Chapter Text

The night is frustratingly bright as Anacra stalks into the graveyard, the silver wash of moonlight turning every shadow shallow and every step more exposed. She pauses by the gate, scanning the scene. She’s been here before, of course, but the Lower City graveyard always makes her feel jumpy. The wind stirs the trees, casting restless shadows over cracked tombstones. She rolls her shoulders, recalling the vision her god sent last night. If she’s looking at the angle right, the grave should be right… there .

Anacra moves as stealthily as she can toward the gravestone from her dream, but gods, she’s never been good at this sort of thing. Why Ilmater wants her to dig up a grave is beyond her, but she's not about to ignore his command. Gripping the shovel, she squints at the headstone. Astarion Ancunin. The name stirs nothing in her memory. She exhales, glances around, and makes the first dent in the ground.

The digging is agonizingly slow, the dirt packed too tightly for her liking. She regrets telling Riptide to wait elsewhere for it takes hours before her shovel finally hits something solid.

“ Yes ,” she whispers, kneeling to scrape away dirt with her hands, her fingertips brushing against cold marble. Her jaw tenses. What in the hells could be inside? A corpse seems most logical but why would Ilmater send her for a corpse? Money or jewels, maybe? Her house has been running low on funds, but surely not low enough to warrant grave robbing. She wipes her brow, shifting uneasily.

Finally, the marble slab is exposed, and Anacra crouches to pry it open. It doesn’t budge at first, but with a grunt of effort, she forces it free, setting it against the dirt wall. She grimaces.

It is a corpse. Gross.

The elf must have been buried recently as his skin is too intact, his flesh not yet touched by decay. The scent of death and damp earth assaults her, but the wind carries most of it away. She glances him over. Nothing remarkable. No enchanted necklaces or…wait. Her breath stills. Claw marks.

A feeling of dread creeps up her spine. Had this man been buried alive ?

Now she sees it clearly: the bloodied, broken hands, raw fingertips, the desperate scrapes against the stone. Her stomach twists. She cranes her neck toward the moon, debating whether to pray for guidance, but before she can even form a thought, the corpse’s eyes open.

Anacra yelps, scrambling back, but of course, there’s nowhere to go in this hole she’s dug for herself. “Oh gods.”

The corpse - no, the man - groans and blinks against the moonlight. A horrible silence stretches between them as Anacra watches in stunned horror. Then his chest rises. A breath. A twitch of his fingers. How is he even alive?

The strange man notices her for the first time. His eyes, red as blood, lock onto hers. Anacra freezes, words failing her. His mouth opens, and a sound escapes, something between a whimper and a groan, and somehow, that unsettles her more than anything else.

“Are you…” she starts, then falters. Is he what? Alive? Clearly. Okay? Definitely not. Instead, she blurts, “Would you like help?” and then immediately cringes.

The elf stares at her, eyes glazed.

“Wow. Gods. Okay…” she mutters, scanning the grave as if she’ll find anything useful in the dirt. Nothing but stone and a growing sense of regret.

She inches closer. Gods, he looks terrible. No doubt Ilmater, god of charity, sent her to aid this wretched soul.

“How long have you been in here?” she asks gently, reaching to help him sit up. The moment her hands brush his arms, he hisses - a sharp, animalistic sound. Anacra jerks back.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” She holds up her hands, showing she means no harm.

Slowly, painfully, he sits up on his own, and she fights the urge to wince as his bones crack and shift. The shock is wearing off, replaced by grim determination.

“Did someone put you in here?” she presses. A stiff, hesitant nod.

“Why would someone do that?” No answer. He simply turns his gaze to the sky.

Anacra exhales. “Alright. I’m getting you out of here. Just...give me a second.” She stands, dusting off her hands. How in the hells is she supposed to do this alone?

Her gaze flicks back to him. A thought dawns. “…Is your name Astarion Ancunin?” She gestures toward the headstone.

Another stiff nod. Then he coughs. Violently. She kneels beside him as his body wracks with the effort, dust pouring from his lips. This time, she does grimace.

How long was he buried? He shouldn’t be alive. No food. No water. He should be dead . But there’s something else in his expression: misery. Hope. Pain.

“…bastard…” he rasps.

“Sorry?” Anacra frowns. This whole situation is filling her with a crawling sense of wrongness. He doesn’t repeat himself, just tries to stand, gods, his feet are shattered.

“Alright, how about we get you out first, then we can talk about this bastard of yours, yeah?” She forces a small smile. He just watches her, eerily still. Swallowing, she pats his shoulder before hauling herself out of the grave. “I’ll be right back. Getting help.”

As she turns, she hesitates at the sheer pain on his face as he struggles upright. She reaches into her satchel, pulling out a vial of milky liquid.

“Drink this,” she says, voice soft. “It’ll heal you.” It’s a lie. She knows when to put someone to sleep.

Astarion exhales, meeting her gaze. She nods reassuringly. He snatches the vial from her hands, studies it for half a second, then downs it. For just a moment, his expression shifts to betrayal. Then, his body goes limp, the potion pulling him under.

“Sorry,” she murmurs to his sleeping form, an unpleasant feeling gnawing at her heart. “At least this way you won’t be in pain. Not for a little while.”

She scrambles out of the grave and sprints into the streets. When she returns, her carriage driver and friend, Riptide, a hulking dragonborn with a face she often associated with thunder these days, follows close behind.

“He’s in there.” Anacra gestures, breathing hard. “There’s no way I could’ve gotten him out alone.”

Riptide peers down. “Why is he in a fucking coffin?”

