word. His movements were silent, a ripple through the mist. The cold fury in his chest burned low and steady, not a wildfire but a glacier, grinding forward with the weight of centuries.

Durge would pay.

Not just for the blade in his gut, not just for Rolan, not just for the insult of being left like refuse in the dirt.

He would pay for everything.

Astarion ran, feet barely touching the ground as he cut through the broken terrain. His breath came steady, his body made for this - pursuit, ambush, the sharp edge of violence. Each step carved a single thought deeper into his mind: Find them. Kill them.

The mist curled low across the earth, thickening where the ground dipped into old foundations and shattered stone. Up ahead, through the gloom, movement flickered near the husk of a ruined building - shapes where there should have been silence. Astarion flattened against the nearest wall, slipping into the shadows without breaking stride. The darkness took him like a second skin.

Through a crack in the wall, he saw them - Durge and Shadowheart stood at ease, utterly relaxed, facing Rolan. The tiefling was on his knees, hands held behind him, mouth smeared with blood from a split lip. Lae'zel gripped his shoulder, knuckles pale against his robes, her stance tense with coiled aggression. On the other side, the drow - armored head to toe - held his other arm, her gauntleted fingers digging into his flesh.

Durge's voice carried, too calm, too conversational. "Hold him steady. Minthara, his head."

The drow - Minthara - obeyed without question, jerking Rolan's head further back until the tendons in his throat stood out like cords. His teeth clenched against a cry of pain.

Shadowheart stepped forward, her expression unreadable beneath her half-helmet, but her hands steady as she held out a glass bottle. Something moved inside - a pale, wriggling thing, too eager for its new home.

Astarion's stomach clenched. He knew exactly what that was.

His fingers tightened around his crossbows, the metal creaking under his grip. He could feel the beat of his own pulse hammering in his ears, but his mind stayed cold, calculating. One against four. Suicidal odds - but if he could free Rolan, it might even out.

Without a sound, Astarion slipped through a collapsed section of the wall, moving up the fractured remains of a staircase until he reached what was left of the second floor. A perfect vantage point.

From above, the scene below played out like a ritual - Durge uncorking the bottle, reaching in with two fingers to pluck out the twitching parasite.

Astarion didn't think. His hands moved, crossbows drawn, bolts already notched. He exhaled slow and level, lining up the first shot at Lae'zel's temple, the second at Minthara's throat.

He fired.

The first bolt punched clean through the Gith's temple, snapping her head to the side with a sickening crack. She hit the ground hard, limbs twitching once before going still.

The second bolt flew the instant the first hit. Minthara turned just in time for it to slam into her helmet, not lethal but jarring enough to snap her head back. Her grip faltered, hands slipping from Rolan's horns.

Rolan didn't waste the chance.

He dropped to the ground and thrust his hands out, magic surging in a blinding pulse of multicolored light. The flare filled the ruin with unnatural brilliance, sending Durge and Shadowheart reeling back, hands flying up to shield their eyes.

Astarion's fingers flew over his crossbows, snapping new bolts into place with practiced speed. Rolan scrambled backward, hands still sparking with residual magic as he stumbled toward the building, half-blind but moving.

"Get back here, foulblood!" Durge roared, voice ragged with fury.

Astarion fired again, both bolts aimed straight for the dragonborn's throat - but Shadowheart moved faster, shield snapping up to intercept both shots. Steel rang as the bolts deflected harmlessly away.

Rolan cleared the doorway, eyes wide and panicked, running straight toward the broken stairs beneath Astarion's perch. Durge's snarl echoed behind him, reverberating through the ruin like a beast uncaged.

Astarion caught the dragonborn's gaze - white scales gleaming in the shattered light, red eyes burning with hate.

"I will tear you apart for this, spawn," Durge spat, both hands lifting as crimson light crackled between his fingers.

Astarion gave him a mock salute. "Oops - time to go."

He spun, vaulting over the windowsill and dropping to the ground below. His boots hit the dirt hard, knees bending to take the impact. Rolan nearly crashed into him, skidding to a stop with wide, startled eyes.

Astarion jabbed a finger toward the doorway. "Thunderwave!"

Rolan spun, hands already moving. The spell detonated point-blank into the building's weakened frame, the shockwave tearing through old wood and shattered stone. The walls groaned and collapsed, burying the doorway in a cascade of rubble.

Durge lunged through the doorway just as the roof caved in, leaving Minthara and Shadowheart buried behind or even beneath the rubble. Dust and debris billowed outward, filling the air with choking ash and broken plaster.

Red eyes gleamed through the dust, locked on Astarion like a predator recognizing its rival across a killing field.

Astarion's grip tightened around his rapier as he let his crossbows drop to the ground, the steel ringing softly against the broken stone beneath him. He bared his teeth, white and sharp, his lips curling into something that might have been a smile if not for the venom behind it.

"I believe I owe you a sword through the gut," Astarion purred, voice light, mocking, even as every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike.

Durge paced in a slow circle, measuring, gauging, the glow of red light still crackling at his fingertips. His mouth twisted in a grin, all sharp teeth and cruel amusement. "You're like a cockroach, aren't you? Can't quite stay dead."

Astarion matched his steps, mirroring his slow movements, the point of his rapier tracking Durge's centerline with careful precision. "I've been called worse."

Durge exhaled a low chuckle, his tail flicking behind him, betraying the eagerness beneath the amusement. "Fortunately," he drawled, "I love crushing insects like you... almost as much as I adore eviscerating tiefling children."

Rolan's breath hitched beside Astarion.

The tiefling went rigid, his hands curling into fists, magic crackling at his fingertips. His face drained of color, but his eyes burned, molten with rage.

Astarion had no more time for words.

He and Rolan lunged as one, their weapons flashing in the dim, sickly glow. Durge met them head-on, his clawed hands crackling with lingering arcane energy, his blade swinging up to meet them in a clash of steel and raw power.

Astarion's rapier darted forward, a silver streak aiming for Durge's ribs, but the dragonborn twisted, deflecting the thrust with a sharp flick of his armored bracer. Sparks skittered off metal as Durge retaliated, his blade coming up in a vicious diagonal slash meant to carve Astarion from hip to shoulder.

Astarion barely avoided it, spinning to the side as Rolan came in, hands blazing with arcane fire. The tiefling threw a searing bolt of energy straight at Durge's chest, forcing him back a step, his boots scraping against the rubble.

Durge snarled, the firelight casting jagged shadows across his face. He pivoted, moving faster than something his size should, his tail whipping out toward Rolan's legs, sweeping him off his feet.

The tiefling hit the crumbling floor hard, skidding across the stone. He barely had time to choke out a breath before Durge was on him, dropping his full weight onto the mage, clawed hands digging into Rolan's arms and chest.

Astarion shivered involuntarily at the bloodlust burning in the Dragonborn's eyes, and moved - but not fast enough.

Durge's jaws snapped down, sinking deep into Rolan's shoulder.

The tiefling's scream tore through the battlefield, raw with agony as Durge wrenched his head to the side, trying to rip the arm off. Bone creaked, the sound of tearing flesh filling Astarion's ears, drowning out the sounds of everything else, even his own heartbeat.

Astarion acted on instinct, his body moving before thought. He leapt forward, landing on Durge's back and grabbing his horns as an anchor.

With a snarl, he plunged his fingers deep into the Dragonborn's eye socket, ripping the hate-filled orb from its setting.

Durge's scream tore the air apart, less a cry of pain than a beast's raw, wounded rage. His entire body seized, muscles spasming, throat bulging with the force of it. His jaws snapped open, and Rolan dropped to the ground, landing hard on one side, thick ribbons of blood slicking his shoulder and chest.

Blinded and maddened by pain, Durge thrashed violently, reaching back with one clawed hand, his movements wild and vicious. His talons raked across Astarion's ribs as he tore him free and flung him aside like a discarded carcass.

Astarion hit the dirt, shoulder first, rolling once before his feet found purchase. Pain shot through his side, sharp and deep, but he pushed through it, rising into a low crouch. He barely had time to breathe before Durge, half-blind and enraged, charged.

They hit the ground together, the impact driving the air from Astarion's lungs. Durge's weight pinned him, jaws splitting wide, blood dripping from his teeth, his head snapping down toward Astarion's skull.

Then something silver slammed into Durge's side.

Onyx tore into him like a living blade, jaws locking onto the dragonborn's arm, fangs biting deep into scale and muscle. The two went down in a flurry of snapping teeth and slashing claws, Onyx snarling deep in his chest as he drove Durge back, giving Astarion the space to scramble up.

Durge ripped his arm free, leaving chunks of flesh and blood in Onyx's mouth. He staggered, tail curling close, nostrils flaring as he blinked through the blood pouring into his good eye.

He took one look at Astarion standing beside the snarling direwolf and hesitated - not fear, not yet, but the cold calculation of a killer reassessing odds.

Durge blinked hard, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "This isn't over, spawn," he spat. "I'll have your head for my wall before this is done."

He lifted a hand, tracing symbols in the air with fingers still wet with his own blood. Violet light flared, a portal crackling open behind him. Astarion lunged, blade flashing - but Durge stepped back into the portal, disappearing just before steel could meet flesh.

Astarion skidded to a halt, teeth clenched. The portal snapped shut, leaving only empty air and the stench of blood.

"Gods damn it!" Astarion kicked a loose stone hard enough to send it clattering down the road. "What is it with every sorcerer, warlock, and godsdamned dragon deciding to portal away the moment you get the upper hand?"

"Astarion." Onyx's voice cut through his rant, low and urgent.

Rolan lay slumped against a broken wall, one hand clamped over his shoulder, fingers trembling where they pressed into the torn mess of skin and muscle. His breathing came shallow, too fast.

Astarion crossed the space quickly, kneeling beside the tiefling, eyes flicking over the damage. He winced. The teeth marks were deep, edges ragged, the skin already purpling with bruises beneath the blood.

Rolan gave a weak grin. "You could at least pretend it doesn't look so bad."

Astarion forced a smile back, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He dug out a healing potion and pressed it into Rolan's free hand. "It... could be worse."

Rolan snorted softly, then winced as the movement pulled at his torn skin. He swallowed the potion with a grimace, gagging slightly at the taste. The bleeding slowed, but the wound still gaped, ugly and swollen.

Onyx crouched low beside them. "Help me get him on my back. The others are already at the inn."

Astarion bent, looping Rolan's good arm over his shoulder, and hauled him onto Onyx's back. Rolan slumped forward, too drained to argue or resist. Astarion swung up behind him, arms wrapping around Rolan's waist to hold him steady.

Rolan leaned wearily back into him, his voice quieter than Astarion had ever heard it. "Astarion... I changed my mind."

Astarion frowned slightly. "About what?"

"I want to live."

Astarion's chest tightened around something too sharp to name. He held Rolan a little closer, his chin briefly resting against the tiefling's shoulder.

"Glad to hear it," he said softly.

Then, with a flicker of his usual grin, Astarion reached into his pocket and held something up in front of Rolan's face. A blood-slicked, severed eyeball, crimson and reptilian.

Rolan gagged. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Consider it a down payment," Astarion said breezily. "Durge is going to pay for all of this - by installments."

Rolan tried to laugh, then winced hard, clutching his shoulder. "You're the worst."

Astarion only smiled wider. "Oh, I know."

Onyx started forward, leaving the shattered ruin behind, the mist swallowing them up. Astarion's grip stayed firm around Rolan's waist, his smile fading as his gaze drifted back to where Durge had vanished.

This wasn't over. Not by a long, bloody stretch.

Chapter Text

The moment Onyx crossed the threshold of the Last Light Inn, Astarion slipped off his back and half-dragged Rolan down with him, the tiefling groaning softly between gritted teeth. The air inside the inn reeked of blood, smoke, and the sharp tang of healing potions - dozens of wounded sprawled on cots, their clothes cut open to expose burns, slashes, and punctures. Light flickered unevenly from lanterns hung crookedly along the rafters, casting a sickly glow over the chaos.

Jaheira was already moving, her hands firm as she caught Rolan under the arm and guided him toward an open bed. Halsin joined her, sleeves shoved to his elbows, his hands still slick with someone else’s blood. Astarion followed at a measured pace, not for lack of urgency, but because his eyes darted over every face in the room, searching.

He didn’t see her.

Rolan was eased onto a thin mattress, his face tight with pain but his jaw set in silent determination. Jaheira immediately went to work, fingers pressing around the edges of the bite, whispering words of healing.

Astarion lingered at the edge of the room, leaning into the doorway with casual indifference, one ankle crossing over the other. His arms folded across his chest, posture lazy enough to look like he belonged anywhere but here.

His fingers tapped restlessly against his sleeve.

Behind him, soft footsteps broke into a rapid patter. He turned just as Mirkon shot toward him, the boy’s grin wide enough to split his face. Mirkon skidded to a halt, arms half-raised, energy vibrating through his small frame. Astarion raised a brow, eyes narrowing slightly at the look of barely-contained longing written across the child’s face.

With a long-suffering sigh, he rolled his eyes and crouched down, arms held out to either side. “Oh, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Mirkon launched himself forward, arms locking around Astarion’s neck with enough force to make the vampire wheeze.

“Ow! Watch the ribs - they’re barely holding together.”

“Sorry,” Mirkon mumbled into his shoulder, grip loosening slightly but not letting go entirely.

Over the boy’s head, Astarion caught Jaheira watching him with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth - less amusement, more the quiet satisfaction of someone seeing through all his carefully constructed defenses. Heat crept up the back of his neck and he gently pried Mirkon off him, standing up and smoothing down his cuirass like that would somehow erase the moment.

He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Right then, where’s Ashara?”

Mirkon’s face scrunched slightly, thinking. “Outside, in the woods, I think. Said there were too many people around.”

Astarion’s jaw tightened. “But… she’s alright?”

Mirkon nodded quickly. “She just looked tired. Not hurt.”

That tension didn’t fully ease, but it loosened slightly. Behind him, Onyx padded up, the great wolf bending his head to nuzzle the top of Mirkon’s curls. The boy giggled as Onyx’s breath puffed across his scalp.

“She’s centering herself,” Onyx said quietly, his voice low enough that only Astarion could really hear it. “Everything that’s happened - the fight with Bâlorak, facing her past - she needs time to settle the storm.”

Astarion’s fingers curled at his side, restless. “Then I should—”

Onyx sniffed sharply, his head tilting as he eyed Astarion up and down. His nostrils flared, and the wolf’s muzzle wrinkled in theatrical disgust. “Though, if you’re planning to see her, might I recommend washing off… all that first?”

Astarion blinked, then looked down at himself for the first time since they’d returned. His leathers were crusted with layers of gore - silver ichor from mind flayers, black rot from undead, his own blood dried dark against his ribs, and a lovely smear of Durge’s along his sleeve. His hair hung in loose tangles, slicked back against his skull with sweat and god knows what else.

He inhaled. The smell hit him like a slap.

It said something, didn’t it? That he’d been drenched in blood for so long that it barely registered anymore.

He exhaled sharply, forcing out a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fair point. I suppose it would be poor form to greet her smelling like the floor of a butcher’s shop.”

Mirkon giggled and gagged loudly. “You do stink.”

“Thank you, brat. Your honesty is so appreciated.”

Astarion's lips pressed into a thin line. As much as he hated wasting time, showing up to see Ashara looking - and smelling - like a corpse dredged from a battlefield wasn’t exactly the reunion he had in mind.

Astarion took the stairs fast, each step too loud for someone who usually moved like a ghost. The door to their borrowed room stood slightly ajar, and he pushed through, shutting it behind him before leaning back against the wood for a breath he didn’t realize he needed.

He crossed into the cramped washroom, a corner space walled off with uneven planks and a curtain too thin to offer real privacy. The basin waited, full of cloudy water someone had probably fetched hours ago. His hands went to the straps of his armor, peeling the pieces away, leather stiff with dried blood and ichor. His shirt clung wetly to his side where his own blood had leaked beneath the armor’s edge. That, too, he stripped off, leaving it in a crumpled heap.

The water was cold when he splashed it over his skin, and the cloth rough as he dragged it over his chest and arms, wiping away layers of gore. Red streaked into the water alongside oily smears of silver and black. He didn’t flinch at the sting where the cloth scraped over fresh cuts. Pain kept him steady. Something to focus on.

He washed his hair next, using what little soap was left, fingers combing through matted curls until the water ran clear. His scalp burned from the effort, but it left him feeling cleaner, if no less worn down. After drying off, he tugged on a clean linen shirt and breeches that smelled faintly of cedar and old smoke. The fabric was soft, familiar, something mundane to ground him.

As Astarion pulled his boots back on, his gaze landed on Isobel’s dresser. Among the vials and knicknacks, a slender bottle caught his eye. Perfume, faintly floral, with a sharp herbal undercurrent that wasn’t too far removed from the cologne he favored. He rolled it between his fingers, debating, then shrugged and gave himself a quick spritz. It wasn’t quite him, but it was better than nothing.

At the door, he reached for the handle - and the floor tilted beneath him.

He stumbled back onto the bed, hands braced on his knees, breath coming too fast. His body trembled, the aftershocks of battle catching up at last.

He could still hear Durge’s voice in his skull, yanking his limbs like a marionette. Bâlorak’s talons against his throat, the searing heat of dragonfire. The wet snap of bones beneath Myrkul’s servants, the sickening drag of teeth through flesh, Ashara’s whimpers of pain, Rolan’s blood.

The feel of Durge’s sword sinking into his gut...

Astarion pressed his hands over his face, fingers digging hard into his temples.

He could handle pain. He could laugh through fear. But this - this helplessness - threatened to hollow him out from the inside.

He bent forward, elbows digging into his knees, fingers twisting into his hair and pulling hard enough to sting. His breath rasped, too fast, too shallow. His ribs felt tight and fragile, as though they might crack with the next inhale. Tremors ran through him, small at first, then stronger, until his hands shook hard enough to blur his vision.

The mask was gone. No audience to charm, no enemies to provoke. Just him and the silence.

His mind spun, clawing for purchase, for control, for anything to anchor him - but all it found was the memory of helplessness. Of being powerless under Durge’s command, of lying broken in the dirt, of the gods refusing to hear him, again and again.

He forced his eyes shut, teeth clenched so hard they ached.

Breathe.

One hand dropped from his hair to his chest, pressing against his sternum as though he could physically hold himself together. The other curled into a fist so tight his nails bit into his palm. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t afford to feel. Not yet.

Ashara was waiting.

That thought - her - became his anchor. Something real to hold onto.

He dragged in a breath, shuddering but steady, and pushed himself upright. His hands still shook, but he could hide that. His smile would be sharp enough to cover the cracks.