“I don’t know.” Anacra throws down a rope. “He was just there . I put him to sleep so we could move him easier. Not to mention we’re out of healing potions after today’s tournament.”

Riptide grunts, hauling the unconscious elf onto his shoulder with ease. She appreciates he doesn’t start asking about her magic again. Or lack thereof.

As they step away, Riptide mutters, “Who do you think put him in there?”

Anacra’s stomach twists. “I don’t know,” she admits. But whoever it was, they weren’t meant to fail.

“I’ll speak to him when he wakes,” she decides. “And I’ll inform the Harpers. This feels like something Jaheira would want to know about.”

Riptide nods, grim.

Anacra watches as he loads Astarion into the carriage. Whoever buried him isn’t going to be happy to find him missing. And if they come looking, she intends to be ready.

Chapter Text

Anacra sits on the stool next to the bleeding girl. Oli, if she remembers right—a daughter of a low noble in the southern part of town, near the docks. But status doesn’t seem to matter much when one is bleeding out on a table.

Anacra’s eyes close in concentration as her magic sputters out before it even touches the wound in the child’s arm. Sweat beads at her forehead. She opens her eyes, her heart sinking at the sight of the cut still gaping open.

“Perhaps I should step in, my lady,” her assistant suggests, his voice tight with concern. “The hook is out, but she’s losing blood—”

“No. I’ve done this a thousand times. I’m fine.” She raises her hands again, a silent prayer slipping from her lips. She expects that familiar rush of icy magic, a surge of power to stitch the wound together—perhaps even a flash of blue light. But once again, it eludes her, like smoke slipping through her fingers. What’s left behind is something cold, but not the cold she recognizes. A sharp, biting absence.

She hesitates, just for a moment, before standing, her hands dropping as her assistant steps forward to take over.

Anacra watches him work, but there’s nothing for her to do now. She feels it—an empty space in her chest, something fraying at the edges of her mind. She turns toward the washroom, forcing herself to focus on the simple task of scrubbing away the blood. It's easier than thinking about why her magic refuses to answer.

It must be her fault. Her sin. She’s failed Ilmater. She’s failed herself. She tells herself it’s a test of faith, but deep down, she knows it’s more than that. Her thoughts spiral, gnawing at her. She hasn’t been worthy of his grace in a long time, hasn’t earned it. And now, the absence of his magic—it’s a punishment, isn’t it? A sign of her failure, of her inadequacy. She cannot help but wonder if her punishment has only just begun.

She leans over the sink, staring at her reflection in the water. The guilt is suffocating, thick as smoke. Wasn’t she supposed to heal? Wasn’t she supposed to be a vessel for his mercy, to take on the suffering of others and ease their burdens? And yet, here she is, powerless, incapable of even helping a child who simply needed her.

“Ilmater,” she murmurs under her breath, “god of suffering and burdens, let me take the pains of others and allow me to grow my faith. I...I do not know what I have done to wrong you, but I swear my soul, my mind, my body—” She clenches her fists, willing herself to keep control. “Please, if it is your will, grant me the opportunity to repent and serve you once again.”

The same hollow silence follows. No warmth. No connection. Just a deepening chill, as though the god himself has turned away. Maybe she can talk to him in her dreams tonight. That seems the only time he deigns her worthy of attention and even then it’s only quick images or vague feelings.

Anacra sighs and walks toward the altar in the east wing, the one she’s visited so many times in the last few weeks. She kneels before the statue of Ilmater, bound in chains, his form heavy with suffering. His shadow looms over her like a dark cloud, and she breathes in the incense, trying to find something—anything—that might break the ice in her heart.

“Ilmater, my god of suffering and burdens,” she whispers, “let me take the-”

“Anacra?”

The voice cuts through her prayer like a blade. Anacra blinks, disoriented, before realizing where she is.

“Aunt Ray?” She turns from the altar, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, girl,” Aunt Ray replies, her voice crisp as always, never one for pleasantries.

For a moment, Anacra’s heart catches in her throat. She could almost imagine it’s her mother standing there, that familiar face with its heavy freckles and warm smile. The thought is fleeting, though, because Aunt Ray’s sharp features quickly remind her of the wedge between them. The elf blood in her face is evident, stark and angular, unlike her mother’s soft, half-elven features.

“What is it?” Anacra’s voice falters, more irritated than she intends.

“You used every healing potion in yesterday's tournament?” Aunt Ray’s tone is laced with accusation as she unrolls a scroll, her eyes narrowing at the words written there.

Anacra stands, unable to keep the defensive edge from her voice. “Well, there weren’t any healers, and they were injured—”

“All of them?” Aunt Ray interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

There’s a brief, heavy silence before Anacra responds more harshly than she intends. “I did what I thought was right.”

Aunt Ray sighs, the sound long and exasperated. “You foolish girl. Your hubris will get us all sent to the streets one of these days.”

“It’s not hubris,” Anacra spits, frustration bubbling up. “And it’s not my fault the finances are in shambles.”

“No,” Aunt Ray agrees with a tight frown that’s aimed squarely at Anacra. “It’s your brothers’ fault.”

The words sting, the reminder too raw, too real, and too soon. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. Anacra knows Aunt Ray is right. She doesn’t have the strength to argue it.

“Well,” Anacra draws out the word, the bitterness on her tongue, “he’s no longer a problem, now, is he?” She can feel the tears threatening to spill, but she pushes them down, her throat tight. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend to.”

“Ana-” Aunt Ray starts, her voice soft, laced with a rare hint of apology.

“Don’t.” Anacra shakes her head, unable to meet her eyes. “I... I know, Aunt Ray. We can talk about it later.”

And with that, she turns and stalks toward the west wing, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the hall.

-  -  -

Anacra watches as he wakes.

It starts with a flicker of movement, a slight shift in his expression, a barely-there furrow of his brows before his eyes flutter open. Red eyes. The candlelight catches them, making them gleam, but there’s no strength in his gaze. Just pain. He doesn’t groan, doesn’t move at first, only blinks against the light like he’s forgotten what it looks like. Maybe he has.

She keeps still, hands folded in her lap even though they ache to heal him. Instead she watches understanding creep into his expression. She doesn’t move when his eyes widen in recognition, nor when his fingers twitch uselessly against the sheets. She only watches as the fear takes hold.

Astarion tries to sit up, and immediately collapses. His whole body trembles with the effort. He takes a shuddering breath—tries to, anyway. It breaks apart into a dry, hacking cough. It’s an awful sight. He looks utterly wretched, like something clawed out of the earth and barely stitched back together. Anacra immediately feels guilty at such a cruel thought. Maybe that has something to do with her lack of guidance these days - her character. Those are thoughts for another time, however.

“Don’t try to move,” Anacra says, voice soft but firm. “At least not yet. Your body has been through a lot.”

He freezes at the sound of her voice. Then, panic flares in his face as his head jerks toward her. His fear is wild, sharp-edged, but she can see the calculation beneath it, the way he’s already assessing his options.

He tries again to push himself up, but his arms give out. Again. And again.

“Seriously,” she says, sharper this time, standing. “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself. I don’t know how you’re not screaming in pain already.”

It’s a mercy, she tells herself, the way she reaches for him, hands steady as she helps him upright despite his weak attempts to resist. And it is, she knows it is, but the way he flinches against her touch stirs something sick in her stomach. The way he shakes under her hands, the way he pants from the exertion of simply sitting up—it makes her think of a wounded animal, something starved and desperate and so, so afraid. It’s not necessarily rare for Ilmater to send her creatures like this to aid, but something about this man makes her on edge.

He coughs again, but this time, he forces words through it.

“Don’t touch me.”

She withdraws immediately, raising her hands in surrender.

“Okay. I won’t touch you,” she says carefully. “But I think you’ll want to sit up to drink.”

Astarion hesitates, still watching her like she might strike at any moment. She lets him see her reach for the glass, slow and deliberate, before holding it out.

“Drink,” she says. “It’s just water. No potions this time.”

He stares at it. At her. She can see the war in his expression, the sick hope of it battling against whatever torment left him like this. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then, in a burst of sudden movement, he lunges for the cup.

But his hands don’t work properly.

The glass slips, knocking from her grasp and spilling water across the sheets, onto the floor. Astarion growls low in his throat, furious, but Anacra only moves to refill it.

“That’s okay,” she says quickly, back turned as she pours. “I’m sorry. I forgot about your hands.”

She lets him see her, see that she’s not trying anything, before approaching again. His breathing is ragged. Still panicked. She keeps her movements slow, her voice gentle, despite the sharp spike of unease when his eyes track her like a cornered animal.

“Here,” she says, easing the cup to his lips. He hesitates for only a second before allowing it, watching her warily as he drinks. Then—then the tension drains from his shoulders. The moment the water touches his throat, his eyes flutter shut, and he drinks greedily, making a soft sound of relief.

When it’s gone, he leans back, looking more exhausted than before but less like he’s about to collapse in on himself. He watches her. Examines her. And she examines him back. Yes, a unique creature indeed. Red eyes and…wait, are those fangs ? Her eyes know where to look next and are rewarded with the sight of puncture wounds on his neck.

“You’re a…vampire,” she realizes aloud, taking an unconscious step backwards, nearly tripping over the carpet.

Astarion forces a smile, brittle and empty.

“Yes, darling.” He clears his throat again. She doesn’t miss his panic. “I realize now that I never asked for your name. How rude of me.”

Anacra watches him closely. He’s putting on a mask now—she can tell. The shift is subtle, but it’s there. But, well, if she’s trying to re-earn Ilmater’s favor, it wouldn’t do her any good to start rejecting the souls he sends her. She takes a breath.

“Anacra.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens.

“Why were you in that tomb?” she asks a little more careful now. “I assume it wasn’t by your own free will.”

His eyes flicker to the window.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“ Yes , I wasn’t in there by my ‘own free will,’” he answers, an attitude in his voice that hadn’t yet shown till now.

“Right,” Anacra says, her own voice turning dry in return. “By whom?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he averts his gaze. His whole body is tense, wound so tight it looks like it might snap at any moment.

Anacra softens at his obvious unease. She tries a different question. “How long were you in there?”

Astarion swallows hard, glancing toward the darkened windows. “What’s the date?”

“16th of Mirtul,” she answers.

His breath catches. Then, he makes a sound—something between a laugh and a ragged exhale, something dark and bitter. He turns away, pressing his eyes shut.

Anacra hesitates before placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” he hisses, flinching violently. She jerks back, hands raised again.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “Sorry.”

Silence stretches between them.

Finally, his voice breaks through it, empty and brittle.

“Eleven and a half months.”

Anacra stills and a sinking feeling envelops her. She’s starting to realize that she’s dug up something much larger than an injured soul.

“Eleven months?” she repeats, like saying it aloud will make it easier to comprehend.

When he doesn’t say anything more she glances toward the untouched food on the dresser. Then, at him.

“I’ll get you some blood, okay?” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “I’ll be right back.”