For her, he could pretend to be strong.

He straightened his collar, wiped the damp from his eyes with the heel of his hand, and walked out the door.

Astarion followed the path Mirkon had pointed out, his boots stirring up thin curls of mist where the earth stayed damp beneath the tree cover. The forest was still twisted, its bones warped by years under the shadow-curse, but now something new stirred in the edges - tiny shoots pushing through cracked bark, flecks of green against the brittle grey. Life was clawing its way back, stubborn and unrelenting.

He reached out once, fingers brushing over a leaf soft as silk, marveling that after everything, the forest wanted to live. Nature didn’t retreat. It fought. Quietly, but relentlessly.

Movement ahead caught his eye, pulling him from his thoughts.

Ashara stood beneath a tree that might have once been a willow, its bark split and blackened with age. Her hands pressed against the trunk, fingers splayed wide, faint threads of magic flickering between her palms and the wood. The tree shuddered under her touch, branches trembling as bright green tendrils sprouted from their tips, cascading down in a curtain of new leaves.

Astarion stayed back, watching, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

She wasn’t just healing the land. She was giving it life.

He pushed through the fresh veil of green, the leaves parting around him like water, and cleared his throat loudly.

Ashara jumped, her hands dropping from the tree. Her shoulders tensed, but when she turned and saw him, her whole body shifted - startled panic melting into something brighter, warmer, her lips splitting into a smile so radiant it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Astarion couldn’t help but return it, his own smile softer, quieter. The fear, the exhaustion, the doubts gnawing at his edges - they slipped away as she stepped toward him.

Then her face crumpled, joy collapsing into something raw and trembling, and she closed the distance in a rush, her arms locking tight around his torso. Her sobs hitched between breaths, muffled against his shoulder.

Astarion froze, his body stiff with shock at the intensity of her relief. It was so immediate, so real, no mask between her and the depth of her grief. It took him a heartbeat too long to react, but then his arms came up, holding her close, his hand cradling the back of her head like she might break apart if he let go.

Her voice broke against his ear, words broken apart by hiccupping breaths. “I thought - I thought you were d-dead. When Bâlorak - your head - it...”

She couldn’t finish. She just held him tighter, nails digging into his back as though if she loosened her grip even slightly, he might vanish like smoke.

Astarion’s throat tightened, the easy charm he usually wielded slipping through his fingers. That he - a creature born from cruelty, shaped by Cazador’s hand, tempered in the fires of survival - mattered this much to anyone still shook him to his core.

He forced a smile, aiming for levity, for deflection, anything to keep himself from unraveling alongside her. “Please, darling. You should know by now - I'm far too stubborn to die. Besides…” His voice dipped into something lighter, teasing. “You still owe me a new shirt. I will be collecting.”

Her laugh burst out between hiccuped sobs, raw and breathless, but real. When she lifted her head, her face streaked with tears, her smile returned, softer now. But her eyes, the way she looked at him…

There was nothing guarded in her gaze. No mask. No reservation. Just adoration, unhidden, a kind of devotion that terrified him more than any blade or spell ever had.

No one had ever looked at him like that. Not once. Not in all two hundred years of his cursed existence.

Her eyes dipped to his mouth, then back to his eyes, asking a question without words.

Astarion couldn’t answer, could barely breathe.

When she leaned closer, her breath brushing against his lips, his instincts betrayed him. He closed the gap, their mouths meeting in a kiss so tender it made his heart ache. Her lips were soft, hesitant, the touch unpracticed but honest, tasting of salt tears and trembling hope.

He followed her lead, letting her set the pace - slow, gentle, testing the waters of something fragile. Warmth bloomed in his chest, foreign and delicate, but beneath it, something cold stirred.

It started as a whisper - Cazador’s breath in his ear, the cruel hand on his neck, the weight of chains dragging at his wrists. Memory twisted into sensation, the press of bodies who had never asked for permission, hands pawing, mouths hungry, treating him like a thing to be consumed. Faces blurred together, each one taking a piece of him until nothing had been left except the hollow smile and the pretty lie.

For a breath, he almost pulled away.

But her touch was too soft. Her kiss too sincere. This wasn’t hunger. This wasn’t taking. This was something he didn’t know how to name, something so fragile it might shatter if he flinched.

Then her arms drew tighter around his neck, her kiss changing - eager now, breath catching, her need spilling out faster than either of them could stop it. There was no calculation in it, no hesitation, only raw affection, too much to hold back.

That desperation twisted sharp inside his chest, cutting through the warmth and leaving something cold in its place.

For so long, she had been his sanctuary. In her presence, he had felt seen - truly - seen. Not as a tool, not as a plaything, but as a person. Her laughter had warmed him, her kindness had disarmed him. With her, he could be, stripped of performance, allowed to exist without owing a debt for the very air he breathed.

And though he had caught the occasional flicker of admiration in her gaze, she had never looked at him with the kind of lust that turned his stomach. She had wanted his companionship, his friendship. He had been safe with her.

But now…

Now, there was hunger in her kiss. Not the hunger he feared, not the cruel, careless appetite of those who had used him before - but hunger all the same. It pressed against him, soft at first, then insistent, then desperate. It tasted of thresholds crossed, of innocence left behind. With every fervent movement of her lips, every eager press of her body against his, that fragile sanctuary began to crumble.

So… this is to be the night then. The moment everything changes. The night innocence dies.

The bitterness curled deep in his gut, thick and sour, but Astarion kissed her harder anyway, burying the dread, trying to drown it in her warmth.

He turned her, pressing her gently against the willow’s bark, the roughness a contrast to the silk of her hair spilling over her shoulders. She gasped against his lips, and the sound vibrated through his chest, setting his nerves alight. Her hands slid into his hair, fingers threading through curls still damp from his rushed washing, tugging him like she feared even now he might slip away.

He pressed closer, his body molding to hers, his hands sliding down her spine until they found her hips. Familiar motions - his hands knew every step of this dance - but none of it felt familiar. Not with her. That was the cruelty of it.

For a moment, Astarion let himself pretend. Pretend her touch didn’t scrape against old wounds. Pretend her kiss didn’t drag up memories he’d buried under centuries of earth. Pretend this was a moment untouched by survival or performance or pain.

But every kiss had teeth behind it. Every touch came with expectation.

He had spent two centuries hating the hands that touched him, hating the mouths that whispered his name. He had learned to hate himself for the way his body obeyed no matter how much he wanted to recoil. He had survived those touches by hollowing out, letting them pass through him like water through a sieve. He couldn't do that now.

Not with her.

How can I love you, when every step brings me nearer to hating you for wanting me?

When they finally broke apart, their breath mingled in the space between them, hers fast and uneven. Her lips were swollen, her face flushed, eyes bright and unguarded. She beamed at him, free and weightless, like this moment had lifted something heavy from her shoulders.

The smile hit harder than any blade ever had. Because for her, this was healing. For him, it was a slow drowning.

He gave her a smile in return, all easy charm, the mask sliding back into place so smoothly no one would see the cracks beneath.

Not even her.

"Well, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?"

The words left his mouth too easily, polished smooth by years of practice. Teasing. Effortless. Not a crack in sight.

Before she could answer, he leaned in again, capturing her lips once more. If he kept kissing her, if he stayed inside the act, maybe she wouldn’t notice the way his mind pulled back, step by step, putting distance between himself and his own body.

I don't want this…

Her hands found his hair again, tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer, eager, trusting. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, a test. She shivered, breath hitching for half a second - then she parted them, welcoming him deeper. Astarion's mind screamed.

Please don’t make me do this…

He clung tighter, fingers curling into her hair, the kiss turning sharper, desperation bleeding through the cracks. If he kissed her harder, if he poured everything into this - the fear, the longing, the dread pooling heavy in his gut - maybe he could make himself believe he wanted it.

He pulled back just enough to lower his lips to her throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the warm column of her neck. She shivered under him, tilting her head to give him more. The quickened rhythm of her pulse beneath his lips, the heat of her skin - he let himself focus on that, on sensation alone. If he didn’t think, if he didn’t let himself remember what he was doing, he could endure it.

Oh gods… I have to do this…

His hand moved on its own, ghosting beneath her shirt. His fingers skimmed up her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin, the flutter of muscles tensing under his touch. His knuckles brushed the edge of her bandeau, then slid beneath, fingertips searching for the softness waiting there.

The shift was instant.

Her body locked up against him, rigid, like a bird taking flight at the crack of a twig.

"Wait… what are you doing?"

The words struck like ice water dumped over his head. His hand froze where it rested, confusion slamming into him.

Her voice - small, startled - dragged him back into the moment, tearing him out of the carefully constructed distance he had wrapped around himself. His mind lurched, trying to bridge the gap between what he had expected and what was actually happening.

He pulled back, just enough to see her face.

Confusion. Uncertainty. A flicker of something close to fear.

The trust he had seen so often in her gaze had fractured, replaced by a dawning realization that made him feel faint.

He had miscalculated.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, withdrawing his hand as if burned and taking a half step back. "I… I thought you wanted this?"

“Wanted what?” she asked, her voice pitched higher, almost cracking.

Astarion found himself momentarily stunned into a rare moment of speechlessness. "I thought you were initiating… you know…"

The look of confusion on her face only deepened, and he frantically searched for a way to explain himself. He ran a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling further.

"Um… sex?" he finally managed, his usual eloquence completely failing him.

Ashara’s eyes widened in shock, and she stumbled back, bumping against the tree trunk with a faint yelp. “What! Why would I want to do that?!”

Her words hit him harder than a slap. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but no sound came out. Eventually, he choked out a flustered, "Then why were you kissing me with so much… enthusiasm?!"

Ashara's hands flew to her mouth as understanding - and horror - dawned on her face, along with a bloom of pink on her cheeks. "Wait… that's what kissing is for?"

His jaw slackened slightly before he blinked, scrambling for clarity. "Well... that kind usually is, yes. Why, what did you think we were doing?"

Her blush deepened to a furious crimson, and she hugged herself tightly, her voice dropping to a mortified whisper. "I just… I just wanted to show you how glad I was to see you. I thought that’s how people - how they show deep affection, like hugging."

And just like that, the ache in Astarion's chest shifted. The bitterness, the regret - it all softened under the weight of her innocence. For the first time, he truly realised that she had wanted nothing from him, nothing more than what he had already given. It was a revelation that left him breathless.

"So when you were kissing me just now," he asked cautiously, "all you felt was affection? Nothing… else?"

She shook her head vehemently, her voice small. "No… nothing else. Just happiness."

He tilted his head, letting out a surprised and faintly bewildered. "Huh…"

But Ashara’s embarrassment spiraled into something darker. She began to pace, her hands tangling in her hair as her words came in a rush. "I'm so sorry! I didn’t know. When I saw you walk towards me, I was just so relieved to see you, that I had this overwhelming urge to hold you. All this joy was bubbling up in my chest and I thought kissing you would release it."

Her voice cracked, and she looked at him with haunted eyes. "And now you think I wanted - you think I’m like everyone else. Like... those orcs."

Her words sliced through him, and he stepped forward, his hands raised in a desperate attempt to calm her. "No! No, no, no. That’s not what I’m thinking at all, Ashara!"

But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her voice breaking. "I just wanted to show you love," she whispered. Her eyes met his one last time, shimmering with unshed tears. "I’m sorry."

And before he could stop her, she turned and fled, her figure vanishing into the shadowed forest as the mist swirled in her wake. Astarion reached out instinctively, his voice sharp with desperation as he called after her. "Ashara, wait!"

The words seemed to dissolve into the night as she disappeared among the trees. For a moment, he stood frozen, the faint echo of her retreating footsteps drowning out the pounding in his chest.

The silence that followed was deafening. Astarion staggered back a step, then dropped to his haunches, his fingers curling into his hair as his mind raced. "Shit, shit, shit! What do I do?!"

For once, his sharp mind offered no immediate answer. He pushed himself to his feet, the decision made almost instinctively. He needed to find her. His instincts told him to give chase, but reason warred against it. What if I make things worse?

The forest stretched around him, shadows deepening as his mind churned with guilt and panic, each step punctuated by recriminations. He knew Ashara was socially lacking, but this... this level of raw naivety was something he hadn’t anticipated.

Shame clawed at him for assuming her touch was laced with desire, for failing to see her intentions for what they truly were. His breath hitched as he berated himself silently.

Why do I always have to assume the worst?

The flicker of firelight through the trees pulled him from his thoughts. He emerged into the inn courtyard, the familiar sight of their shared sanctuary doing little to ease his turmoil.

A campfire crackled softly in the center, casting warm hues against the surroundings. But the figure he sought was absent. Instead, the courtyard was silent - empty except for Onyx - who lay sprawled near the fire, the great wolf’s fur shimmering faintly in the firelight as he dozed.

Astarion sighed sharply and stomped toward the flames, his frustration flaring anew. "Onyx, wake up, you lazy lump. I need to talk to you."

One of Onyx’s eyes cracked open, his gaze locking onto the vampire with a calm, almost dismissive air. "I’m listening."

Astarion began pacing, his movements erratic, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. "In all the time you spent teaching Ashara the finer points of social interactions, did it never occur to you to explain to her the rules of intimacy?!"

Onyx’s second eye snapped open, his head lifting sharply as a low growl rumbled from his chest. His hackles rose visibly, and his amber gaze sharpened. "Why…" the wolf said, his tone dangerously soft, "have you been teaching her this lesson?"

Astarion froze mid-stride, a cold sweat prickling along his neck as he turned to meet Onyx’s piercing gaze. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ah… perhaps I should clarify that particular sentence."

"I think perhaps you should," Onyx replied, rising slowly to a seated position, his ears flattening slightly.

Astarion coughed, trying to regain his footing. "It’s just that she… she doesn’t seem to realize that certain acts of intimacy can lead to, well… other acts of—" He stopped, realizing too late that he was digging himself deeper. "This isn’t going any better, is it?"

Onyx rose to his full height, taking a deliberate step closer. Astarion took an instinctive step back, holding up his hands in placation. "It’s not what you think! Nothing untoward happened - we just kissed!"

The wolf paused, his piercing gaze unrelenting. After a long moment, he sat back down. "You may proceed… carefully."

Astarion exhaled a shaky breath, fumbling for words. "She wanted to show me affection, and thought kissing me would do that."

Onyx tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but probing. "And did it?"

A faint, almost wistful smile tugged at Astarion’s lips. "I certainly felt adored," he admitted softly, the memory of her earnestness warming something deep within him. Catching the wolf’s raised brow, he cleared his throat and added quickly, "But the point is, I don’t think she understood how… passionate she was being, or what it could have led to. What I thought she wanted it to lead to."

"I see," Onyx said, his tone unreadable.

"And now she’s run off, all red-faced, probably thinking she's ruined everything between us," Astarion continued, his pacing slowing as he ran a hand through his hair. He stopped by a broken bench and sank down onto it, his frustration ebbing into weariness. "But I'm the one at fault. I slipped back into old habits and made assumptions without a seconds thought. I need her to understand that I…"

His words trailed off as he stared into the fire, the crackling flames offering no clarity. "I don’t know. I just… need things to not be awkward between us."

Onyx regarded him thoughtfully before speaking. "Brenen - her adopted father - was unconventional. He was a mute who lived much like a wolf. I suppose it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t teach her that humans are less… tactile than wolves. Nor how certain gestures can be misinterpreted."

The wolf’s ears flattened slightly, his tone carrying a note of regret. "I should have realized this and warned you. I owe you both an apology if my lapse placed you in an undesirable situation."

Astarion’s lips quirked upward despite the tension. "I never said I didn’t completely enjoy it," he murmured, almost to himself.

Onyx’s head whipped around, his sharp gaze narrowing dangerously. Astarion quickly looked away, feigning intense interest in the fire’s flickering embers. The wolf stared at him for a long moment before speaking, his tone thoughtful but pointed. "What are your feelings toward Ashara?"

Astarion blinked, the directness of the question catching him off guard. "My… feelings?" he echoed, stalling for time. He opened his mouth to respond, but Onyx cut him off with a sharp glare.

"Do not deflect or try to deceive," the wolf warned, "either me, or yourself."

Astarion snapped his mouth shut, his thoughts swirling. He rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to organize the whirlpool of emotions threatening to spill out. Onyx’s steady gaze didn’t waver, waiting with a patience that was almost unnerving.

Finally, Astarion let out a low, resigned sigh. "I… don’t know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I just know I can’t imagine what my life would be without her. And I can’t bear the thought of her hating me."

Onyx nodded thoughtfully. "Then decide, Astarion. Decide whether your answer is best spoken to me… or to her."

Astarion stared into the flames, the orange glow licking the edges of his thoughts, burning away the last remnants of his half-abandoned plans. The carefully crafted mask he wore - the manipulative charm, the calculated allure - had been stripped away, piece by piece, by a warmth he hadn’t expected. Ashara’s loyalty, her unguarded kindness, and her unshakable trust had undone him.

Each flickering ember illuminated a memory. The sound of her laughter echoing in the quiet moments, the strength of her embrace when he needed it most, the sharp sting of fear whenever she stood too close to danger. The feeling she described earlier - that unbidden swell of affection - suddenly didn’t seem so foreign. It was there, bubbling beneath his own guarded exterior, waiting for release.

The realization struck him like a lightning bolt. He straightened, his breath catching in his throat as clarity washed over him. His heart pounded, and for once, it wasn’t from fear or hunger.

He surged to his feet, startling Onyx. "I need to find her!"

Onyx sniffed the air, his nose twitching slightly before he nodded. "I believe she has returned to the place you were before."

Astarion didn’t wait. He turned and sprinted into the forest, the underbrush clawing at his legs as moonlight tried to weakly filter through the gloom. His mind raced faster than his feet, berating himself for the thousand mistakes he’d made tonight. He should have understood her better, should have recognized what her kiss had truly meant.

By the time he reached the willow, his breath was ragged, though not from exertion. The tree's branches swayed gently in the night breeze, and beneath its sheltering canopy, Ashara sat, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her back pressed against the trunk, her shoulders hunched as if bracing against an invisible storm. Even from a distance, Astarion could see her face was streaked with tears.

Astarion stopped short and ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself.

Get ahold of yourself, you fool. Over two centuries old, and here you are acting like some giddy schoolboy with a crush.

He took a steadying breath, straightened his posture, and approached her at a more measured pace.

Ashara looked up as his footsteps broke the stillness. Her face twisted into something halfway between relief and apprehension. She scrambled to her feet, opening her mouth to speak, but Astarion raised a hand to halt her.