Astarion’s mouth twitches, like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He clears his throat instead.

“Take your time, darling.”

Chapter Text

“Eleven months?” Riptide staggers slightly as he falls into step beside Anacra.

“Eleven and a half, if he’s telling the truth,” she responds, taking a left at the fork in the hallway.

“And is he?” Riptide asks carefully.

“Telling the truth?” She slows her pace and glances at the blue dragonborn. “I don’t have any reason to believe he’s lying.”

“But he’s a vampire. Like, an actual vampire?” Riptide says as they reach the stairwell.

“Yes. I mean, that’s what he said—or, well, not exactly...” She exhales, trying to steady her thoughts. “Does it matter? He needs our help. He’s not doing well—physically or mentally.”

Riptide doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he doesn’t argue. Silence lingers between them.

“What’s the update on the healing potions?” Anacra prods.

“Your stores are drained dry—the duels today completely depleted our stock. Which is strange, because we definitely shouldn’t be out,” Riptide adds.

“What do you mean?”

“We should have had enough for everyone present, including spectators for damnation’s sake. Yet, somehow, we’re empty.”

Anacra lets out a quiet curse. “Can I trust you to look into that?”

Riptide nods. “Already on it.”

“Did you send word to Jaheira?” she asks as Riptide opens a door for her, and they step into the cool night air. “I’ve been meaning to speak with her. It’s about time we met again.”

“I did, but I have reason to believe we won’t hear from her for a few days,” he responds.

“Why not?”

“There’s talk of a crisis in the Upper City,” he answers. “A friend said the Harpers were handling it, whatever that means.”

Anacra almost asks more but decides she’s too tired to care. They reach the chicken pen.

“It’s a good thing the cook insists on keeping fresh eggs handy,” Riptide mutters, opening the gate.

Anacra huffs a laugh. “When Ilmater gave me that vision, I had no idea I’d end up feeding a half-dead vampire my chickens a few hours later.”

Riptide rumbles a low laugh of agreement.

- - -

Anacra knocks before entering the room. Astarion still lies on the bed, though his posture is more composed. It does nothing to change the fact that he looks like death itself—but, she supposes, that’s fitting.

“I got you some blood,” she says, holding up the dead chicken by the neck. “Was quite sad, I’ll have you know.”

Astarion straightens, wild eyes going wilder. “Darling, you treat me too well,” he purrs, but she hears the desperation in his voice. The need .

She walks over and hands it to him. He just stares at it.

“It’s okay. You can eat it,” she says softly, stepping back to give him space. His gaze flickers up to her, guarded and suspicious. Can she blame him? “Not a trick. I promise.”

He doesn’t need to be told again. Anacra resists the instinct to recoil as he bites past the feathers, sinking into the veins. He gulps the blood down with frantic urgency, utterly unconcerned with cleanliness. Although the likeness he has to a starved animal is enough to make her take a step back.

A few gulps later, he pulls away, licking at the puncture marks to catch any remaining drops. Anacra makes a mental note to write this down later. How many people had watched a vampire feed this closely and lived to tell about it? The thought makes her stomach turn. He’s a person, she reminds herself. Not an experiment.

Astarion wipes at the blood around his mouth, grinning like a maniac. “That was...”

“Delicious?” she finishes with an offered smirk..

“Quite,” he says, mirroring her expression.

She debates making a joke about his ravenousness to ease the mood but decides against it. She’s seen starving people feast before. This wasn’t much different.

“So,” she pulls her stool closer and sits, “as you might imagine, I have some questions. And I’m sure you have questions of your own.”

“Why, you read my mind, darling,” he coos.

Anacra readies her charcoal pencil. “Question one: why were you in that tomb?”

Astarion immediately tenses but sighs. “I have questions of my own before I submit to your little interrogation, darling.”

“Alright. Ask away.”

“Did Cazador send you?” he asks carefully, his eyes never leaving hers.

The question startles her. “You mean Cazador Szarr? The noble?” Her eyes narrow. Lord Szarr is not exactly a friend to her house.

“Yes.”

Anacra stares at him a moment. “No,” she says carefully. “I’m not with Cazador. Is that who put you in there?”

Astarion doesn’t answer. Instead, he speaks again. “If you aren’t with Cazador,” His expression darkens, enough to make her uneasy, “then how did you know where to find me?”

“I’m a priestess of Ilmater. He sent me a vision last night—of your grave, your headstone.”

Astarion goes completely still. She wonders if he’s even breathing. Do undead creatures need to breathe?

“Ilmater?” he finally asks, voice quiet.

“Yes. Did you pray to him for help, perhaps? He often—”

“Yes,” he snaps. His face twists into something inhuman, and Anacra fights the urge to back away again. “Yes, I prayed to Ilmater. For the last 200 years I’ve prayed to them all .”

It takes her a second to process that.

“Two hundred years… but you said you were only in the tomb for… eleven months…” Her stomach twists. “You’re a vampire,” she murmurs, more to herself than him. “And you’re a spawn, aren’t you? A slave. Not a true vampire. Anchored to a master.”

Astarion doesn’t respond. She knows she’s right. She recalls medical tomes speaking of vampires - more specifically their dangers.

She fights the urge to write this down.

“And you’ve been a spawn for the past two hundred years...” Her voice dips into something more somber. “Holy shit.”

“How old are you?” Anacra asks finally.

Astarion’s quiet, his face hard and eyes tight.

Anacra exhales. “Look, keep your secrets. But if your master is Lord Szarr and you don’t want to return to him...” She watches him closely. “Then know that you have an ally in me. It makes sense that my god has sent you to me, and me to you. I have an interest in seeing that man… out of power, let’s say.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re really telling the truth, aren’t you?” he asks.

“I really am. I swear it on Ilmater’s bound hands,” she promises before standing, exhaustion settling in. “Now, it’s been a long day. Get some rest, Astarion.”

Before leaving, she glances back. “I’ll have a bath and fresh clothes for you by morning. Someone will check on you soon. See that rope? Pull it if you need anything. But know you aren’t a prisoner here.”

She takes in his utterly baffled expression and smiles just a bit. “Just… don’t do something stupid and get yourself killed, yeah?”

Chapter Text

“Oh!” Anacra just stops herself from running into Astarion as she rounds the hallway corner. “I was just coming to check up on you. You’re looking… much better. The staff has been kind to you, I trust?”

She extends the fresh set of clothes she’s carrying, and he takes them despite already having received some. Now that he’s bathed and no longer looks half-starved, she finds herself slightly put off by just how pretty he is.

Astarion shifts his weight onto one hip, raising a hand in a way that reminds her of the flirts in taverns. “Oh, darling, I don’t think I’ve ever received such liberal generosity,” he purrs.

Anacra’s eyebrows lift in surprise. He certainly seems more alive today.

“Ah, well, I’m glad you’re getting comfortable,” she says, recovering. “One of my servants is fetching more blood from the markets. I’m afraid you can’t eat all our chickens. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t end up on a bloodthirsty rampage in my hospital.”

Astarion snorts, and she finds herself smiling at him. She doesn’t usually get personally involved with her patients, but she’s been meaning to ask him more questions anyway.

“Care to join me for breakfast?” she asks. “I’ve just finished my morning rounds, and I’m sure you’d like to get out of this stuffy place.”

The hospital is spacious with large ceilings and ornate pillars, but like any place of healing, it carries a somber air.

“I’d prefer dinner and wine, but I suppose breakfast will do,” Astarion purrs again.

For the first time, Anacra wonders if he’s flirting. She had only been trying to be kind—had she given him the wrong idea? Her cheeks warm, and his grin sharpens.

“Lead the way, darling.”

Anacra clears her throat, gesturing ahead. “Right. Um, this way. Like I mentioned last night, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. This temple of healing belongs to Ilmater, god of compassion and generosity among other things. Besides the powerful spells and blessings protecting us here, almost no evil forces have ever tried to enter.”

As they walk, she glances at him. His confidence is different today. He listens to every word as if she’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

They pass the statue of Ilmater, and Astarion slows, his gaze lingering on the divine figure. She recognizes that look—she’s seen it on countless patients before. She gives him a moment before speaking.

“My god is often known as the One Who Endures,” she says softly. These words often bring people comfort. “Many of us have endured too much, and it can feel overwhelming, like it’s—”

“ Endured ?” Astarion’s voice is low, laced with barely contained venom. In an instant, the man from last night resurfaces.

“Tell me, what have you endured ?” He turns to her, eyes sharp. “You’re a noble, aren’t you? You speak as if you’ve known hardship, but—” he gestures to her robes, “you dress like you’ve hardly seen dirt in your life. So tell me, my lady, what have you endured?”

His words lash like a whip, a stark contrast to his earlier teasing.

Anacra tenses. “We all have our struggles,” she says, more defensively than she’d like. Maybe inviting a man who had spent the last year in a stone box to breakfast wasn’t her best idea.

Astarion snorts and looks back at the statue. Anacra watches his scowl deepen.

She exhales slowly, trying to temper her emotions. “Look,” she starts, “I understand you’re angry—”

“You don’t understand anything,” Astarion snaps.

“Then help me understand.”

Silence stretches between them. His red eyes flicker over her, unreadable. For the briefest moment, she has the childish urge to yell at him—if only to make him look anywhere else.

The moment is broken when Riptide strides through the side entrance, the sound of his boots against stone slicing through the tension. Anacra almost sighs in relief.

“What is it?” she asks, eager to shift focus.

Riptide eyes Astarion warily before answering. “I looked into that matter you wanted me to, my lady. I’ve found information you’ll want to hear.”

Anacra nods, already shelving breakfast for later, and turns back to Astarion. “I was going to tell you—the protections extend to the manor too, which is just through those doors.” She gestures toward the ornate entrance Riptide had come through.

Astarion tilts his head. “And which manor is that, if I may ask, my dear?”

She hesitates before answering.

“House de Solstice.”

Something flickers behind Astarion’s eyes before his expression smooths into mock delight. “De Solstice, eh? How lucky for me to stumble into the saints of Baldur’s Gate.”

His voice drips sarcasm. Anacra is about to retort when Riptide clears his throat.

“Right,” she all but forces out. “Well, you’re welcome anywhere within these walls. Just…don’t do anything stupid. Please.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Astarion chirps.

Anacra turns to leave with Riptide. Once they’re inside the manor, she wastes no time.

“What did you find? Is this about the potions?”

Riptide nods solemnly. “They were stolen. One of the servants swears he saw a man enter the storeroom with a bag.”

Anacra’s nose scrunches. “And?”

“When questioned further, the servant claimed the man had markings on his face—a sun with an odd symbol in the middle. He said it ‘could have been a skull.’”

Anacra curses under her breath; she really ought to break that habit.

“The Hollow Pact,” she hisses. “Gods, will we ever be free of those bastards? I thought the storeroom was guarded. How the hells did he get in?”

“Not sure. Bribery, perhaps. Or something we haven’t considered. My spies are working on it.”