"Ashara," he said, his voice softer than she had likely ever heard it. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything wrong... I did."

She froze, uncertainty flickering in her tear-streaked eyes. He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking as he reached for her hands. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly as he clasped them in his own, pressing them against his chest.

"You didn’t do anything wrong," he repeated, his tone steady but carrying an edge of regret. His other hand lifted, tentative but deliberate, to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed gently against her skin, wiping away the remnants of her tears. "It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have assumed I knew what you wanted from me. I shouldn’t have let my own fears and… expectations get in the way."

Ashara's gaze searched his, as if looking for something she wasn’t sure she would find. "I thought… I thought I ruined everything," she whispered. "I didn’t know how to explain. I didn’t know—"

"You didn’t ruin anything," Astarion interrupted, shaking his head firmly. "If anything, you’ve shown me something I thought I could never feel again. You’ve made me… realize something."

Her brow furrowed, confusion and hope warring in her expression. "What do you mean?"

He sighed, his hand dropping from her cheek as he stepped back, needing the space to gather his courage. The next words lodged in his throat, tangled with dread. But he had to say them. She deserved the truth.

"I need to tell you something," he began, his voice quieter now, laced with trepidation. "And I’ll understand if… if you hate me for it, but you deserve to know."

Ashara’s brows knit together, confusion darkening her gaze, but she remained silent, waiting.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "I had a plan," he admitted, each word lodging in his throat like broken glass. "A nice, simple plan. Seduce you. Sleep with you. Manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me. It was instinctive - habits from two hundred years of charming people."

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t speak. He pressed on, the words spilling out like poison he needed to expel. "It should have been easy. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do was… not fall for you."

A nervous laugh escaped him, brittle as dry leaves, and he raked a hand through his hair. "But, of course, I was completely unprepared for you. For how genuine you are. You weren’t like the others, and then… well, Onyx’s constant fatherly glowering didn’t exactly help my plans either."

He trailed off, his voice faltering as his courage waned. Unable to face the potential disgust in her gaze, he stared down at the ground, his hands flexing nervously at his sides.

Ashara’s voice broke the silence, soft but steady. "I don’t understand," she said, her brow furrowing. "Why did you even need this… plan?"

Her tone lacked accusation, but its quiet confusion cut him deeper than any blade. He felt the words building in his chest, twisting and heavy, as he grappled with the vulnerability her question demanded.

"Because," he began, the word rough and jagged. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. "Because I needed protection. I didn’t know how else to survive. When we met, I didn’t fully trust you - or anyone. Trust gets you killed, used, discarded. Manipulation?" His lips twitched into a bitter smile. "That’s safe. Predictable. I know how to navigate that world. And I thought the only way to make sure you’d never betray me was if you and I were… sleeping together."

Her expression flickered briefly with bewilderment, and he felt compelled to clarify, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Which is another way of saying, uh, having sex… just to be clear."

Ashara's eyes widened in realization, her mouth forming a small "oh." She seemed to mull over his words, her expression briefly distracted as her head tilted to one side. "Why call it sleeping, though, when it’s not about sleep?"

Astarion’s lips twitched despite himself, struggling to keep his composure. Her innocent curiosity, so genuine, felt utterly disarming. Before he could formulate a response, her eyes widened again, snapping back to him with sudden urgency. "Wait… In the cave, when I said we could sleep together if you wanted to—" She cut herself off, her face turning a vivid shade of crimson. "Did you think I meant…"

Astarion couldn’t hold back his smile, his amusement bubbling up despite the gravity of their conversation. "For all of ten seconds… yes," he admitted.

Ashara groaned audibly, burying her face in her hands as though trying to will herself out of existence. He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and she peeked at him through her fingers, half mortified, half indignant. "Don’t laugh," she protested, her voice muffled by her palms. "I didn’t know!"

He raised both hands in mock surrender, his smile softening. "I promise, no more laughing," he said, though the mirth in his eyes betrayed him.

She sighed, her hands dropping to her sides, and turned her gaze to the ground. The shadows of the willow’s branches danced across her face as she spoke again. "I still don’t understand, though. I'd already promised to protect you when we first met, so why did you think… sleeping together would make a difference?"

Astarion’s smile faded as he studied her. He let out a soft, rueful laugh, shaking his head. "The fact that you can even ask that question sincerely," he said, his tone tinged with bittersweet irony, "is exactly why I could never go through with it."

Her confusion deepened, her brow furrowing as she waited for him to elaborate. He hesitated, the words catching in his throat, but he pushed on, his voice quieter now. "When we first met, you asked me if I’d ever been given anything without someone expecting something in return. Well, that something that was usually expected was… my body."

Her eyes widened, and she took a small step closer, her lips parting in shock, but she said nothing. He pressed on, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Cazador would send me out into the city to hunt for him. And I learned quickly that the easiest way to gain someone’s trust, to lure them back to him, was to use myself as bait. It didn’t take much - a smile, a touch, a promise of something fleeting. It’s astonishing, really, how the promise of a night of passion with a beautiful man can make people abandon all sense of caution."

Ashara’s mouth opened, then shut again, her expression stricken. He turned his gaze away, unable to bear the look in her eyes. "Even when I wasn’t hunting for him," he continued, "simple things like a warm coat or a roof over my head… they always came with a price. And more often than not, the only currency I had to trade was—" He broke off, his voice faltering. He clenched his fists at his sides, staring into the ground as though willing it to swallow him whole.

When he looked back, Astarion’s breath caught at the sight of Ashara’s face, her expression raw with shock and anguish.

"Astarion… I would never ask that of you!"

Her distress left him momentarily speechless, and he took an instinctive step closer. "I know… I know that now." His lips curved into a wry smile. "It’s just taken this long for that fact to work its way through my thick skull."

Ashara’s lips twitched upward in a small, uncertain smile. It wasn’t much, but it steadied him. She hadn’t turned away yet. He latched onto the fleeting glimmer of hope and pushed on.

“The more time I spent with you,” he began, his voice softer now, “the less my plan seemed to matter. Until eventually, I forgot all about it. But earlier, when you kissed me, it all came rushing back. And I - mistakenly - assumed that the time had finally come to… pay you back for everything you’ve done for me.”

Ashara’s arms wrapped tightly around herself, a protective gesture that made his stomach churn. He lowered his head, shame pooling in his chest. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sorry. Sorry for thinking you'd expect that of me. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Ashara, and I didn’t know how to deal with that. So I just… fell back on what I do know."

She chewed her lip, her gaze drifting toward the ground. The silence that followed was agonizing, stretching taut between them. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. "Do you… want to have sex with me?"

The bluntness of her question made his chest tighten. He blinked at her, shaking his head almost immediately. “Not really,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. "At least… not anytime soon. I don’t want you to think of me in those terms. I don’t know if I want anyone to. Is… is that a problem for you?"

Her reaction was subtle, but he didn’t miss the slight slackening of her shoulders, the soft exhale of relief she didn’t seem aware of. It sparked a fragile hope inside him, though he dared not lean too heavily on it.

"No, it's not." Ashara shook her head and looked away for a moment as if searching through memories. "I haven't been with anyone in that way - at least not in this lifetime - so it's not as if I'd know what I was missing out on. And to be honest, I don't really care."

When she turned to face him again, her gaze was steady, though her voice remained soft. “But… you were willing to force yourself to do something you didn’t want,” she asked, “just because you thought I wanted it?”

Astarion nodded silently, unease tightening his throat. She stared at him for a beat, and then, to his utter surprise, she stepped forward and gave him a light swat on the side of the head. "Don’t ever do that again," she said, her tone half-scolding, half-exasperated.

He stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded, before a slow, genuine smile crept across his face. “I’ll try not to,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with amusement.

Ashara narrowed her eyes at him in mock severity, crossing her arms over her chest. “Good,” she said firmly.

He tilted his head, his smile widening. “You’re angrier about that, than about the fact I tried to manipulate you?”

Her expression faltered slightly, her hand coming up to rub the back of her neck as she glanced away. “I probably should be angry about that too,” she admitted, “but I can’t seem to be. If that’s what you’re used to doing - and what you expect from people - then I can’t be mad at you, any more than I could condemn a wolf for hunting a baby deer to survive.”

Her words left Astarion momentarily unmoored, her understanding more than he felt he deserved. He swallowed hard, trying to find his footing. “I don’t have to live like that anymore though,” he said softly, the admission feeling heavier than he’d expected. “You’ve shown me that. You’ve shown me I can be more than what Cazador made me. And I want… I want us to be more.”

He hesitated, his voice faltering as the vulnerability of what he was about to say threatened to overwhelm him. He looked at her, his crimson eyes searching her face. "You deserved the truth. And you deserve something real. I want us to be something real. Because I… I…"

“I love you,” Ashara blurted out, her voice loud and startling in the quiet of the night.

The words hit him like a hammer. He froze, his mind blank as he stared at her. Her face flushed a deep red, her wide sapphire eyes flickering with uncertainty, but she didn’t look away. Relief surged through him, sharp and almost overwhelming, but caution tempered it, holding him back from the edge.

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that," he said, his voice trembling with sincerity. "However - and I apologise for asking this, but I’m never quite sure with you - do you know what that actually means in this context?"

Ashara tilted her head, her gaze soft but thoughtful as she mulled over his question. Her lips parted slightly, and she spoke with a quiet certainty. "I love Onyx, and I loved my father, Brenen." Her voice held the weight of those bonds, steady and sincere. She took a step closer, the cool grass whispering beneath her feet. "But they never made me feel like this."

Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing his before she gently guided his hand to her chest. Beneath his palm, he felt the wild rhythm of her heart, quick and unsteady, mirroring the emotions that hung heavy in the air. His breath caught in his throat before he released it in a quiet exhale, the knot of tension in his chest unraveling.

Ashara’s gaze locked with his, unflinching despite the faint flush warming her cheeks. "And I certainly never wanted to… kiss them like that," she added, her voice quiet but threaded with a quiet determination.

A laugh escaped Astarion before he could stop it, a bright sound in the stillness. "Thank goodness for that," he said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "I’d be… deeply concerned if you did."

Her grin came quickly, a brief flash of warmth that faded as she dropped her gaze. Her expression grew introspective, her brows drawing together. "I may not feel things the way others do," she admitted, her voice hesitant, "but I just know in my heart that I want to be with you. I don’t fully understand what that means, or what I’m supposed to do with these emotions, but I can’t seem to stop them either."

Astarion's chest tightened at her words, a mixture of joy and affection surging within him. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her without hesitation. She fit into his embrace as though it had always been meant for her, her warmth bleeding into him in a way that felt as vital as blood.

"Don’t you dare try to," he murmured, his voice low but firm. He felt her arms slide around him, pulling him closer. Her cheek rested against his chest, and for a moment, everything else faded - the shadows of his past, the weight of his regrets. There was only this, the quiet press of her against him and the steady rhythm of their shared breath.

Ashara's voice came, muffled against him but still clear. "What happens now?" she asked, her words vibrating softly through his chest.

He exhaled, his lips twitching into a rueful smile she couldn’t see. "This is all new for me too," he admitted. "So, honestly? I have no idea. I just know that this… this is nice."

A soft hum vibrated through her chest, her agreement unspoken but felt in the way she nestled closer. Her forehead brushed against his collarbone, and he tilted his chin to rest gently against the top of her head.

"It is…" she murmured, her voice trailing off into a contented silence.

The corners of Astarion's mouth lifted slightly, an unfamiliar sense of peace settling over him. "For the record," he said, his tone lighter now, almost playful, "I did rather enjoy the kissing."

He felt Ashara’s breath hitch slightly, her fingers tightening against his back. Her voice, soft and shy, barely carried above the night’s quiet breeze as she tilted her face up to meet his gaze. "So did I…"

Her words sent a thrill through him, and before he could second-guess himself, he tilted his head down. His lips brushed hers, a feather-light touch that carried none of the urgency from before. This kiss was different, unhurried and deliberate, a quiet affirmation rather than a demand.

She hesitated for the briefest of moments, her hands tightening slightly against his back. But as his fingers came up to cup her cheek, she relaxed. Her sigh was barely audible, a gentle sound that seemed to dissolve into the cool night air as she leaned into him.

Astarion deepened the kiss just enough to savor the warmth of her response, then broke away before the moment could tip into something heavier. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the stillness.

"I love you too, Ashara."

Chapter Text

Onyx padded silently through the twisted forest, his paws pressing into the damp earth as he wove through the brittle undergrowth. The weak moonlight filtered down through the fog in fragmented beams, casting shifting patterns across his sleek coat. His steps were measured, but his mind was a maelstrom.

He carried the weight of the night’s revelations heavily, his thoughts circling like restless vultures. His conversation with Astarion replayed in his thoughts, each word picking at the edges of his composure.

It did not surprise him that Astarion had developed feelings for Ashara - the vampire’s sharp tongue and guarded demeanor had softened considerably in her presence. But what did surprise him was that Ashara seemed to harbor feelings of her own, even if she wasn’t consciously aware of them.

That revelation had been a thorn in his side all evening. Onyx winced internally, picturing the kiss - Astarion, misinterpreting her intentions, and Ashara, blissfully unaware of the subtext. The fact that nothing more had occurred between them was a relief.

He let out a low, thoughtful growl as he considered the implications if things had gone further. He was fully aware of Astarion’s scars, the wounds buried deep beneath his charm. The vampire would have forced himself to accept Ashara’s advances if she had been serious, his self-worth too entwined with his ability to please. Onyx shuddered at the thought, uncertain how such a precarious foundation could hold up if their relationship continued to blossom.

As the forest thinned near a rocky outcrop at the base of a jagged hill, Onyx slowed. Loose earth shifted under his paws, the damp scent of moss and rain-clung rock curling in his nostrils. Wind tugged at his fur, carrying the bite of late autumn - sharp, metallic, tainted with leaf rot and distant carrion. His amber eyes swept the clearing, tracing each crooked tree, every gash in the rock face. His ears flicked, angling toward the faintest sounds: the crack of a twig under something small, the whisper of wind threading through narrow gaps in the stone.

Satisfied no one stalked the edge of his vision, Onyx eased down onto his haunches, claws scraping against lichen-covered stone. The air held stillness thick enough to choke. He bowed his head, muzzle brushing damp moss. His voice lowered, roughened by the weight of old rites.

"Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt. Your servant summons thee."

The largest stone - half-swallowed by creeping vines and splintered roots - shivered. Its surface rippled outward, like a disturbed pool reflecting a sky torn by lightning. A dull blue glow bled from every crack, crawling over the stone’s face, pulsing to a rhythm too ancient for mortal hearts. Smoke rolled out, curling low and heavy, stinking of cold iron and bloodstained snow.

“Finally! What in all the bloody hells has been going on over there?!" Fenrir's voice struck, half-snarl, half-laugh. "Infernal scuttlebutt says Myrkul’s avatar got booted straight out of the material plane. Who’s responsible for pissing off the Lord of Bones? Tell me it wasn’t Ashara - though I’d be damn proud if it was.”

Onyx stood, tail low, ears pinned back just slightly. “No, my lord. She was still recovering from her ordeal with Bâlorak." He hesitated slightly and then added cautiously, "In fact, it was Astarion who played a part in Myrkul’s fall.”

Silence pressed down between them, heavy as stone. Fenrir’s eyes narrowed, their inner light shrinking to pinpricks. “You’re joking...”

“Not at all, sir,” Onyx said. "He has proven to be a most resilient and courageous fighter. He and Ashara have gathered together an... eclectic mix of companions to aid us in our battle against the Absolutist cult."

Fenrir’s head tilted, a subtle creak in his neck like bone grating over bone. “Hmm. The spawn shows promise for someone so… irritating.”

Onyx’s ear flicked. "Indeed. He has become a valuable and trusted ally to Ashara… perhaps even something more."

The skeletal jaws hung open a beat too long before Fenrir spoke. “More?”

Onyx’s weight shifted, claws digging into dirt as he chose his next words carefully. “She has displayed an extremely enthusiastic level of affection toward him lately.”

A heavy pause followed. Fenrir’s skull tilted slightly, his glowing eyes flickering. "Would you care to explain the deliberate emphasis you placed on the word enthusiastic?"

Onyx sighed, his tail curling around his paws as he recounted the evening’s events. When he finished, the silence returned, stretching long enough to make Onyx wonder if Fenrir had heard him at all. Then the light from the stone flared violently, and the wolf god’s voice erupted like a thunderclap, shaking the very ground beneath Onyx’s paws.

"I’ll have that bloodsucker’s heart ripped right out of his chest! I’ll tear his intestines to shreds, crush his bones to meal and grind his fangs to dust! He will beg for torment in the fires of Dis after I am through with him for daring to lay a hand on my daughter!"

Onyx settled onto the ground, tucking his paws beneath him as he waited patiently for the storm to pass. Fenrir didn’t pause for breath, each threat more inventive, more anatomically improbable than the last. His ears twitched occasionally at the more creative threats - Fenrir’s ability to invent new forms of torment was both impressive and unsettling.

When the rant finally subsided, the wolf god's apparition seemed to pant, his form flickering faintly.

“Feeling better?” Onyx asked dryly, his golden eyes narrowing.

"No," Fenrir snapped, his voice still low with menace. "Where is the treacherous snake now? His headless corpse had better be rotting in a ditch somewhere."

Onyx’s tone remained calm, but his words carried a hint of amusement. "If I know anything about the ways of mortal hearts - or even semi-mortal ones - then by my estimations, Astarion is currently in the middle of confessing his love to Ashara."

"WHAT?!"

The roar that erupted from Fenrir shook the forest. A blast of wind accompanied the sound, whipping through the clearing and sending leaves and dirt scattering. Onyx winced, his fur blown back as the noise reverberated painfully in his sensitive ears. He flattened them against his skull and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Onyx pushed himself to his feet, his tone calm but firm as he continued. “The pair have developed a close bond. I have suspected for some time that this bond runs deep, perhaps deeper than either of them truly realize.”

Fenrir’s eyes flared with rage. “He’s a soul-damned vampire! They are incapable of feeling anything other than greed and lust.”

“I believe Astarion is different,” Onyx countered, his gaze steady. “He has proven, time and again, the depths of his devotion to Ashara - a devotion that transcends mere self-preservation. The two of them share similar experiences, similar struggles with the darker aspects of their natures. Finding solace in one another’s company seems to have done them both good. I see no reason to discourage a relationship between them, if Ashara desires one.”

There was a long silence, the air between them heavy with tension. Finally, Fenrir growled, “Onyx…”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re fired.”

Onyx’s tail flicked, his tone carefully neutral. “Yes, my lord. Will there be anything more?”