“Gods,” Anacra mutters, stopping in the hallway. These last few weeks have been nothing short of hell. Her gaze drifts to a painting along the wall—a much younger version of herself stares back. The only difference besides age is her eye color. Once a soft blue, like her mother’s. Now dark gray, a mark of her devotion to Ilmater. 

“Hey,” Riptide says, softer now. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

“This feels different, though, doesn’t it?” she murmurs. Not for the first time recently she’s confronted with a feeling like the room is darkening. Her chest feels tight and it all just feels so hopeless . “First the financial struggles, then Solren’s death, then Aunt Ray’s stupid dealings with The Hollow Pact, then my magic…Gods, and now Cazador’s sudden interest in it all, draining more money away…”

Tears prick her eyes. She wipes them away before they fall. “I just…Riptide, I need something good —”

A crash.

Anacra and Riptide both spin toward the noise, exchanging a look before Riptide pushes open the nearby door.

Astarion.

He stands near an overturned vase, his expression shifting from embarrassed to outright nervous. But it’s Anacra who flushes.

“Astarion?” Her voice is tight. “What did you hear?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing important.” His tone is flippant, but his eyes dart toward the exits.

Riptide steps forward, and Astarion practically scrambles back. “Okay, alright! Maybe I heard a thing or two about my master.” He raises his hands. “Which, if you don’t mind, darlings, I’d very much enjoy hearing a thing or two more—”

Riptide makes to grab for Astarion’s shirt, but Anacra quickly steps in.

“ Calm , Riptide. He’s just scared,” she says, placing a hand over Riptide’s arm before he unsheathes his sword. Astarion huffs in response, though his gaze is still darting around, clearly calculating an escape.

Then he straightens, flashing a smirk. The shift is so sudden Anacra nearly reels from the whiplash. This man is making her head spin.

“If you’ve gotten into trouble with Cazador —” he says the name like a disease, “—then I can assure you, my lady, that your situation is worse than you think.”

Anacra frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I assume he’s blackmailing you? Perhaps someone in your house made a deal they shouldn’t have?”

Riptide tenses, his hand twitching toward his sword again. Astarion scrambles to add, “I can help! I’ve known Cazador for centuries—I know how he thinks. How he plans. You need me.”

Anacra studies him. Her instincts scream not to trust him. But Ilmater sent him. And, well, she’s always trusted her god; it’s hard to stop now.

She stares at him a moment more then sighs, smoothing back her bun. “Fine. But no more eavesdropping, yeah?”

Astarion places a hand over his heart and smiles. “On my undead heart.”

And so, an uneasy alliance is forged.

Chapter Text

“What do you want?”

Anacra doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but as she takes in the scene—Astarion sitting at a garden table, a delicate teacup in hand, looking at her with that insufferable smirk—she can’t help but be reminded of an overeager suitor.

These last two weeks have been good for him. The temple’s care, the time to recover, the simple act of breathing air that isn’t thick with mold and rot—it’s done wonders. He’s steadier now, less like a cornered animal waiting for the next strike. He doesn’t constantly glance at exits when he enters a room, and his smiles, though still sharp, feel more genuine. Reports from the temple staff say he’s even been socializing, though in a distinctly flirtatious fashion.

His smirk deepens at her question, and he presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “So suspicious! Is that any way to greet a dear friend?”

Anacra exhales. “Sorry. I just—do you have more information on Cazador?”

His expression turns downright wounded. “Darling, can’t I simply invite you for a quiet evening tea without ulterior motives?”

She crosses her arms. “You’re drinking blood.”

“Details, details.” He waves a dismissive hand before gesturing to the seat across from him. “Please, sit. Let me enjoy the view.”

She rolls her eyes but sits anyway, pouring herself a cup of actual tea. The temple courtyard is peaceful at this hour—lush with ivy and flowering hedges, hidden from the city’s prying eyes. The dusk air is warm, scented with damp earth and jasmine. Fireflies weave between the ivy strands, blinking lazily. The sun is out of sight, keeping Astarion safe from any unwanted burns.

Anacra lets herself relax, just a little.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was romantic,” she teases dryly, glancing back at Astarion.

He’s watching her, red eyes bright in the dim light. “And who’s to say it’s not?” His voice is rich, amused, just toeing the line of sultry.

She huffs a laugh. “I’d be more flattered if every report I got didn’t mention you trying to bed half the staff.”

“Please.” He scoffs, tilting his head as if personally insulted. “I have standards.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“I do.” He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “I only go after the exceptionally lovely.”

Anacra snorts, shaking her head. For all his dramatics, he does look better than before. His movements are fluid again, his skin has lost that near-translucent pallor, and while he’s still thin, there’s no longer the ghost of starvation lingering behind his eyes. He looks alive.

After a beat, she shifts, watching him carefully. “Astarion… you’ve told us a lot about Cazador. And while learning that he’s a sadistic vampire lord has been… well, alarming, I can’t help but wonder what one actually does as a spawn of such a person.”

His fingers still against the rim of his teacup.

She knows she’s walking on thin ice, but after two weeks, they’ve grown into something like friends. And, well, she’s curious.

He sets his cup down with deliberate ease. When he looks at her again, his eyes have lost that teasing light.

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs. “You only had to ask.”

She suddenly feels as though she shouldn’t have asked.

“I brought him prey,” Astarion continues, voice light, conversational. “I used to bring people to him, lure them in, so he could feed on them.”

Anacra’s breath stills. “Lure them in how?”

His smirk sharpens. “How do you think?” His voice is smooth, but there’s something dark curling beneath it. “Seduction. Charm. A touch of desperation when needed.” He tilts his head. “I was very good at it. It was, after all, my only purpose.”

The words settle like a weight in her chest.

She doesn’t answer right away. She isn’t sure how.

Astarion watches her expectantly, waiting for some kind of reaction. When she doesn’t immediately respond, he lets out a small laugh—low, humorless. “Oh, don’t look so stricken, my lady. Surely you didn’t think being enslaved to a vampire lord was all sunshine and daffodils?”

“I—” She hesitates. She hadn’t really thought about it. Not in full, gruesome detail. His flirtatious habits suddenly seem a lot more… unsettling and she feels bad for teasing him earlier.

“That’s… terrible,” she finally says, voice quieter than before. “I’m so sorry, Astarion.”

That startles him. His eyes flick to hers, sharp, searching, almost angry. “You’re sorry ?”

She shrugs, though under his intense stare, she feels almost small. “No one should have to—” she swallows. “To live like that.”

Silence.

He’s looking at her as if she’s just done something strange, something unexpected. And for the first time since she’s met him, Anacra finds she can’t read his expression.

Then, just as quickly, the moment is gone. His mask slides effortlessly back into place, and he leans back with an easy smile.

“I keep hearing things about a tournament,” he says smoothly. “Your healers seem to be absolutely dreading it.”

Anacra blinks at the sudden shift. “Oh. Yes. House de Solstice often hosts competitions—duels of wit, art, strength…” She exhales, still thrown by the abrupt change in conversation. “Tomorrow is a combat contest.”

His lips curl upward. “And I assume this has nothing at all to do with raising funds for your poor little House?”

She presses her lips together and doesn’t answer.

He grins. “Thought so. And the rumors that you won’t be participating this time have nothing at all to do with your magic’s disappearance, either?”

“Are you always this insufferable?” she mutters.

He lifts his teacup in a mock toast. “Only when I’m enjoying myself.”

She shakes her head, but for all her exasperation, there’s something easy about this moment between them. Anacra finds herself fully relaxing in what feels like… forever.

“Now, darling, I have to ask,” Astarion starts. “You and that dragonborn friend of yours…”

“No,” Anacra says, a hint of a smirk showing. “Just a friend, heavens forbid.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Anacra might have made a taunt about how he seems jealous, but after what he just revealed to her, she can’t force it out.

Astarion crosses a leg over his knee. “I imagine you’ve known each other a long time?”

“No—I mean yes, we’ve known each other a while.” She isn’t sure why she’s getting flustered. It’s not like she hasn’t been asked about this before. “But really. We’re just friends. He has a girl he’s going to marry in the city.”

“Pity,” Astarion muses. “I was hoping for a dramatic lovers’ quarrel.”

“You truly are annoying.”

He only grins.

“Ah,” an accented voice startles them both. “Is this the vampire spawn I’ve heard so much about in your letters?”

“Jaheira!” Anacra rises from her seat, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Gods, you’ve somehow gotten even older.” She actually doesn’t look that old, but with her white hair and aging face she is growing noticeably more mature than the last time Anacra saw her, even for a half-elf.

Jaheira laughs, taking Anacra’s hand in a firm shake. “And you’re no longer a child, I see. Still chasing off all the suitors, I hope?”

“Not after Aunt Ray shocked the last one—they’ve refused to get close.”

Jaheira arches a brow. “What did that old bat do this time?” Though she asks the question, her sharp gaze is already sizing up Astarion, who remains seated, exuding an air of forced boredom.

“No, like, she actually shocked him. With Shocking Grasp, if I recall correctly. The old bastard tried to put his hands on me after I turned him down. It was… an interesting night.”

Jaheira shakes her head, clearly unimpressed but unsurprised. She had been a friend of Anacra’s mother, and despite Ray’s official guardianship, Jaheira had always felt more like family.

“Well, as much as I’d love to hear more about your troublemaking,” Jaheira says, shifting her attention to Astarion, “I believe we finally have an in to that greaseball of a lord?”

“I’m an open book when it comes to my master,” Astarion purrs, though there’s tension behind the words.

“Shall we move somewhere more private?” Anacra suggests, glancing between them. “I’ll call for Aunt Ray.”

Jaheira nods. “Very well. Apologies for interrupting your little…tea party.” She doesn’t sound very sorry.

“Oh, hush. Follow me.”

Anacra leads them back to the manor, leading them into the main meeting room. It feels emptier than she remembers. The once lavish walls, which used to display grand paintings, are now bare save for green paint and a few gold sconces. Side tables that once held fine vases now gather only dust.

She makes a mental note—Ray must have started selling off the decorations again.

They gather around the large table in the center of the room, atop which lies a detailed map of Baldur’s Gate. Aunt Ray had always claimed it was dramatic, but Anacra liked having an overview of everything.

It isn’t long before Aunt Ray and Riptide arrive. Riptide takes his usual place against the wall near the door, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

“It’s about time you showed up, you old hag,” Aunt Ray greets with a frown.

“Ah, Ray. I have not missed you,” Jaheira replies, calm and unimpressed.

“Aunt, please, ” Anacra sighs, already feeling the headache forming. “Jaheira and the Harpers have been working to take down Cazador for years. She’s here to help.”

Ray scoffs. “Always showing up at just the right time to leave everyone in her debt.”

Anacra exhales sharply, patience wearing thin.

“I hate to interrupt the drama,” Astarion drawls, leaning against the table, “but we do have a Vampire Lord to discuss.”

Ray scowls—an expression Anacra is fairly certain is just her default. She has not been happy about a vampire in her home, hospitalized or not.