“No.”

“Then I will take my leave until the next nightly report.”

“Go to hell…"

The apparition blinked out, leaving the clearing in silence once more. Onyx let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he shook his fur back into place. Just as he turned, the stone flared to life again, and Fenrir’s voice returned, low and urgent.

"Wait… this is serious, Onyx. I need to speak with the vampire. Bring him to me."

Onyx growled, his tail twitching. "His name is Astarion."

A pause. Then, with obvious irritation, Fenrir huffed, "Fine. Bring Astarion to me."

Onyx’s ears flicked backwards nervously. "He might be… occupied at the moment. With speaking to Ashara."

"I don’t care if he’s bloody proposing to her!" Fenrir bellowed. "Bring him here. Now."

Onyx bowed his head in reluctant acknowledgment. "As you wish, sir."

Without another word, he turned and bounded down the hill, the forest blurring around him as he raced back towards the inn.

The forest pressed close, its gnarled trees twisting into jagged silhouettes against the gloomy sky. Warm night air clung to Astarion's skin like a shroud, thick and stifling as he stood before the formation of rocks. On them loomed the spectral projection of Fenrir, his massive wolfish skull glowing with an eerie, pale luminescence. The air seemed to hum with power, heavy with an otherworldly presence that made the hairs on the back of Astarion’s neck stand on end.

Astarion stood beneath the skull's gaze, rigid, barely breathing. The intensity of Fenrir’s presence was suffocating, coiling around his throat like unseen hands. He had faced death, defied gods, dragged himself from the abyss of servitude and suffering, but this - somehow this was different. This was judgment. And he knew, deep in his marrow, that Fenrir had already found him wanting.

He forced himself to keep his chin high, though the urge to flee clawed at his insides. He wished he was anywhere but here - wished he was still curled up in their room at the inn, Ashara’s body pressed against his, the rhythm of her heartbeat steady against his skin. But Onyx had shattered that peace, rousing him from sleep with quiet insistence. "Fenrir wants to see you."

Astarion had refused. Then feared. Then hesitated. And yet, here he stood, because Onyx had made it clear: If Astarion wanted to be a part of Ashara’s life, he had to accept everything that came with it - including her divine, wrathful sire.

He had left a note beside Ashara’s hand, scrawled hastily on a scrap of parchment. A reassurance. A promise. Then he had walked into the darkness.

Now, standing beneath Fenrir’s withering scrutiny, the weight of earlier triumph felt distant, ephemeral. Ashara had accepted him, returned his feelings with a depth that had shaken him to his core. But Fenrir’s presence gnawed at his confidence, hollowing it out like rot in old wood.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath before Fenrir finally spoke, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated through Astarion’s bones.

“So. You’ve made a play for my daughter, have you? Not content with seeking my favor - you crave her power, too?”

Astarion bristled, his defenses rising instinctively. "That's not what this is about!" he snapped, his voice sharp with indignation. "I care for Ashara more than I thought possible to care for anyone. What she is has nothing to do with my feelings in the slightest."

Fenrir's skeletal maw split into what could only be described as a sneer, the bone-white fangs gleaming. “So you say. Perhaps you even believe that in your cold, undead little heart. But you cannot change what you are, spawn.”

Rage flared in Astarion like dry tinder catching flame. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he took a step forward, the tension in his body coiling tight like a bowstring. “I’d say go to hell, but you’re already there,” he hissed furiously. “So I’ll say fuck off instead.”

From behind, Onyx growled, his voice a deep, cautionary rumble. "Careful, Astarion…"

But caution had long since fled. He had been carved from suffering, built from fury and defiance, and he would not stand here and be torn apart by a god who had never known the torment he had endured.

“You know nothing about me,” Astarion snarled, his crimson eyes burning. “And you have no right to judge me based on what you think you know."

Fenrir’s form flickered, his massive jaws snapping shut with a force that cracked the air like a thunderclap. “Don’t I?” The god’s voice dripped with disdain. “As her father, I have every right. And I demand that her chosen mate be more than a shallow, debauched, scheming trickster like you.”

The words struck like a blade driven straight into his chest.

Astarion felt his breath falter, his confidence shatter like glass under a hammer. The fury that had sustained him moments ago drained away, leaving only a hollow, aching void. His fingers twitched at his sides, a silent tremor betraying the blow that had landed too well.

For all his efforts, for every step he’d taken toward something more, something real, this was what he remained in the eyes of a god.

Astarion exhaled, his shoulders sagging as a strange numbness spread through him. The fire in his veins flickered and died, leaving behind only cold, empty silence.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice flat. “She deserves better.”

Onyx stepped forward, his amber eyes sharp with something fierce, something protective. “That’s not who you are, Astarion,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering. “You’ve proven you are so much more than what Cazador made you.”

Astarion let out a brittle laugh, but it held no real amusement. He turned his face away, unable to meet Onyx’s gaze. “It’s not enough,” he murmured. “It will never be enough to change what I am. Or the things I’ve done.”

A tense silence followed, heavy as the forest around them. But slowly, a spark flickered to life in Astarion’s crimson eyes, fragile but determined. He turned back to face Fenrir, his voice steadier now, tinged with defiance. “But that doesn't mean I won’t stop trying. I want to believe it’s possible, that whatever… good Ashara sees in me is real.”

Fenrir regarded him in silence for a moment, the wolf skull tilting as if weighing the truth of his words. "How badly are you willing to find out?" he asked at last.

Astarion stiffened, his body already preparing for a blow he couldn’t see. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his nerves coiling tighter. “…What?”

Fenrir’s form seemed to grow, the mist around him thickening, darkening. “You claim I do not know you,” the god intoned, his voice like a distant avalanche, slow and inevitable. “Then step forward and allow me to correct this oversight.”

Astarion felt Onyx tense beside him, the wolf’s fur bristling along his spine. His ears flattened, and he took a cautious step forward, placing himself partially between them. “Fenrir…” Onyx warned, his voice edged with unease. “I’m not sure this is the best course of action.”

Fenrir did not turn his gaze, did not waver. “Silence.” The command was not shouted, nor was it violent - it was simply final. Power crackled in the word, and Onyx’s muscles locked, his tail lowering as a suppressed growl vibrated deep in his chest.

The god’s glowing sockets bore into Astarion, as if peeling away his flesh and peering into the rot beneath. “I have a right to protect my daughter,” Fenrir said, voice thick with purpose. “Even from her own choices.”

Astarion’s unease sharpened into something closer to dread. His gaze flicked between the two wolves, the tension in the air taut as a drawn bowstring. “What are you intending to do?”

Fenrir’s maw curled into a grim expression. “Open your mind to me. Show me who you are.”

Astarion’s breath hitched, and he took an involuntary step back, recoiling from the idea of exposing himself so completely. "I… I don’t think I want to."

“Afraid I’ll see the truth in you?” Fenrir asked, his tone laced with a challenge.

Astarion swallowed thickly, his hands flexing at his sides. “Yes…”

Before he could retreat further, tendrils of blue smoke coiled around him, tightening like a predator’s snare. His muscles locked as fear spiked in his chest.

Fenrir’s voice was grim, final. "This isn’t a request."

Astarion thrashed, a surge of panic overtaking him as he struggled against the unseen force. The tendrils only tightened, pulling him forward, dragging him closer to the looming god. His fangs bared in instinct, his body straining to break free, but the more he fought, the stronger the hold became.

Onyx’s snarl cut through the night, his muscles bunched in protest. “Fenrir, stop this!”

“I said silence!”

Astarion barely had a second to brace before a searing pain speared through his skull. His mouth opened in a soundless scream, his back arching violently. His body felt split open, his mind pried apart by something vast and inescapable. A presence heavier than the deepest ocean pressed against him, against the walls of his mind, forcing its way in.

He tried to resist, to slam those doors shut, but Fenrir was a tidal wave, unstoppable, inevitable. The barriers of his consciousness buckled, then collapsed entirely.

Every moment of fear and pain from the last two centuries rose to the surface, drowning him in their intensity. He was back in Cazador’s grasp, the cold, cruel touch of his master’s hands branding his flesh. He re-lived every scream torn from his throat during centuries of torment - the agonizing flayings, the days spent writhing, stretched out on a rack while blades tore into his flesh. Every degrading humiliation, every violation of his body, every time he was forced to submit to Cazador’s whims played out in vivid, gut-wrenching detail.

He saw the faces of his victims, the lives he had delivered into his master’s waiting hands. He felt the shame, the guilt, the soul-deep anger at his own helplessness. And then came the memory of his desperate, failed attempt to flee rather than betray the trust of a victim he couldn't bear to hurt - and the punishment that followed.

Astarion’s knees buckled, but the tendrils held him upright, forcing him to endure. The memories plunged deeper, to the year spent in the tomb, buried in darkness so absolute he had forgotten what light felt like. He remembered the hunger, an all-consuming void that turned his insides to dust. He had clawed at the stone, his nails splitting, his throat raw from screaming prayers that went unanswered. He had begged for death, for a release that never came.

Astarion’s breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his body trembling violently, his mind splintering beneath the onslaught. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unbidden, carving tracks through the dirt and sweat on his skin. He had no control, no defense against the god sifting through the wreckage of his soul.

Without warning, the tendrils released him, and Astarion crumpled to the ground, his body limp and shaking. He clutched his arms around himself, curling into a protective ball as broken sobs tore from his throat.

The clearing was silent save for the sound of his grief, torn from a place so deep he hadn’t even realized it still existed.

He had nothing left.

He had never felt so bare, so utterly stripped of the armor he had spent centuries forging. His fingers dug into the dirt, nails scraping against stone as he fought to piece himself back together, but the memories clung to him, raw and gaping, like fresh wounds torn open.

The warmth of Onyx’s massive body pressed against Astarion’s trembling form was a lifeline in the crushing sea of his despair. The wolf’s thick fur was coarse but comforting beneath his fingers as Astarion clung to it. His body continued to shake uncontrollably, each shudder a lingering echo of the torment that had just ripped through his mind. He buried his face in the wolf’s neck, muffling the jagged breaths and choked sobs he couldn’t quite suppress.

Onyx’s growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound of barely leashed fury, vibrating through Astarion like a second heartbeat. “For the first time in my existence,” Onyx snarled, his voice cold as frost, “I am ashamed to be a part of you, Fenrir. There is no power or reason on any plane of existence that gave you the right to do this to him.”

The words hung in the clearing like an accusation carved into stone. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the rustling leaves stirred by a faint breeze. Astarion’s breath came in uneven gasps, his tears dampening Onyx’s fur. He couldn’t even bring himself to lift his head, his heart too heavy, his body too drained.

Then Onyx stiffened, every muscle coiled tight, his chest expanding sharply as he sucked in a startled breath.“Fenrir… what are you doing?! Stop!” he growled, his voice rising in alarm.

Astarion’s head snapped up, his tear-streaked face turning toward the source of Onyx’s alarm. His blurred vision cleared just enough to take in the figure towering over them. A gasp caught in his throat as he registered the colossal form standing over them.

The wolf's body shimmered with an ethereal glow, as if woven from moonlight. Blue flames licked along his chest and neck, forming a living mane that flickered and pulsed, casting shadows that danced across the ground. Across his skull-like face, ancient runes burned with a faint luminescence, their intricate patterns shifting like constellations against bone.

But it was his eyes that struck Astarion hardest. No longer empty hollows of ghostly fire, but deep, dark pupils ringed in a halo of blue light. And despite the skeletal visage, the god’s expression was unmistakable - one of sorrow, heavy and immeasurable. Astarion stared, his mind struggling to comprehend, as realization struck him.

This wasn’t an apparition. This was Fenrir himself - here, in the flesh.

The wolf god’s heavy breaths filled the clearing with a soft, chilling mist, each exhalation forming delicate crystals of ice that floated in the night air. Astarion’s mind urged him to act, to speak, but he felt too numb.

He pushed against Onyx, breaking the comforting contact, and staggered to his feet. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to stand tall as he stared at the deity before him.

“So,” Astarion said, his voice brittle, “you’ve come to kill me in person. I suppose I should feel flattered.” A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him, and his crimson eyes burned as he stared at the deity before him. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You saw the monster. The weak, pathetic creature clawing through filth for scraps of freedom.”

Fenrir’s form seemed to sag, his massive shoulders lowering, the shifting light across his body dimming ever so slightly. His darkened gaze remained fixed on Astarion, unreadable yet piercing, his next words slow, deliberate.

“Forgive me, Astarion,” Fenrir rumbled. His voice, though still deep and vast as a storm rolling over the sea, carried something unexpected. Regret. “I… I did not realize the depths of your pain. To have suffered so much and still have the capacity to love, is… remarkable."

Astarion blinked, his breath catching, the surprise flickering faintly in his chest, too fleeting to take hold. He had expected further judgment, scorn, dismissal. Not… this. Not remorse. His body remained slack, as though his bones no longer had the strength to keep him upright. He couldn’t summon the words to respond.

Onyx moved to stand beside him, his presence now tense with unease. "You can’t be here, Fenrir," Onyx said, his voice low but insistent. "If Mystra or Silvanus learn of your escape—"

“Let them come,” Fenrir interrupted, his tone sharpening, turning cold as the frost at his feet. “I have nothing but contempt for the so-called gods of this world. They have failed this man, and so many others like him.”

The forest seemed to shrink around them, as if recoiling from the weight of the god’s ire. Shadows twisted, cast in eerie relief by the flames wreathing his body, their flickering movements like silent specters bearing witness.

Fenrir took a slow step forward, the ground trembling beneath his massive paws, but there was no threat in his movement. No wrath. Only something quieter. Something older.

He lowered his great head, his piercing gaze still locked onto Astarion. And when he spoke, his voice carried none of the earlier malice.

“Something I will not do.”

Astarion stood frozen, his body trembling with the lingering aftershocks of Fenrir's invasion into his mind. The simmering resentment in his chest twisted into something complex - a bitter cocktail of anger, exhaustion, and a reluctant intrigue at the weight behind the wolf god’s apology.

Fenrir’s words tugged at him, faint and tantalizing, as if daring him to lower his guard. But trust was not something freely given. Not after what had just been done to him. Not after having his mind cracked open and his suffering paraded before judgmental eyes.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his tongue as a sudden warmth began to spread over him, soothing and unfamiliar. He looked down sharply, startled to see a white glow spread from the center of his chest, illuminating the fine veins beneath his pale skin.

Staggering back, boots crunching against the forest floor, Astarion's instincts screamed at him to retreat, to resist whatever this was. But the magic was already taking hold, tendrils of radiance unfurling in intricate spirals, curling over his arms, his shoulders - elegant and deliberate, like vines creeping up ancient stone.

Astarion held his breath, unable to tear his gaze away as the light coalesced, no longer just shifting wisps of magic but solid matter. Threads of silver wove themselves into existence, linking together in a pattern too precise for mortal hands. Fine strands twisted, layered, becoming something tangible.

The first weight settled across his shoulders, pauldrons forming in the shape of wind-swept leaves, their metallic surface faintly iridescent, shifting between the hues of silver and pale moonlight. Matching bracers curled around his wrists, light and unrestrictive, edged with polished nacre.

The chest plate followed, shaping itself to his form with impossible precision, adorned with interwoven motifs of wolves and crescent moons, their designs carved with exquisite detail. Chainmail draped across his torso, gleaming like woven stars, so light it was as if it had been forged from mist and dawn’s first light

A final pulse of magic rippled outward, a silent crescendo before the glow dimmed, leaving only the weight of the armor against his skin - if it could even be called weight. Astarion took an experimental step forward, expecting the familiar clink of metal... but there was none. It breathed with him, shifted with him, moving as though it was an extension of his very being.

He exhaled shakily, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. This was no illusion. No fleeting enchantment. It was real. His trembling fingers ghosted over the chest plate, feeling the cool touch of metal beneath his fingertips. It should have felt foreign, should have felt like a burden, but instead, it felt… natural. As if it had always been meant for him.

Then, the weight at his hip.

Slowly, cautiously, he looked down. A sword rested against his thigh, hung from an ornate, white leather belt. The hilt gleamed, inlaid with opals that shimmered like trapped moonlight. The blade itself pulsed faintly, a thin stream of blue energy tracing along its edges, humming with quiet power. It wasn’t just a weapon - it was alive in some way, waiting, recognizing him.

Astarion barely breathed. He didn’t dare reach for it, afraid that touching it would shatter the fragile reality around him.

His mouth was dry when he finally forced out words, his voice raw with disbelief. “What is this?” He tore his gaze away from the weapon, his eyes sharp with suspicion as they locked onto Fenrir. “What’s happening?”

Fenrir’s massive head lowered slightly, his glowing eyes regarding Astarion with an emotion that could only be described as shame. His deep, resonant voice broke the silence, carrying an uncharacteristic gentleness. "I am deeply sorry for the way I have treated you, Astarion. Onyx is right - there is no excuse I can make that justifies what I did to you."

Astarion’s breath hitched. His mind blanked for a second, struggling to process the sight, the words, the sheer impossibility of it all. Fenrir, the unyielding, merciless god, was apologizing to him? His lips parted, but no sound came out.

He wanted to lash out, to demand why - why this now, after everything? But the anger that had been burning so fiercely only moments ago had been snuffed out, drowned beneath the weight of his exhaustion, his disbelief.

And then Fenrir spoke again, hesitant, entreating.

“Please,” the god rumbled, each syllable deliberate, as if he knew the magnitude of what he was about to say. “Accept both these gifts and the power I desire to bestow upon you - as my chosen champion.”

The words hit like a hammer blow, knocking the breath clean from Astarion’s lungs. He barely had time to register the full weight of what was being offered before a loud thud shattered the silence.

His head snapped to the side, his dazed mind barely registering the sight of Onyx sitting down hard, his golden eyes wide with shock.

“You’re making him your… champion?!” Onyx’s voice was strangled with disbelief, his ears flattened, tail twitching with visible agitation.

Fenrir did not flinch, did not waver. The god stood firm, his form emanating quiet, unquestionable authority. His gaze remained steady as he spoke, voice resolute. “My daughter deems him worthy of her love,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of a decree. “And now I deem him worthy of my favor.”

Astarion barely heard the words. He could only stare at the armor that now encased him, the silver light still faintly pulsing along its edges. The filigree shimmered, intricate as veins of molten metal, casting delicate patterns against the ground in the moon’s glow. The energy thrumming through it hummed against his skin, whispering promises he could not yet decipher.

The sword still lingered at his hip, waiting.

His fingers curled inward, hovering just above the hilt. He could feel it - not just the power within it, but the acceptance that came with it.

Champion.

The word felt foreign. Unreal. He was not the kind of creature who became something like this. He had been nothing but a survivor, a parasite clinging to the edges of power, fighting to scrape together some semblance of freedom.

And yet here he stood, adorned in celestial silver, carrying the weight of a god’s favor. His voice came quieter this time, breathless and uncertain. “…Why?”

Fenrir exhaled, another wave of mist curling into the warm air, his eyes holding none of their former malice.

“Because you are no longer the creature you once were,” the god answered. “And because I have been blind to what you have already become.”

Astarion stood unmoving, his mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the weight of everything that had just happened. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword at his side, as if anchoring himself to something tangible.

"Astarion?"

Onyx’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, low and steady, grounding. A gentle nudge against his arm followed, the wolf’s massive snout pressing firmly against him, warm and solid. “Are you all right?”

Astarion blinked. The world sharpened around him, the towering trees swaying slightly in the night breeze, their dark silhouettes stark against the silver glow of the moon. His gaze met Onyx’s, gold eyes filled with concern. The question echoed inside his skull, but no answer came.

Was he all right? How could he be? His life had been wrenched apart, his mind violated, his past dragged to the surface and dissected like a carcass before a gathering of crows. And now - now he stood wrapped in the favor of a god who had tortured him moments before.

“I…” The syllable barely left him before his voice cracked, and he quickly looked away. His free hand ghosted over the filigree of the armor on his chest, feeling the cold, seamless metal beneath his fingertips, trying to ground himself. His fingers twitched. His throat tightened.

Then, so softly it was nearly lost to the night air, he whispered, “I don’t know.”

The clearing held its breath. Even the wind stilled, as if the world itself was waiting.

Then Fenrir moved.

The pale flames rippling through his ethereal mane flickered, casting long, shifting shadows across Astarion’s face. The towering god stepped forward with deliberate ease, the ground barely seeming to register his weight. The air around them thickened, charged with something unseen, something that made Astarion’s skin prickle.

“If you intend to stay at my daughter’s side,” Fenrir rumbled, his voice softer now, almost contemplative, “it is only right that you be granted the opportunity to stand beside her as an equal.”

Astarion’s breath hitched. The words struck something raw inside him, something too fragile to touch. An equal.

He wasn’t sure why that hit harder than anything else Fenrir had said tonight. He barely had time to process it before the god continued.

“I cannot undo what was done to you.” Fenrir’s voice hardened, the weight of truth settling into each syllable. “Nor can I alter what you are.”

A pause. A shift.

Then— “However.”

The single word coiled in the air like a living thing, thick with promise.

“If enacting vengeance upon those who tormented you brings you even a measure of peace,” Fenrir rumbled, stepping closer, the glow of his spectral body casting eerie light over the clearing, “then I willingly offer you the means to do so.”

The words sent a shudder down Astarion’s spine. His fingers twitched against the hilt of the sword, his grip tightening unconsciously. Vengeance.

He had dreamed of it in passing, in the rare moments when survival had not consumed every thought, every breath. But it had always been just that - a dream. A whispered fantasy smothered beneath the weight of reality, buried beneath the cold, harsh truth that power had never belonged to him.

But now… now power was being offered.

Fenrir loomed over him, lowering his skull until his glowing pupils were level with Astarion’s, their unnatural light reflecting in his crimson gaze. His voice came softer, but no less intimidating.

“All you have to do,” he murmured, “is take it.”

Astarion’s pulse thundered in his ears. His mind spun, grasping for logic, for reason, for something to keep him from slipping beneath the tide rising in his chest. But the armor pressed against him like second skin, the sword thrummed at his hip, and his blood felt like it was burning with something dangerously close to hunger.

He wanted this.

Before he could speak, before he could even process the storm inside his own head, Fenrir exhaled and drew back, rising to his full, towering height once more. The fire along his body pulsed, the glow illuminating the deep-set runes along his spectral form.

And then - impossibly - the god smirked.

“Regardless of your decision,” he said, turning away, a thread of amusement threading through his voice, “you still get to keep the sword and armor.”

The blue flames surged, swallowing his form as the runes flared one last time. Then, with a final flicker of light, Fenrir was gone.

The clearing fell silent.

Astarion remained still, rooted to the spot, his body refusing to move. The weight of Fenrir’s absence pressed against him, almost as suffocating as his presence had been. His hand drifted across his chest, tracing the armor’s elaborate filigree as if to confirm that it was still real. That this was real.

Slowly, as if afraid to disrupt the stillness, he turned toward Onyx.

The wolf had not moved, his golden eyes still wide, his ears pinned back in what could only be pure, undiluted astonishment. His gaze flickered between Astarion, the dormant stones, and the celestial armor now wrapped around the vampire’s body, his expression unreadable.

Astarion exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. His voice, when it came, was quiet, flat, and utterly incredulous.

“Onyx,” he muttered, staring at the wolf, “what in the Nine Hells just happened?”

Onyx opened his jaws. Then closed them again.

For a long moment, the great wolf just stared at him, his head tilting slightly, as if still trying to make sense of the chaos they had just witnessed. Finally, he let out a long breath, ears flicking forward as he settled back onto his haunches.

“I think,” Onyx said, his deep voice slow, cautious, like he was trying to believe the words even as he spoke them, “you’ve just been asked to swear an oath of vengeance as a Paladin of Fenrir.”

Astarion blinked.

The words rattled through his skull, rearranging themselves in a way that somehow made even less sense the longer he considered them. His lips parted, then closed. Then parted again.

Then, finally, after a long, stunned pause, he choked out—

“…He wants me to be a what?!”

Chapter Text

The common room of the Last Light inn smelled of damp wood, old ale, and the faint lingering traces of blood and smoke. Astarion paced the length of the room, boots scuffing against the worn floorboards, his movements sharp, agitated. Every step was an attempt to outwalk the thoughts clawing at his skull, but they followed, nipping at his heels, inescapable.

He wished Ashara was here.

When he'd first returned to the inn after his interview - no, his trial - with Fenrir, she had been just as bewildered as he was about  her father's offer. He had avoided telling her the full extent of what had happened in that clearing, not quite ready to face the pity in her eyes. Unwilling to let her know the full depth of his helplessness.

But before they could truly talk, Halasin had dragged her and Vaarl off on some mission to restore the 'spirit of the land' or some other druidic nonsense he hadn't been in the right frame of mind to care about. Jaheira and her Harpers had already departed, leading the refugees toward Baldur's Gate, their departure leaving the inn feeling emptier than before.

Now, it was just Ashara's merry little band of misfits left to haunt these halls. He felt their eyes like needles pricking at his skin, some curious, others wary.

Karlach, at least, had found it hilarious. The moment she heard Fenrir's proposition, she had thrown her head back and laughed, loud and full-bellied, nearly falling out of her chair.

The sound of it still rang in his ears.

Astarion halted abruptly, his agitation bubbling over. He rounded on Onyx, who sprawled lazily by the hearth, watching him with unreadable golden eyes. The great wolf's massive form was a picture of indifference, tail flicking idly against the floor.

"What in the Nine Hells is that blasted god of yours thinking?" Astarion demanded, gesturing wildly. "I can't be a paladin!"

Onyx's only response was a wide, cavernous yawn, his fangs gleaming like polished ivory before he shut his jaws with an audible click.

Gale, who had been leaning against a support beam, arms crossed, regarded Astarion with an expression teetering between fascination and wariness. "It's certainly... unorthodox," he mused. "There are no records of a vampire ever taking up a divine oath."

Astarion let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yes, well, that's likely because divine magic and undead don't exactly make for the most stable combination, do they? We're usually on the receiving end of such things." He gestured dramatically. "Fatally, I might add."

Rolan, perched near the bar, smirked into his drink. "Asking a vampire to be a paladin is like hiring someone allergic to flowers to run a florist's shop." He lifted his tankard in a mock toast. "Though I'd pay good coin to watch them sneeze through it."

Astarion shot him a withering glare. "Thank you for that utterly useless contribution."

Rolan only grinned, completely unfazed. "Oh, come on. You have to admit, it's hilariously ironic."

Astarion opened his mouth for another scathing retort but hesitated.

Because, damn it all, it was ironic.

The thought curled around him, slithering into the cracks of his mind. The idea of defying centuries of tradition, of spitting in the face of everything sacred lore dictated - it had a certain appeal, didn't it? He could already imagine the horrified expressions of scholars and clerics alike, choking on their wine at the mere thought of a vampire being blessed with divine magic.

He shook his head sharply, trying to clear the thought from his mind. Apology be damned, he would not be Fenrir's pawn.

Astarion threw up his hands, pacing once more in an attempt to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of it all. "Setting aside the very real possibility that wielding divine magic might incinerate me on the spot—" he spun on his heel, gesturing wildly at the gathered faces "—I'm not the righteous crusader type! Do you honestly expect to see me running around, championing justice, smiting the wicked, and being a gods-damned beacon of morality?!"

A quiet cough from the corner broke through his tirade.

"I've never been that in my life," Zevlor said, his voice measured but carrying a faint hint of amusement.

Astarion hesitated. A flicker of guilt wormed its way beneath his irritation. "Ah... Apologies, old chap - forgot about the paladin in the room." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before waving a hand vaguely toward Zevlor. "But surely you, of all people, must see how I am the worst possible candidate for this."

Zevlor watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke. "I think you're confusing a Vengeance Paladin with the larger than life zealots made popular in bardic tales." His voice was calm, but beneath it lay something deeper - something tired, edged with quiet understanding. "It's true that I seek justice, that I try to protect those who cannot protect themselves." His jaw tightened, his gaze momentarily clouding with memories of failure, of lives lost. But then he straightened, that same unwavering resolve hardening his features. "I am not fanatical about it though. And I would not have not broken my oath by failing to smite you on sight - something a Paladin of Devotion would have been duty-bound to do."

Astarion blinked. He had not considered that before. Still, the idea sat poorly in his chest, coiling tight like a knot that refused to loosen.

He exhaled sharply, raking his fingers through his hair, messing up its careful styling without a second thought. "Regardless," he said, voice edged with frustration, "I am hardly the type to lead the charge. I stick to the shadows, I pick off my enemies from a comfortable distance, preferably while they're blissfully unaware of my presence."

His gaze flickered downward, catching the gleam of silver wrapping around his body like a second skin. His lip curled in distaste. "And just look at this ghastly thing," he sneered, running his hands down the pristine metal. "How, pray tell, am I supposed to remain unseen when I glow like a gods-damned bonfire the moment a candle so much as—"

The words died on his tongue.

Something moved against his chest, like ink bleeding into water, rippling outward in slow, curling tendrils. A strange sensation ghosted through the metal, as though it were responding to him.

Darkness spread from his sternum, spilling across his torso, seeping into the silver like an eclipse swallowing the moon. It bled down his arms, his legs, coating every gleaming surface in a deep, matte blue-black - the color of a starless sky, the kind of darkness that devoured light rather than reflected it. Even the sword at his hip changed, its steel darkening, blackened like shadow-forged iron.

Silence. His companions stared, some in open-mouthed shock, others with cautious intrigue.

Astarion's breath stilled. His fingers traced the altered armor, pressing into the cool metal, feeling the shift in texture.

"Oh..." The word barely left him, breathless, caught between disbelief and fascination.

Karlach was the first to break the stunned silence. She let out a slow, appreciative whistle. "Okay... now that is pretty damn cool."

Astarion dragged his gaze away from his newly darkened armor, still adjusting to the way it drank the light rather than catching it. He didn't know whether to be impressed or unnerved.

Gale hummed thoughtfully, stroking his beard, his expression shifting from curiosity to something bordering on academic intrigue. "It would appear that Fenrir really wants you to accept the job."

Rolan, lounging against a table, laced his fingers behind his head and smirked. "Fenrir, I personally think Astarion would look fantastic in yellow and purple stripes." He spoke loudly, gaze flicking upward as if addressing the god directly.

Astarion shot him a glare but, against his better judgment, flicked his eyes down at his armor for the briefest second. Nothing changed. He exhaled, relieved.

Rolan clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. "Damn."

Astarion groaned and let himself drop onto a nearby bench, his posture unraveling as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. His fingers trembled slightly, and he hated it - hated how unmoored he felt, how the past few days had reduced him to this raw, frayed thing.

"This is ridiculous..." His voice came thin, brittle, cracking under the weight of everything pressing down on him. He shook his head, exhaling a mirthless laugh. "I can't... I'm not—"

Onyx, who had been watching quietly from his spot by the hearth, finally spoke. "Fenrir knows you are a vampire, and yet he has still offered you the chance to become his chosen. I think you may be surprised to learn what that actually entails."

Astarion let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh really? Do enlighten me."

Before Onyx could reply, a new voice rolled through the room - smooth and deep. "Oh, you know. Wielding divine power. Smiting enemies. The occasional sacred quest in my name - standard paladin duties, I would imagine."

The air in the room changed.

The fire crackled, and yet the warmth seemed to drain from the space, replaced by something heavier, something ancient. A stillness fell over the gathered group, every breath caught in suspended hesitation.

Astarion stiffened, his body already reacting before his mind caught up. Heads turned toward the entrance, toward the figure now striding into the inn as if it belonged to him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. An elven man, though something about him was off in a way that made the skin on Astarion's arms prickle. His long, wavy black hair framed a face of sharp angles, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips curled in the suggestion of amusement. He wore dark leather armor lined with thick fur - the kind built for a hunter who thrived in the cold. But it was his eyes that set him apart. Vivid blue, too bright, the shade of ice catching the light just before it cracks. They burned with an unnatural radiance, not mortal in the slightest.

"Honestly," the man continued, rolling his shoulders as if loosening the body he now wore, "I can't really remember. It's been forever since I had a champion that wasn't a soulshard."

Murmurs swept through the room, a ripple of disbelief, shock, wariness.

Astarion's own eyebrows nearly shot off his face. He swallowed and forced himself to stand, even as something cold coiled in his stomach. He knew. Of course, he knew. And yet, seeing him like this - wearing mortal flesh as if it were nothing more than a borrowed coat - made the reality settle like a stone in Astarion's gut.

"Fenrir?" His voice was steady, measured, but there was a tautness beneath it, a careful restraint.

The elf bared his teeth in a grin, sharp and impossibly white. "That's Lord Fenrir to you."

Astarion scoffed, arms folding across his chest. "Not happening."

Fenrir let out a sound that was part growl, part laugh - something animal, something that carried just a fraction of the beast that lurked beneath his flesh. But he let the matter drop, instead mirroring Astarion's stance, arms folding across his broad chest.

He studied him with something that bordered on amusement, and it made the vampire bristle.

Astarion narrowed his eyes, gesturing toward the god's new form. "So this is what... your avatar?"

Fenrir glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing the way they moved. "Yes. I haven't used it in such a long time, I'd nearly forgotten how it feels to be so... small."

Astarion raised an eyebrow. Small? This elf was nearly as massive as Halsin.

Fenrir caught the look and smirked. "My real body is still back in Cania, of course." He rolled a shoulder, stretching as if testing the limits of his temporary vessel. "But I can use this form without technically breaking the terms of my imprisonment." His eyes flickered, a shadow of something colder passing through them. "Though I probably shouldn't stick around too long."

Astarion forced himself to breathe, his fingers uncurling from where his nails had nearly broken skin.

"Fantastic," he muttered, voice dry. "That's just what we needed. A disgraced god on house arrest casually stretching his legs in our inn."

A thought struck Astarion like lightning - sharp, sudden, and far too tempting to ignore. His head tilted, the hint of something dangerous curling at the edges of his lips.

"Do you feel whatever this avatar of yours experiences?"

Fenrir barely looked up from where he was idly prodding at his own arm, testing the flex of muscle and sinew like a craftsman inspecting his latest project. "Hmm? Of course I do. That's the whole point of having one."

Astarion's lips curled into something dark and feral. "Good to know..."

The shift was too sudden for Fenrir to react. Astarion moved like a whip, his fist connecting with the god's face in a brutal, clean strike. Fenrir staggered back, off-balance, his broad frame crashing onto the floorboards with a resounding thud.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Weapons scraped from scabbards, spellfire crackled in readied hands, and every eye bore into the scene with stunned disbelief.

Fenrir, sprawled on the floor, blinked up at the vampire, utterly floored - both literally and figuratively.

Astarion stood over him, his breath sharp and unsteady, his knuckles still tingling from the force of the strike. His whole body vibrated with the aftershock, a raw energy surging through him, something visceral that had been begging for release. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of all his fury.

"That's for what you did to me, you bastard!"

Karlach gaped, her voice torn between horror and awe. "Oh my gods—Astarion! What the hells?!"

Gale let out a low groan, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though physically pained by what had just occurred. "I question the wisdom of that decision."

Onyx was on his feet in an instant, fur bristling, muscles taut with readiness.

Fenrir moved just as fast. One moment he was stunned, the next he was a force of nature, springing up to his full height. His expression twisted with rage, predatory features sharpening further as he wiped a hand across his nose. When he pulled his fingers away, a thin streak of blood glistened in the firelight.

"You...!" Fenrir sputtered, his breath coming sharp and ragged. "Why you little—"

Astarion forced himself to hold his ground, even as cold terror slithered up his spine, wrapping around his ribs like chains.

I just sucker-punched a god.

A thread of hysteria curled in his chest, twisting between the raw, unfiltered rage and the sharp, wild thrill of it.

This is it. This is where I die... again.

And yet, despite it all - despite the searing panic in his bones, the undeniable madness of what he'd just done - he grinned.

Totally worth it.

Then he noticed his companions. Their bodies tensing, their hands inching toward weapons, muscles coiling in preparation. Ready. Not to run. Not to abandon him.

To fight. To defend him.

Fenrir's gaze flickered, sharp as a blade, scanning each of them in turn. He saw it too. The sudden shift in the air, the way everyone had closed ranks, no longer passive observers but threats. Ready to throw themselves into battle against a god if it meant standing between him and Astarion.

The fury in Fenrir's face wavered, his lips parting slightly, his expression twisting into something... unreadable.

And then, to Astarion's utter disbelief, the god laughed.

It started as a low rumble, then built into something rich and full, shaking the very walls with its depth. Not mockery. But something else entirely.

Fenrir rubbed his jaw, rolling it as if testing the lingering ache. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something close to approval.

"I suppose I deserved that."

Onyx stepped forward, his voice like ice. "Yes. You did."

Karlach, suspicious and still bristling with anger, glanced between them, her tail flicking in agitation. "Why? What'd he do?"

Astarion's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, nothing much." His voice was deceptively smooth, dripping with venom. "Except making me relive two hundred years worth of pure shit."

Fenrir looked away, his expression tightening, guilt flickering before his arms crossed over his broad chest. "I already apologized for that." His voice was gruff, defensive.

Astarion scoffed, the sound sharp, cutting. "Oh, so you think a sword and some fancy armor are enough to make me forget how you brute-forced your way into my mind - how you dug up every agony, every humiliation, every horror I've spent centuries trying to bury?" His voice rose, words laced with raw, unforgiving fury.

A sudden, furious voice cut through the room like a blade.

"He did WHAT?!"

Fenrir winced, and Astarion swore he saw panic in the god's too-bright eyes.

Astarion looked toward the doorway, pulse hammering.

There stood Ashara.

Her expression was pure, unfiltered rage, her sapphire eyes burning as brightly as Fenrir's. Beside her stood Vaarl and Halsin, the druid holding an unconscious young boy in his arms.

And Astarion knew, that whatever was about to happen next, it was going to be glorious.

His smile was sharp and gleaming with wicked delight as he turned toward Ashara. "Hello, darling," he purred, voice dripping with honeyed malice. "Apologies, but I may have neglected to mention something about the little chat I had earlier with your father here."

Fenrir's eyes locked onto him, burning with a mix of anger and desperation. His jaw tensed, his entire body coiled as if he could physically will Astarion to shut up.

Astarion, naturally, did no such thing.

"He wanted to get to know me better," he continued airily, "but apparently, simply opening his mouth and asking questions was beneath him - so instead, he violated my privacy and took everything he wanted directly from my mind, without so much as a by-your-leave."

He let the words settle, let them sink in, savoring the way Ashara's eyes darkened, the way her breath hitched, the way every muscle in her body tensed.

Fenrir's expression sharpened instantly as his lips curled into a snarl. "Astarion.... you little shit."

An explosion of movement.

Ashara's body erupted into her massive wolf form, fur bristling as the shift tore through her. The sheer force of her transformation sent loose papers and tankards flying, the floorboards groaning beneath the sudden immensity of her weight.

Fenrir turned just in time to see death barreling toward him. His gaze flicked briefly back to Astarion, and in that fleeting moment, his expression was one of sheer, resigned exasperation.

"Well fu—"

Ashara's jaws locked around Fenrir's torso, her fangs sinking deep into his side as she ripped him backward with the force of a hurricane. With a vicious jerk of her head, she launched him through a window.

Glass shattered, shards spraying through the air like jagged stars as he was sent flying into the night.

Astarion winced at the sound of destruction but barely had time to recover before Ashara turned, pressing her massive nose against his temple in a quick, affectionate nudge.

Then - without hesitation - she barreled after Fenrir, tearing through the already broken frame and taking half the wall with her.

Astarion slowly turned to Onyx. The direwolf sat perfectly still, eyes closed, expression one of long-suffering endurance, as if this were merely another exhausting chapter in an infinitely tedious saga.

"Will Fenrir survive his daughter's wrath, do you think?" Astarion asked, his tone utterly mild.

Onyx let out a slow breath through his nose. "Physically?" He sighed. "Probably..."

From outside, there was the distinct sound of a strangled yell, followed by something crashing into the ground.

Karlach grinning like a fiend, was already moving toward the door. "Oh, this we have got to see."

There was no argument.

Everyone rushed outside, boots pounding against wooden planks as they spilled into the courtyard.

They arrived just in time to see Ashara whipping Fenrir back and forth like a terrier shaking a rat, her massive paws digging into the earth as she snarled. Then, with a final, furious shake, she hurled him into the dried-up fountain at the courtyard's center.

The impact sent a shockwave through the stone, cracks webbing outward from where Fenrir landed in an undignified heap.

Astarion exhaled, tipping his head to the side, gaze sweeping over the god's battered form. There - just barely visible - a faint shimmer of mage armor flickered around him, the remnants of divine protection just enough to keep him from being utterly obliterated.

Rolan let out a long, appreciative whistle. "How is every bone in his body not dust?"

Fenrir groaned from where he lay sprawled, his head lolling slightly as he glanced toward them, very much alive but absolutely worse for wear.

Astarion crossed his arms, smirking. "Divine resilience, I'd imagine. Or sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness."

Fenrir groaned again. "Oh shut up."

Staggering to his feet, Fenrir rolled his shoulders with a grimace, one hand pressing against his ribs as if testing whether they were still intact. His other hand lifted in a gesture of appeasement, though the effort was somewhat undermined by the way he winced.

"Sweetie..." he began carefully, voice tinged with forced calm. "Can we please just talk about this?"

Ashara's body was a coiled spring, every muscle taut, her hackles bristling. Then, for the first time, her voice thundered out in its full, terrifying force.

"Don't 'sweetie' me!"

The sheer volume of it sent a ripple through the air, enough to make even the ground beneath them tremble.

Even Karlach - the berserker with a war cry loud enough to wake the dead - flinched.

"You chose for centuries, to not be a part of my life. You have no right to waltz back in now, when it suits you, and cast judgment on the man I love!"

Astarion's breath hitched. The man I love.

Warmth surged in his chest, fierce and all-consuming. He had already heard her say it of course, but it still felt like something impossible, something too good to be real.

Karlach elbowed him, grinning. "Keep smiling like that and you'll split your face in half."

Astarion hadn't even realized he was smiling. He quickly schooled his expression into something more neutral - though, judging by the way Karlach smirked, he wasn't entirely successful.

Fenrir's lips curled, his features still lined with pain but his stance no longer defensive. "I needed to know he wasn't just using you for your power."

Ashara snarled, the sound a deep, rolling threat that sent another pulse of unease through the gathered onlookers.

"I wouldn't have cared if he was!"

Astarion coughed into his hand. "Just to be clear, I'm not - well, not anymore at least."

Fenrir pointed at him, his expression triumphant. "See? He admits he was using you. I was just making sure that was no longer the case."

Ashara's snarl deepened. "By mentally torturing him?!"

Fenrir barely had time to curse before she lunged.

Her massive jaws latched onto his leg, and Astarion had the distinct pleasure of watching a god get yanked off his feet like an overgrown doll.

Astarion watched, morbidly fascinated, as Fenrir was slammed repeatedly into the dirt, his body whipped through the air like a dishrag before being hurled toward the inn.

Fenrir hit the ground in a violent, tumbling skid, leaving a deep furrow in the earth before his battered form screeched to a stop against the wall - directly next to where Astarion stood.

Astarion wafted away the cloud of dust and peered down at Fenrir's thoroughly disheveled form.

The god wheezed, head lolling slightly as he let out a breathless, "Bloody hells..." He coughed, spitting blood onto the ground before giving a wry chuckle through split lips. "She definitely inherited her mother's temper."

His gaze flickered to Astarion, glinting with something wild and strangely... amused.

"You absolutely sure you want to date her?"

Astarion blinked.

Of all the things the god could have said, that wasn't one he expected.

There was something strangely self-aware in Fenrir's expression, something teetering between reckless audacity and complete madness, and for a brief moment, Astarion was almost... intrigued.

Ashara stood, panting, her entire body still trembling with rage, her sapphire eyes locked onto Fenrir as if daring him to get up again.

Fenrir let his head drop back against the ground with an exhausted sigh.

"Feel free to step in and defend your creator anytime now, Onyx."

The direwolf, who had been watching with the exhausted patience of someone entirely too used to this, stretched - then let out a long yawn before promptly walking back inside the inn.

Astarion barely managed to swallow his laugh.

Karlach huffed, one hand on her hip. "Can't you just, I dunno, defend yourself?"

Fenrir cracked one bloodied eye open and turned his head just enough to look at her. "I could. But I might hurt her if I do."

Then his eyes widened. Ashara was stalking toward him again.

"Alright, alright," Fenrir blurted, panic flickering briefly across his features. He turned his gaze to Astarion. "I'll let you personally summon two 'Hounds of Death' if you calm her down."

Astarion arched a brow. "Make it eight and I'll consider it."

Fenrir scowled. "Five, but only twice a day."

Astarion smirked. "Done."

He stepped forward, placing himself between Ashara and her father. She halted immediately, her massive head tilting down toward him in confusion.

Astarion reached up as she lowered her head to him. His touch ghosted along her eye ridges, tracing soft patterns across the bone as he murmured, his voice soothing, steady.

"I think he gets the message, my love."

Ashara let out a sharp exhale, her warm breath ruffling his hair. "But he hurt you."

Astarion's fingers curled slightly into the fur underneath her ears. His smile was small, something private, something real.

"Lots of people have hurt me," he murmured. "But I can count on one hand the number of times any of them have ever apologized for it."

Astarion's fingers continued their slow, soothing strokes across Ashara's fur, feeling the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her eyes, still dark with fury, flicked toward Fenrir as he hauled himself upright, brushing dirt from his tattered armour.

"I want to hear him say it," she demanded, her voice low, dangerous.

Fenrir huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his bruised face twisting into something almost petulant. He looked away, clearly weighing whether his pride was worth indulging his daughter's fury.

However, his hesitation was abruptly cut short when he turned to find himself face-to-face with Karlach.

"So do I," the tiefling said, her voice carrying an edge of steel beneath the usual warmth.

Karlach was one of the only people who could meet him at eye level, and she took full advantage of it. She loomed, her frame radiating heat from the embers beneath her skin, her eyes gleaming with challenge.

The greataxe in her grip swung lazily at her side, her fingers flexing around the hilt in a manner that was just subtle enough to be a threat, while her hammer-like prosthetic tapped against her thigh.

Fenrir's brow twitched downward. His gaze flicked between her and the weapon, calculating, assessing.

"You do know," he mused, "that I could blast you across the entire map with a snap of my fingers?"

Karlach's grin widened, teeth flashing as she leaned in just slightly. "Bring it, pops."

A beat of silence.

Then—

Fenrir smiled.

Astarion watched as something flickered across the god's bruised features, something feral and appreciative, something that recognized a fellow kindred spirit in the language of recklessness.

But then he sighed, long-suffering and dramatic, and turned back to Astarion. Despite one eye being swollen shut, the god carried himself with as much dignity as he could manage.

Astarion arched a brow, folding his arms, watching as the Fenrir strode up to him and - surprisingly - bowed. A formal, measured motion, graceful, despite his injuries.

"I apologize," Fenrir said, his voice carrying enough weight that the gathered onlookers fell silent.

"For dismissing your rights as an individual," Fenrir continued, "and for invading your mind without permission." His voice was steady, sincere, though a hint of shame lingered beneath the words. "I deeply regret the pain I caused you, and I hope there is a way I can make up for my actions."

Astarion stared. He shouldn't be this surprised. And yet, he was.

How many of the other gods would be willing to do the same? To publicly admit wrongdoing, to lower themselves before a mortal - not once but twice - and offer a genuine apology in front of witnesses?

He could count them on... no hands, really.

Fenrir straightened, his sharp features tense as the courtyard held its breath.

Despite himself, Astarion felt a thread of his anger unravel. There was something... almost disarming about the god's apparent sincerity, about his willingness to meet this moment with something other than arrogance or dismissal.

Movement caught Astarion's eye. Onyx had reemerged from the inn, standing at the edge of the courtyard. His golden gaze was fixed on Fenrir, but there was something different about it.

Sadness.

It was subtle - just a shift in his expression, a tightness in his posture - but it was there. Astarion's gut twisted slightly at the sight.

He sighed in resignation before inclining his head graciously. "Apology accepted."

A subtle exhale escaped Fenrir's lips, relief flickering across his face before he turned his attention upward, meeting Ashara's piercing stare.

"Will that suffice?" he asked.

Ashara huffed, a blast of cold air hitting him in the face. "For now."

"Good." Fenrir turned on his heel, muttering, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need a stiff drink - and maybe a new spleen."

He strode toward the inn, rolling his shoulders, wincing slightly and swearing as something audibly popped in his back.

Then, just as he passed Karlach, he paused.

Turning to her with a considering look, he tapped a finger against his chin.

"Oh," he mused, "and remind me to look at your chest later."

Karlach's eyes widened - her pupils blown in startled disbelief as a hint of dark pink flared at the edges of her cheeks.

Onyx, who had been watching from the sidelines, visibly cringed and, with a long, pained sigh, dropped his head against a wooden railing with a loud thunk.

Fenrir glanced at Onyx, confused. "What?" His brows furrowed. "I thought you said she was too hot?"

Onyx let out a long, exhausted groan.

Astarion bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep himself from laughing as Karlach's lips slowly stretched into an absolutely wicked grin.

The genuine confusion on Fenrir's face only made it funnier.

Karlach chuckled, resting her greataxe over her shoulder. "Oh, you're definitely Ashara's dad."

Fenrir stared at her for a long moment, tilting his head in that canine way of his, before exhaling and muttering under his breath as he strode inside.

"Mortals. Why do they have to be so... confusing?"

Ashara remained motionless, staring at the door Fenrir had disappeared through. The energy from the fight drained from her in a slow, crashing wave, leaving her limbs trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline. Her massive frame lowered, her paws shifting against the dirt as she sat down hard, struggling to process what had just happened.

She exhaled, staring blankly at the ground. "Astarion... I just attacked my father."

A beat.

"Yes..." Astarion's voice was entirely too pleased. "And may I say, it was absolutely magnificent."

She turned her head toward him, aiming for an exasperated look, but realizing it probably didn't translate well on her skeletal features.

Astarion, ever perceptive, merely smirked, shrugging off his cloak with a flourish. He held it up, amusement dancing in his crimson eyes before reaching into his hip bag and pulling out a long, dark green tunic. "I thought it a wise precaution to start carrying around spare clothing if you're going to make a habit of shifting like this."

Ashara blinked, staring at him for a long moment. Then, despite everything, warmth unfurled in her chest, something tender and fond creeping through her thoughts.

Dark smoke curled around her, wrapping her in a thick, swirling shroud as she let go of the power, felt her body contract, her bones rearranging, her muscles reshaping. When her fingers touched the ground, she was herself again - just in time to feel the warmth of Astarion's cloak being draped over her shoulders.

She pulled it closer, the scent of him lingering in the fabric, comforting.

Wordlessly, Astarion handed her the tunic before turning his back, giving her privacy. The small gesture sent another swell of warmth through her - considerate as always. She pulled the tunic over her head, feeling the fabric settle against her skin.

Without hesitation, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him from behind, threading her arms under his and pressing her chin against his shoulder.

He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. Instead, he leaned into her, pressing his head against hers and lacing his fingers with her own. They stood there, locked in quiet stillness, until Astarion twisted in her arms to face her fully.

He reached up, brushing a strand of loose hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with an affectionate touch. "You know," he mused, voice teasing but carrying something thoughtful beneath it, "I'm almost tempted to take Fenrir's deal just so I can request some enchanted clothing for you as one of my 'divine favors'."

Ashara's brow furrowed, the warmth in her chest cooling as she was reminded of the reason behind tonight's chaos. "He doesn't deserve you."

Astarion smirked, tilting his head in mock arrogance. "Oh, I know, darling." Then, his tone softened, the amusement in his expression giving way to something quieter, more serious. "But I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this."

Ashara leaned back slightly, studying him. There was something heavier in his words now, something deliberate.

Astarion lifted a hand, cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded path over her skin. "As powerful as you are, my love, you can't be at my side every minute of every day - much as I'd like that."

His expression darkened slightly, a shadow passing behind his eyes.

"Durge's ability to control me brought back unpleasant memories." His voice lowered, the words laced with something raw. "I never wanted to feel that helpless again, but both he and Bâlorak - and even your father - have driven home a truth I didn't want to acknowledge."

His fingers curled against her skin. "That I'm powerless to stop people from hurting me... or hurting you."

Ashara's throat tightened, the weight of his confession settling deep. She pulled him closer, clutching him, as if her presence alone could chase away the echoes of that helplessness.

Then, after a long pause, Astarion sighed, resting his chin against her head. "I was considering trying to usurp Cazador's 'Rite of Profane Ascension' and taking his power for myself."

Ashara's body stiffened. She pulled back immediately, eyes wide, heart clenching. "You can't be serious... it could kill you!"

Astarion exhaled, almost tiredly. "Maybe," he admitted. "But think of the power I'd wield, and I could walk in the sun without fearing I'd turn into a mindflayer."

Ashara's stomach twisted, and she pulled away from his embrace completely, taking a step back. "But... Raphael said all of Cazador's spawn were meant to die in the ritual."

Astarion's expression hardened, an edge of scorn creeping into his voice. "My 'siblings' lured thousands of people to their deaths over the centuries. I doubt Baldur's Gate would miss them."

Ashara's brow furrowed. "Aren't they just like you, though? Victims of Cazador's control?"

A shadow passed over Astarion's face, his confident mask slipping for the briefest moment. He glanced away, voice suddenly quieter. "I... I suppose so."

Then, as if shaking the thought from his mind, he straightened, flashing a quicksilver smile. "The point is, Cazador's ritual - while tempting - is an uncertainty. I don't even know if I could complete it, or whether it would kill me. Not to mention he's in Baldur's Gate. Whereas Fenrir is literally in the next room."

His crimson eyes found hers again. "So why not take the power offered to me here and now?"

Ashara swallowed, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs.

After a long moment, she moved, stepping close again, resting her head against his chest. "So long as you're sure about this..."

Astarion let out a slow, thoughtful sigh, his arms wrapping around her once more, his chin coming to rest atop her head. "The idea of me of all people being a paladin still seems ridiculous, but maybe it won't be so bad?" A hint of a smirk returned to his voice. "The armor is certainly lighter than I expected, so perhaps the role will be too."

Ashara tilted her head up slightly, a smile tugging at her lips. "You do look especially nice in it."

Astarion scoffed, gesturing down at himself. "Nice? Darling, I don't need a reflection to know that this looks fabulous."

Ashara laughed, shaking her head. "I preferred you in silver. You looked..." She hesitated for a moment before finishing, "beautiful."

Astarion stilled.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his crimson eyes flickering with something softer, something deeper. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "Coming from you," he murmured, "that's practically a love sonnet."

Ashara's heart fluttered. Then, as if drawn together by something unseen, their lips met.

The kiss was slow, deep, lingering, and she melted into it, pressing herself closer, fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck.

Astarion broke away just slightly, barely an inch between them, his breath warm against her lips.

She made a small sound of protest, already missing the contact.

Astarion chuckled, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her waist. "Don't look at me like that, darling." His voice was a lazy purr, teasing but edged with a very real sense of restraint. "If we start something here, Onyx will never let us hear the end of it - neither will Fenrir, I would imagine."

Ashara's heart stuttered in her chest, warmth flickering there before it was smothered by the heavy weight of reality crashing down again. She swallowed, her throat tight, and pulled back slightly, trying to steady herself. "My father is here... actually here." Her voice felt small, the words barely a whisper against the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. "Why now? What does he want?"

Astarion exhaled, tilting his head in that ever-so-slightly infuriating way of his. "Maybe you should go ask him?"

A flutter of anxiety rippled through her. Her grip on Astarion instinctively tightened. "I don't think I can face him after what I just did."

Astarion's chuckle broke through the tension, warm and teasing. "I think he rather enjoyed it."

Ashara blinked, her confusion written plainly on her face. "What?"

Astarion simply gestured toward the inn, already turning to walk, his voice casual but carrying a hint of underlying amusement. "I'll explain later." Then, as an afterthought, he glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, and who's that boy I saw Halsin holding?"

Ashara followed after him, glad for the temporary distraction. "His name is Thaniel. He's the fey spirit that used to watch over these lands, but something is wrong with him - Halsin can probably tell you more." She sighed. "Vaarl and I were just there to keep the remaining shadows at bay while Halsin rescued him. I would have invited you along, but we only needed my frostfire and Vaarl's new radiant spells."

Astarion let out an exaggerated huff, placing a hand over his chest. "Hmph... I could have come along for moral support."

Ashara huffed a small laugh as they stepped into the inn. The room was quiet, thick with tension. Their companions stood warily, bodies tense, eyes locked on Fenrir.

The god was seated on a bench by the central hearth, an enormous tankard of ale in hand, drinking with the kind of single-minded focus one only had after being thoroughly beaten. He lowered the tankard with a satisfied groan, smacking his lips. "Damn... I'd forgotten how good this stuff tastes."

Then his eyes met Ashara's.

His posture tensed slightly, the casual air around him shifting into something more guarded. Slowly, he set the tankard down beside him, his movements deliberate, as if wary of provoking her further.

Ashara's stomach twisted. The words she wanted to say were stuck somewhere deep inside her, tangled up with the mess of emotions she didn't know how to handle. There were a thousand questions, a thousand accusations, and yet, she felt utterly lost.

Astarion, always aware, gave her a small nod and stepped back slightly, his presence still grounding but offering her space.

Taking a slow breath, Ashara stepped forward. She didn't quite know what to expect - her heart was beating too fast for clarity, and her thoughts were a mess of frustration, longing, and doubt. She stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between them, and when she finally spoke, her voice was steady despite the storm inside her. "Father."

Fenrir dipped his head in acknowledgment, his voice softer than before. "Daughter."

The weight of the moment settled between them.

Ashara's breath caught. She wanted to speak, to demand answers, to shout at him, but instead, her thoughts scattered. She was still so angry, so hurt, yet in the same breath, there was this overwhelming ache to finally bridge the gap that had existed between them her entire life.

Fenrir seemed to sense the struggle in her, and slowly, he rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving her. His massive form loomed in front of her, but instead of the terrifying god she had always imagined, he was suddenly just... there. Standing in front of her. Her real father, so close, so within her reach, for the first time ever.

The realization cracked something in her chest.

The breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding released in a slow, uneven exhale. Before she could stop herself - before she could think too much about it - her arms moved of their own accord.

And suddenly, she was hugging him.

Fenrir froze at first, his body rigid with surprise, but after a brief, suspended moment, he softened. His arms wrapped around her - large, strong, and warm - and pulled her close. Ashara clenched her jaw, her throat burning as she pressed her forehead against his chest, trying to hold back the sudden sting of tears.

Her voice came quiet, muffled into his armor. "I'm still mad at you."

A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her skin. "I don't blame you." He exhaled, his voice carrying something almost... regretful. "I haven't exactly been a shining example of parenthood. Or godhood, for that matter."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching his face for something more - anything more. "What's changed? You said you couldn't be a part of my life, that you were too afraid of growing close to me..."

Fenrir took a step back, folding his arms across his broad chest, his posture suddenly more guarded. His gaze flickered away, as if the conversation had drifted into territory he wasn't entirely comfortable with. "Let's just say I've had my eyes opened by a couple of people recently."

He exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair before turning away from her. He strode back toward the hearth, his heavy steps muffled by the worn floorboards. When he reached the bench, he sank onto it heavily, forearms resting on his knees, eyes locked on the flickering flames as though they might hold the answers he sought.

"Selûne paid me another visit." His voice was quieter now, lost somewhere between reflection and regret. "She told me that Shar had her daughter, Aylin, murdered. Apparently, the aasimar was chained up here in the shadow-cursed lands and used as the source of Ketheric Thorm's immortality."

The revelation sent a ripple through the room.

Gale sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening. "So the Nightsong relic was actually a person?"

Fenrir nodded once, the fire casting jagged shadows over his face. "Yes. Selûne's own flesh and blood."

Ashara felt something deep and cold settle in her chest - a grief not just for the aasimar's suffering, but for Selûne herself. A goddess, stripped of her own child, watching helplessly as she was used to fuel something monstrous.

She stepped closer, her voice soft with understanding. "Selûne must be heartbroken."

Fenrir let out a slow breath, his fingers curling slightly. "She is. And furious at me for being such a coward."

Ashara frowned. "I don't understand..."

Fenrir turned his head, and when his gaze met hers, there was something softer in it - something vulnerable.

"She thoroughly scolded me." His voice held an odd warmth beneath the sorrow. "Told me I should treasure every moment I have with you while you still live. That the fear of losing you should never have been an excuse to keep my distance."

A low, irritated growl rumbled from Onyx's chest. "I've been trying to tell you that for centuries."

Fenrir rolled his eyes, the weight of the conversation breaking just slightly under the familiar, long-worn tension between him and his creation. "Yes, yes, I know." He waved a hand vaguely. "It obviously takes a neutral third party to reach me these days."

Then he turned back to Ashara, and his face shifted - something resolute settling in his features. "I can't stand on the sidelines anymore and let you face Bâlorak - and whatever twisted scheme the Dead Three have concocted - alone. And as much as I can't bear the thought of losing you one day..." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Letting you live another second, thinking that I don't care about you, hurts even worse."

Ashara barely had time to react before Fenrir stood, closing the space between them in a few powerful strides. His massive hands came up, cupping her face with surprising gentleness.

"You are the light of my life, Ashara." His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of raw emotion behind it. "The only spark of joy left in a cold, frozen existence. Without you... I would have ended my pathetic, tormented life eons ago."

Ashara's breath hitched, and the last of her restraint shattered.

Her tears fell, hot and unbidden, as she surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tighter, fiercer than before.

Fenrir exhaled sharply, as if the weight of the moment pressed into him, but his arms closed around her without hesitation, enveloping her in something warm and solid.

Somewhere in the room, Karlach sniffled. "I miss my dad..."

Ashara glanced over, blinking through her tears, just in time to see Onyx rise and pad over to the emotional tiefling. He sat down behind her, resting his massive chin on her shoulder, a silent offering of comfort.

Karlach let out a choked laugh, reaching up to scratch his fur, leaning into the warmth.

Ashara met Onyx's gaze over Karlach's shoulder, and in that instant, something clicked. For the first time, she truly saw it.

How Fenrir and Onyx weren't just two separate beings - how they were, in some ways, the same. A single existence split into two halves, bound by something deeper than flesh and blood.

A small, understanding smile curled at her lips as she pulled back slightly, looking up at Fenrir. His own eyes gleamed faintly, the firelight catching on unshed tears he stubbornly refused to let fall.

She smiled, warm and steady, reassuring.

The relief in his face was instant, his shoulders dropping slightly before he cleared his throat and stepped back, flustered, clearly scrambling to maintain whatever dignity he had left after such an open display of emotion.

Ashara wiped at her damp cheeks, a small grin playing at her lips as she exhaled, releasing some of the weight that had settled in her chest. Then, a thought struck her, and she raised a brow.

"Who was the other person?" she asked, her voice lighter now, curiosity threading through her words. "The other one who opened your eyes, I mean?"

Fenrir's expression soured immediately. His lip curled, his posture stiffening as he crossed his arms again. Then, without looking, he jerked his thumb in Astarion's direction.

"Him."

Astarion, who had been lounging against a table, watching the reunion with his usual air of detached amusement, jerked slightly at the sudden attention. His crimson eyes blinked in surprise, his posture stiffening.

"Me?" He gaped, momentarily caught off guard before quickly smoothing over his expression with a carefully crafted nonchalance. "Well, I'm flattered, naturally, even if I haven't the faintest idea what I have to do with any of this."

Fenrir didn't answer immediately. Instead, he began walking toward Astarion, his steps slow, measured.

Ashara felt her muscles tense, watching.

Astarion straightened slightly, his earlier amusement thinning as Fenrir closed the space between them with the steady inevitability of a predator advancing on its prey.

The firelight cast jagged shadows across the god's face as he came to a stop directly in front of Astarion, towering over him.

"You've spent two centuries living in misery and fear," Fenrir said, his voice low but firm, as if each word was being weighed before spoken. "You've been broken and rebuilt more times than you can count. You've walked the edge of madness, looked into the abyss, and yet here you are."

Astarion's jaw tightened. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his body utterly still.

"Still sane. Still fighting. Still surviving."

Fenrir leaned in slightly, the intensity of his presence pressing down like a stormfront.

"You're terrified of everything and everyone," he continued. "And yet, despite that fear, despite everything, you've chosen to stand beside my daughter, to love and protect her. You, a man who should have no reason to care about anyone but himself."

The tension coiled tighter in Astarion's body and Ashara saw his fingers twitching at his sides.

Then, Fenrir clenched his fists, leaned in closer, and growled, "Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?!"

Astarion's brows shot skyward.

Fenrir straightened, crossing his arms once more, glaring at the utterly bewildered vampire. "I am a being of millennia, I have seen countless empires rise and fall. I was once feared as the Bane of the Gods, the Scourge of Faerûn." His voice was edged with something sharp, something bitter.

Then he jabbed a finger into Astarion's chest.

"So I'll be damned if I let a sneaky, bloodsucking leech like you show more courage in a month than I have in the past thousand years."

Ashara started to move, ready to intervene if needed, but then - she hesitated.

Because something was changing.

Fenrir exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in every fiber of his being. "I ran from the thing I loved most, too afraid of loss to hold on to it. But you, a creature born of suffering, you stayed. You, who should have nothing left inside you but bitterness and hunger, found something worth fighting for. And that makes me look at myself and wonder... what in all the hells is my excuse?"

The tightness in Astarion's posture slackened, just slightly. His sharp, startled expression shifted, his lips twitching as if a thought had just clicked into place.

Slowly, deliberately, a smile curled at the edges of his mouth.

Fenrir's own scowl lessened, a shadow of something dangerously close to humour flickering across his features.

And for the first time, Ashara sensed something unspoken passing between them.

She didn't understand what it was. But whatever it was, it must have been important, because both of them relaxed. The tension in Astarion's shoulders faded, the sharpness in Fenrir's stance dulled, and for the first time since this conversation started, they weren't predator and prey, or god and mortal.

Astarion exhaled a short, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, this is certainly one for the history books."

Fenrir scowled, immediately back to full irritation. "I'll burn anything that gets written about this."

Then he turned, sweeping his sharp, predatory gaze across the rest of the room.

"That goes for all of you." His voice was firm, laced with unmistakable command. "Nothing said in this room leaves these walls. Understood?"

A wave of nods rippled through their companions and Vaarl's voice piped up from the infirmary room, "Understood, jhe'stil Fenrir."

Astarion, still smirking, glanced sideways at Ashara, his voice laced with dry amusement. "I do hope you realize what an honor this is, my love." He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "To have a god so openly envious of me."

Karlach snorted, shaking her head. "You're gonna milk this for all it's worth, aren't you?"

Fenrir raised an unimpressed brow, arms crossing over his chest. "Don't push it."

Astarion simply grinned, unrepentant, and gave a slight shrug before rolling his shoulders, shaking out the last vestiges of tension in his frame. "Right... let's hash out this whole paladin business, shall we?"

Fenrir looked equally relieved to shift the conversation and leaned back against a pillar, folding his arms as he eyed Astarion. "So, you will accept the mantle of champion then?"

Astarion held up a finger. "Hold on now, before you start planning the initiation ceremony, I still think this is a horrendous idea." He gestured vaguely to himself. "I am, after all, a creature of shadows. I don't smite things, I hunt them."

Fenrir scoffed, tilting his head. "I am known as the Lord of the Wild Hunt, if you recall. I don't care how you choose to fight, so long as the end result is the same."

Zevlor, who had been silent up until now, stepped forward, his expression measured. "About that... who exactly do you consider your enemies?"

Fenrir turned his sharp gaze onto the tiefling, looking him up and down as if only now truly noticing him. Then his lip curled slightly in distaste. "Ugh... one of Helm's lapdogs."

Zevlor tensed, but to his credit, kept his voice even. "It's true - I served Helm in Elturel. But it has been a long time since I called him my god."

Fenrir's expression brightened slightly, the tension in his frame loosening. "Oh? In that case - welcome to the discussion."

Ashara flicked a curious glance at Zevlor, noting the way he avoided her gaze. Something unspoken lingered there, something she'd have to press him about later.

Fenrir leaned forward, his expression sharpening. "In answer to your question - my enemies are those who would use strength and power to justify acts of immeasurable cruelty. The bullies, the sadists, the monsters who torture and kill without reason with a smile on their face."

Astarion raised a brow, his smirk twitching slightly. "And you want me to be your instrument of divine retribution? Isn't that a tad hypocritical?"

Karlach nudged him, her warm, ember-lit eyes serious beneath her grin. "Hey, that's not you."

Fenrir nodded, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. "The walking inferno is right. I read the pages of your life's story, Astarion. You have never once killed without reason - unless forced to by Cazador."

Astarion stiffened. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his body tensing with the reminder of Fenrir's intrusion into his mind.

Ashara stepped closer, brushing her fingers against his in silent reassurance. He glanced at her, hesitating for only a moment before threading his fingers through hers.

She leaned into him, pressing her weight gently against his arm. His grip in her hand tightened, grounding himself in her presence.

Fenrir watched the exchange, his own expression briefly subdued, lost in some silent contemplation. Then, after a moment, his shoulders squared as if he had come to a decision.

"I am an outcast god - so why not become the god of outcasts?"

The words carried weight, something unshakable behind them.

He turned back to Astarion, his tone measured, deliberate. "If you take an Oath of Vengeance in my name, your duty will be to champion those abandoned and scorned by the world - even those who hide in the shadows, shackled by chains they cannot break."

Zevlor's gaze flickered toward Astarion, his voice wry. "It would seem you are the perfect candidate for the job after all."

Astarion shifted uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line. His jaw worked as if chewing over something unpleasant. "Why would I waste my breath fighting for wretches like that?"

Fenrir shrugged. "Who else would fight for them - except someone who knows what it's like to be one?"

Astarion's expression darkened. "Most aren't worth saving."

Fenrir tilted his head slightly. "Maybe. But those that are - don't they deserve to be heard?"

The silence that followed was thick, heavy.

Ashara watched as Astarion's gaze flickered, staring somewhere far beyond the room, lost in thoughts she couldn't reach.

Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed. His body straightened, and when he looked back at Fenrir, his expression was resigned as he sighed and rolled his eyes. "All right fine, what do I need to do?"

Then, just as quickly, a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. He cast a sideways glance at Ashara and smirked. "Secret handshake? Blood ritual? Stand on a cliff and howl at the moon?"

Fenrir blinked, looking genuinely caught off guard by the suggestion. "Uh... nothing like that was needed the last time I checked."

A choked sound came from Onyx, his entire body twitching as he desperately tried to smother his laughter. His tail thumped against the floor as he furiously scratched at his neck, ears flicking back in an attempt to feign innocence.

Ashara fared no better. She pressed her face against Astarion's shoulder, her body shaking with restrained laughter. "You're impossible."

Astarion, utterly pleased with himself, flashed a smug grin. "I do try my best."

Fenrir's scowl deepened as his gaze flicked suspiciously between the two of them. His keen eyes narrowed, reading something unspoken in their reactions.

Ashara caught the look and quickly straightened, clearing her throat. "Private joke."

Fenrir grunted in irritation, clearly not liking being the one left out. Without another word, he strode over to the bar, refilled his tankard, and returned to his seat by the fire. He took a deep drink, then exhaled, fixing Astarion with a measured look.

"Look," he said, voice more level now, though still edged with impatience. "You want to kill some evil bastards, and I can give you the means to do so. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that." He took another swig before adding, almost offhandedly, "Technically, you've already sworn an Oath of Vengeance. I'm just here to make it official on behalf of the interested third party."

Astarion, who had been loosely leaning against Ashara, suddenly stiffened. His grip on her hand tensed. His crimson eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"

Fenrir didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand and flicked his fingers. A sphere of swirling blue mist materialized before them, its surface rippling like water disturbed by an unseen force. The glow pulsed faintly, illuminating their faces with an eerie shimmer.

Ashara's breath caught as an image coalesced.

She recognized the scene instantly - the cave where they had found Mirkon, back at the druid's grove. The dim glow of reflected torchlight flickered across the damp rock walls, the distant drip of water echoing in the cavern's quiet hush.

Inside the mist, a makeshift shelter came into focus, a crude attempt at protection against the outside world. Within it lay a small, still figure. A young tiefling girl with a bandage over one eye. Dead.

Ashara's stomach twisted.

Then, a pale hand reached out, hesitating only for a moment before gently closing the girl's lifeless eye.

A breath hitched beside her. She turned, and her heart clenched at the expression on Astarion's face. He was frozen, his usually animated features locked in a raw, stunned stillness.

Then, his own voice - faint, distant - echoed from the projection.

"I'll make him pay for this. I'll make them all pay, I promise."

Ashara sucked in a sharp breath as she realised this was Astarion's memory -  viewed through his eyes.

The mist swirled again, breaking apart like dissipating fog. The image faded, leaving only silence in its wake.

Astarion's fingers clenched around hers, his grip tight. His stare remained fixed on Fenrir, unblinking, a frozen mask.

Fenrir took another slow sip from his tankard before finally speaking.

"The spirit of that girl has been hanging around you ever since then," he said, his voice quieter now, lower, edged with something more solemn. "Waiting for you to fulfill your promise. She's here now." Fenrir’s eyes narrowed as he stared at something unseen to one side of Astarion, before adding, "Showing me her middle finger for some reason..."

Ashara felt a faint tremor in Astarion's fingers, subtle but unmistakable. Without thinking, she squeezed his hand tighter, grounding him in the present, anchoring him against whatever storm raged inside his mind.

Across from them, Fenrir held Astarion's gaze, his expression more solemn than she had ever seen it. "So I ask you again, Astarion Ancunín - will you take up the mantle of champion and fight for vengeance in my name?"

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning.

For a moment, Astarion didn't move. His grip remained firm in Ashara's, his body taut with some unreadable emotion. Then, slowly, deliberately, he released her hand and took a step forward. His crimson eyes locked onto Fenrir's, and for once, there was no flippancy, no smirk, no carefully constructed mask.

Only quiet, unwavering resolve.

"Yes."

Fenrir rose slowly, deliberately, his massive frame straightening as he stepped forward. "I won't ask you to kneel - you've been doing that all your life." His voice softened, but there was an iron certainty beneath it. "Instead... give me your hand."

Astarion hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side. Then, he cautiously extended his hand. Fenrir clasped it firmly, and without warning, he lifted his other hand and pressed it against Astarion's chest.

The reaction was immediate.

A pulse of power erupted from Fenrir's touch, a shockwave of bright blue light flaring outward, illuminating the entire room. Astarion's body locked up - his back arching, his jaw clenching as the energy surged through him, illuminating the veins beneath his pale skin. A sharp gasp tore from his throat, but he didn't pull away. The light crackled, humming with raw power, before fading just as quickly as it had come.

Astarion staggered, his breath coming hard and fast as his body shivered for a moment.

Fenrir didn't let him fall. He caught him by the shoulder, steadying him with surprising gentleness. "You all right?"

Astarion took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes. That was... quite an experience." His voice was hoarse but tinged with something almost exhilarated.

Fenrir released him, stepping back. "My magic is a little different from what you're used to," he explained. "You won't be connected to the Weave anymore, but to my own primal life-force - same as Onyx and Ashara."

Astarion flexed his fingers, turning his palm as if testing something unseen beneath his skin. He nodded once, absorbing the words, but said nothing.

Fenrir gestured to the sword at Astarion's hip. "Draw your weapon."

Astarion, still catching his breath, did so - his movements more assured than before, a new weight behind them. The blade sang as it left its scabbard, gleaming in the firelight.

Then, instinct took over.

He twirled the sword in his grip, and as if answering his intent, a surge of frostfire erupted along the blade's edge, blazing to life in a swirling storm of ice and flame.

Astarion flinched, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden manifestation of power. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin.

He gave the sword another flourish, and with a flick of his wrist, the frostfire vanished, as if it had never been there at all.

He tested it again - another spin, another twirl - and again the fire answered, bursting to life like a living thing, eager, hungry.

Ashara watched as delight sparked in his eyes, shifting into something deeper, something almost childlike in its wonder.

Fenrir observed in silence, though there was a distinct gleam of satisfaction in his sharp gaze. He extended his hand once more.

This time, Astarion didn't hesitate. He clasped Fenrir's forearm, a warrior's grip, meeting his gaze with confidence.

Fenrir's smile was full of something almost like pride.

"Welcome, Astarion Ancunín - Paladin of Fenrir."

Chapter Text

Morning in the Shadow-Cursed lands was little more than a dull grey haze, the weak light filtering through thick clouds, doing little to brighten the gloom. Rain drizzled against the window in a steady rhythm, filling what had once been Isobel's room with the scent of damp stone and oak. It wasn't oppressive, though - just another piece of this strange, quiet morning.

Ashara lay stretched across the bed, head resting comfortably on Astarion's lap. His fingers drifted through her hair, slow and absent, nails occasionally grazing her scalp, sending little shivers of pleasure through her. She sighed, closing her eyes briefly, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Astarion sat upright, one knee drawn up, a slim book balanced against his thigh. His other hand continued its lazy path through her hair as he read, and Ashara found herself watching him, captivated.

His expressions shifted with every page - eyebrows knitting together in thought, lips pursing at something perplexing, a sharp exhale of disbelief every now and then. A little twitch of his mouth when he found something amusing. He was never still, not even in silence, his emotions playing out in the smallest of movements.

She caught his eye and smiled. "How's the reading going?"

Astarion exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple as if he'd been at it for hours. "There's certainly a lot to take in." He tapped the book against his knee. "I think it will be a while before I can use even half of the spells and abilities listed here."

He flipped the book to inspect its cover again, and his lips immediately curled in disdain. "Though, as helpful as it was for Fenrir to leave me an instruction manual, I can't say I appreciate the title: Paladins for Dummies."

Ashara snorted and sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. "That was actually Karlach's suggestion. Fenrir conjured the tome, but she named it."

Astarion sighed, snapping the book shut with an air of dramatic exhaustion. "Of course she did." He tossed it onto the bedside table. "I'd keep an eye on those two if I were you - I can't help but feel they'd be partners in crime in another life."

Ashara leaned her head back against the headboard, the warmth of the morning momentarily fading into something more wistful. "I wish he could have stayed longer."

Astarion gave her a pointed look. "You probably should have thought of that before you mangled his nice new body."

Ashara winced, cheeks warming slightly as the memory surfaced - her father suddenly wheezing, doubled over, his mortal vessel struggling under the strain of transferring power to Astarion so soon after the thorough thrashing she'd given him.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I probably overdid it a bit..."

Astarion gave her a mock incredulous look. "A bit? Darling, you launched him through a window, then proceeded to slam him into the ground hard enough to crater the courtyard." He smirked. "Rather impressive, really."

Ashara groaned again, voice muffled behind her hands. "In my defense—"

"Mm?" Astarion prompted, clearly entertained.

She peeked between her fingers and muttered, "He did deserve it."

"Oh, undoubtedly," Astarion chuckled, shaking his head. "And I suspect he knew it too, considering he barely complained. But he certainly won't be forgetting the lesson anytime soon. That poor mortal vessel of his was practically falling apart at the seams by the time he left."

Ashara winced again at the image. Fenrir had waved off any offers of healing, of course, brushing aside concern with the same arrogance that had likely gotten him exiled in the first place. Onyx had eventually returned him to the runestones before the god's conjured body gave out completely.

Ashara sighed, curling closer to Astarion's side. "Do you think he'll come back?"

Astarion's arm settled more firmly around Ashara, his fingers drawing slow, idle circles against her shoulder.

"Probably." His voice curled with familiar sarcasm, smooth and warm. "I imagine he'll want to check in on his newly minted champion at some point - oh, and of course, visit his daughter again."

Ashara looked up at him, amusement tugging at the corners of her eyes. "And how does it feel?" she asked softly. "Being a divine champion?"

Astarion's eyes drifted toward the armor hanging on a stand in the corner of the room, its dark surface drinking in what little light the clouded sky allowed in. He studied it for a moment, brow furrowing slightly. "I'll let you know as soon as the existential dread leaves me."

"That bad, huh?"

He exhaled and leaned his head against hers, the weight of him momentarily slumping like a puppet with its strings cut.

"A fortnight ago I was locked in a cage like an animal," he murmured. "Two weeks before that, I was charming some moon-eyed noble in a tavern to drag him back to Cazador. And now—" he gestured vaguely around the room, "—I've sworn myself to a mad god. I feel like I've barely had a moment to breathe since that cursed nautiloid snatched me up."

Ashara sat up beside him, pulling her knees to her chest. The guilt hit her all over again, sharper in the quiet. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. I dragged you into this whole thing - chasing after the Absolute, trying to find out what was happening to the missing people. If I'd known what we were walking into, I never would've—"

"Let me stop you right there, darling."

Astarion reached over and tapped a finger lightly against her lips, then let his hand fall to her knee. "I volunteered, remember? Willingly, if somewhat foolishly."

His eyes softened, even as he leaned back against the headboard with exaggerated drama. "That said... I won't pretend I'm not a little overwhelmed by recent events. But truthfully?" He paused, tapped his chin. "I wouldn't have missed any of this for the world."

He paused, thoughtful for a beat, then tilted his head.

"Except for being killed by Durge. That I could've done without. Oh - and being stabbed by Rolan, stripped by Raphael, nearly killed by Jaheira, mentally shredded by your father, tortured by Bâlorak..."

He straightened, growing more animated as he ticked off the list on his fingers. "Actually, scratch that. This has been awful!"

Ashara's heart dropped. Her stomach twisted, and her throat tightened with guilt. She turned away, drawing her knees in tighter, hugging them to her chest. Her breath hitched as the sting of tears blurred her vision. She opened her mouth to apologize again—

Then something warm and wet brushed the curve of her neck - an open-mouthed kiss.

She squeaked and whipped her head around, startled to find Astarion grinning like an imp.

Before she could speak, he leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low, "when I remember that the daughter of a god loves me? Oddly enough, I find I don't mind all those things that much anymore - most of them anyway."

Ashara exhaled, the tension breaking all at once. She gave him a half-hearted glare and punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Don't do that. I was genuinely worried there for a moment."

Astarion gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock offense. "Did you just strike me?"

She stuck her tongue out playfully as he narrowed his eyes.

"Bad wolf-girl," he growled as he lunged, tackling her backwards onto the bed. "We don't hit poor, defenseless vampires."

Ashara laughed, breathless, her hands pushing against his shoulders - but not hard enough to stop him. He loomed over her for a moment, and then his mouth found hers.

The kiss was unhurried and deep, her fingers winding into his hair, pulling him closer as she melted beneath him.

The world narrowed to the feel of him, the faint warmth of his body, the way his lips moved like he was savoring every second.

Then—

A loud, pointed cough snapped the moment like a taut thread.

Ashara broke the kiss and tilted her head back, hair spilling across the sheets, and blinked upside down at the figure standing in the doorway.

Onyx sat just inside the room, one brow raised, a deliberate, unimpressed stare fixed on the pair of them.

Astarion didn't miss a beat. He smiled sweetly at the direwolf, voice cheerful as sin. "Hello there, Onyx. This is exactly what it looks like."

Onyx exhaled through his nose in a long, deliberate breath and closed his eyes as though reciting an internal prayer for strength. When he opened them, his voice was low, clipped, and tired.

"Halsin requests your presence downstairs. He needs help with Thaniel."

Ashara let her head fall back against the bed with a groan and scowled up at the ceiling. "Can it wait?"

Astarion let out a poorly suppressed snicker, one hand rising to cover his mouth when Onyx's tail gave a sharp, bristling twitch of irritation.

With exaggerated grace, Astarion extricated himself from Ashara's arms and rolled to his feet. He turned and offered her his hand, already smoothing his shirt with the other.

"I think we'd best not tempt the wolf's patience, darling. He looks about ready to use my leg as a chew toy."

Ashara made a show of pouting, but slipped her hand into his and let him pull her to her feet. As she reached for her boots, she heard Onyx mutter under his breath as he turned toward the stairs. "I'm too damn old for this nonsense."

She exchanged a grin with Astarion as they descended to the common room below. Rain still drizzled against the window panes, and the fire in the hearth burned low, casting a sluggish glow over the makeshift infirmary. Art Cullagh, no longer comatose, sat propped up on a nest of blankets. Thaniel lay nearby, unmoving, his small face pale as moonlight.

Art straightened slightly when they entered. "Thank you again," he said, voice thin but sincere. "For waking me, and for finding the boy. I don't know how I can ever repay you."

Ashara stepped forward, offering a warm smile. "You don't have to repay me. I don't help people expecting something back."

Astarion, behind her, gave an exaggerated sigh. "I've tried to instill better habits, but she's too old to train now."

Ashara shot him a glare, which only made Halsin chuckle from where he sat by Thaniel's side.

She crossed to the boy's bedside, her expression shifting to concern as she knelt beside him. His breathing was faint, his hands limp over the blankets. "How is he?"

Halsin folded his hands and spoke in his calm, measured tone. "He's resting - but it's no peaceful slumber. The dreamscape is troubled. But I believe I've discovered what's wrong."

Ashara leaned in, eyes sharp. "Is it something we can fix?"

Halsin nodded, slowly. "Yes. I expect so. When the shadow curse claimed him, it didn't merely trap him - it fractured him. Part of Thaniel was left behind when he was pulled into the Shadowfell. His essence was split. What remained here was the stronger half - but strength left untethered and alone in darkness can fester."

Ashara's brows drew together. "Fester how?"

"Corruption. The shadows would have twisted him, burrowed into the cracks left by the split. That half may not even remember who - or what - it once was."

She drew in a breath and straightened her shoulders. "Tell me how I can help."

Halsin's gaze met hers. "It's both simple and not. We need to find Thaniel's missing half. Reunite them. Bring the boy back to himself. Only then can the shadow-curse truly lift. But the lost fragment may resist. It may have become something dangerous. Something that fears the light."

Astarion leaned back against a support beam, one brow arched. "So we're searching for a needle in a haystack. In the dark. And the needle might try to kill us."

"It won't be easy," Halsin admitted. "But the part of him that remained here bears powerful magic. That magic leaves traces, no matter how deep the curse. Look for signs - places where life persists. Wildflowers, still pools, strange growths. The curse can't fully choke what he is."

Ashara's eyes lit up with sudden memory. "Wait... I think I saw something like that. Near the old stone houses northeast of the inn. There were flowers. Just a few. But they were bright. Alive."

Halsin looked up sharply. "Then that's our lead. I'll go with you."

Ashara turned to Astarion, hopeful. "We might need your sword."

He tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. "Well, I did say I wanted to see if this whole paladin business came with perks... Fine. I'll come. But if this ends in me being stabbed again, I expect wine, flowers and a heartfelt apology letter."

"Deal."

The ruined house stood like a broken ribcage beneath the greying sky - its walls sagging, half-swallowed by twisted vines and soot-blackened rot. The floor beneath Astarion's boots creaked with every shift of weight, soft with years of moisture and decay. Faint traces of green glimmered between the cracks in the board - wildflowers growing where no life should exist.

At the center of the room stood the boy.

He looked no more than ten or eleven, though there was nothing innocent left in his expression. His skin was marked by the corruption - thin cracks etched through his arms and cheeks like old bark splitting under pressure.

The pulsing blue of a ruined eye socket shimmered faintly beneath the corruption, more arcane ember than flesh. Small horns curled out from beneath a shock of white hair, and despite his youthful frame, he radiated the strange, uneven energy of something ancient trapped in a child's body.

Astarion took a half-step back and folded his arms, eyeing the boy with open skepticism. "I have been blessed by a god to be his champion," he said, glancing sideways at Ashara. "I'm presumably filled to the brim with all sorts of holy fire, celestial wrath, and primal cosmic authority..." He gestured vaguely toward the boy. "And the very first task I'm expected to carry out as Paladin of Fenrir is... playing hide and seek?"

Ashara made a strangled noise beside him, barely keeping a laugh behind her teeth.

Halsin took a careful step forward. His tone was gentle, but his body remained braced - ready for the wrong question or answer.

"I know who you are, Oliver. And I know who you belong to. Thaniel is waiting. You're part of him. He can't be whole without you."

The boy tilted his head. His glowing eye flickered brighter, and he gave a wide, unnatural smile. "Spoilsport. I'm not going back. I like it here. I've got a family now - people who play with me whenever I want."

Behind him, the air darkened, shadows crawling unnaturally across the stone. A presence stirred in the far corners of the house - half-formed, watching, waiting.

"This land needs you, Oliver," Halsin said, firm now. "Not just Thaniel. Everything. The trees, the water, the creatures that still cling to the edge of life. You're bound to this place, to its healing."

Oliver's smile vanished like a mask falling from a face. Something cold flickered behind his eyes.

"You can't make me," he whispered. "I won't let you."

A swirl of dark smoke erupted around him, shadows spiraling like oily ink in water. In an instant, he vanished.

Astarion exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the space where Oliver had been. "Slippery little bugger, isn't he?"

Halsin turned, face grim. "He'll go where the shadow is deepest. The curse has its hooks in him - he'll feel safer where it's strongest."

Ashara's gaze lingered on the spot where Oliver had disappeared, her jaw tight. "Then that's where we'll go."

Onyx's ears twitched, nostrils flaring as he padded closer to the broken doorway. "He's scared," he rumbled. "But not helpless. The longer we wait, the deeper the curse takes hold."

Astarion sighed, already regretting every step to come. "Fantastic. Tracking down a volatile child-echo of a broken fey spirit through cursed lands." He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I truly am living the paladin dream."

Onyx lowered his snout to the dirt, eyes narrowing. "Commune with the earth," he said, voice low and focused. "See if you can find him."

Ashara nodded once and crouched beside a twisted tree root that had cracked through the floor. She plunged her fingers into the soil, her breath steadying, eyelids fluttering shut as the power inside her reached downward - searching. Astarion watched her in quiet fascination, admiring the strange grace with which she sank into the world.

Then she gasped, jerking her hand back as if burned.

He stepped forward. "Something wrong?"

Ashara flexed her fingers, wincing as she rubbed the palm of her hand. "He shut me out. Slammed a wall down like a guillotine." She narrowed her eyes, rising smoothly to her feet. "But I know where he is."

Without waiting, she turned and led them through the skeletal remnants of the forest and out toward the blighted sprawl of Rethwin. The cursed town loomed ahead, choked by a miasma of shadow and silence. The bones of its buildings leaned crooked and blackened in the gloom. No birds sang here. No wind stirred. Only the distant echo of creaking wood and the faint pulse of something wrong.

They came upon it just before the gates - a monument carved in stone, half-swallowed by decay. The dais rose in layered steps, each worn smooth by time. At its summit sat a crumbling hexagonal platform, overgrown with brittle grass and tangled weeds.

Oliver stood at its center.

The boy's small frame was framed in a bubble of sickly green light, its edge rippling like oil stretched too thin. Around him stood two towering spectres, their cloaked forms twisted and animate, heads crowned with flickering yellow flame for eyes. They stood deathly still, but even from a distance, Astarion could feel the pulse of malevolence radiating from them like heat off stone.

Oliver's voice cracked through the still air, brittle and angry. "I'm not leaving! You can't make me!"

Astarion sighed and rolled his eyes, drawing his sword with a hiss of steel. "And people wonder why I avoid children."

From the fractured buildings, from between the shattered columns and leaning walls, they came - figures shaped like children but hollow, faces sunken and mouths open in voiceless howls. They flickered in and out of visibility, slipping between planes like a hand through water.

Astarion's gaze swept the encroaching dark. His crimson eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Well then," he muttered, raising his blade, "time to put theory into practice."

He twirled the sword once, and frostfire surged along the edge - a quiet roar of blue-white flame licking up the steel.

Ashara nocked an arrow already laced with the same fire, drawing it back with the creak of taut string. The frost shimmered along its shaft, veins of light crawling across the carved wood.