“I don’t know,” Riptide speaks up. “I like watching you all squabble. It’s like I’m at the theater.”

Anacra just decides to start talking before this goes too far off track.

“So, here’s what we know. Thanks to Astarion here, we now know Lord Szarr is a Vampire Lord and has been for several centuries. He has several spawn, seven to be exact, and is known within his house for being…what did you call it, Astarion?”

“A sadistic bastard.”

“Right. That. But thanks to Ilmater, we now have one of his spawn and therefore a way in.”

“And what does that entail?” Jaheira asks, her tone slightly taunting. “Are we going to send him into the rat’s nest while we strike from behind?”

“Er, well, that’s where you come in, Jaheira. Astairon, care to share the details?”

He nods and speaks.

“Cazador has been planning some sort of ritual for the past couple years. He’s had us - me and the other spawn that is - go out and fetch bodies. There’s got to be thousands by now, all some sort of sacrificial lambs.”

“And what will this ritual do?” Jaheira asks, voice more serious now.

Astarion gives an exaggerated sigh. “Well if I knew that, I’d tell you, now wouldn’t I, darling?”

A small tension falls over the room before Ray speaks.

“And why should we take anything you’re saying as truth, vampire? How do we know this isn’t some elaborate plan to bleed more money out of us.”

“Aunt Ray-” Anacra starts.

“No. Hush, child This is a valid question. He could be lying about all of this. The tomb, the injuries - they all very well could be part of some trick. Lord Szarr has been burning our treasury dry these last months. It’s only a matter of time until it’s gone completely. Obviously he wants us and our entire house out of the picture. How do we know this isn’t some plan to get rid of us quicker?”

Aancra cringes. But…well, Aunt Ray may have a point. How do they know this isn’t a trick? Even if her claims are more than a little outlandish and likely projections of her own fears, does that mean they have no truth?

The whole room turns to Astarion, who’s gone utterly still.

Then, after a long pause, he laughs. A sharp, bitter thing.

“Oh, of course,” he says, voice cool and edged with something unreadable. “How foolish of me to assume a lifetime of suffering in that wretched manor would be enough of a badge of loyalty for you.”

He pushes away from the table, crossing his arms. His usual flippancy is gone, replaced with something more direct, more dangerous.

“I understand your paranoia. I do. If I were in your position, I’d assume the worst too. But let’s get one thing straight—I hate that monster. Every moment of my miserable existence has been spent suffering under him. And if you think I went through that ”—they’ve all been informed on how he was found in that coffin—“just to set up an elaborate trick, then you’re giving me far too much credit.”

His voice lowers, laced with something darker.

“You want proof? Fine. Go find one of Cazador’s hunters. They will recognize me. They will try to drag me back. And when they do, you’ll have your answer.”

A heavy silence falls over the room.

Riptide is the first to speak. He looks uncharacteristically surprised. “Damn.”

Jaheira watches Astarion carefully, her expression unreadable. “He’s right,” she finally says. “Vampire’s spawn don’t just walk away. I’ve killed enough in my day to know. If this were a trick, he wouldn’t be here—he’d be back in chains.”

Ray’s expression is still skeptical but she doesn’t argue at least.

Anacra lets out a slow breath. “Then we have our answer.”

Astarion huffs. “About time.” But there’s no real smugness in it, just exhaustion.

For the first time, they’re forced to take him seriously.

Chapter Text

The air in the prep room is thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and the sharp bite of metal. It’s cooler in here, shadowed from the blazing torches outside, but the muffled roar of the crowd beyond the stone walls seeps through, a living, breathing thing. Tonight, the people are louder than usual. That’s good. It means word is finally spreading—and that they’re making bigger profits.

Anacra tugs the wrap tight around her hand, her fingers slightly unsteady. “I feel like we’re no closer to our goal.”

“In what sense?” Riptide grunts, unsheathing his greatsword with the ease of someone lifting a twig.

“I mean with Cazador. And Jaheira. And the Harpers. It feels like all we’ve done is talk, write letters, then talk some more.”

“Probably because that is all we’ve done,” he answers dryly.

Anacra clicks her tongue, glancing up at the blue warrior. “You don’t have to join me today, you know. I’m very likely going to make a fool of myself.”

Riptide bares a toothy grin. “Good thing I’ll be there to fuck everyone up for you then.” He sheathes his sword and starts rummaging through the prep room’s shelves, grabbing small potions. “Besides, Lani’s here to watch. She made a poster and everything.”

“You really ought to just marry the girl already.”

“Nah. You don’t pay me enough for a wedding.” He flashes another grin as Anacra rolls her eyes and slots potions into her belt.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Am I interrupting?”

Astarion’s voice drifts from the doorway, smooth as silk, and Anacra turns—perhaps a little too quickly.

“Astarion?” She can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips. His curls are especially unruly today, and that outfit—dark leather pants and a tucked white shirt—is doing him favors. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to be our third.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving upwards. Anacra blushes.

“I meant—I—you…curse you, you know what I meant.”

“Oh, I absolutely do.” His grin widens before he waves a hand dismissively. “But no, darling, I’m afraid I won’t be joining. Not with all those eyes out there. Just came to check on you two lovelies.”

“How charming,” Riptide deadpans, sliding his sword back into its sheath with a sharp click.

Astarion ignores him. “Though I admit, I’m curious. I thought you weren’t fighting today. Don’t tell me your magic reappeared overnight?”

Anacra snorts. “Hardly. But I’m not completely incompetent with a sword or a mace.”

“You do realize you’re at a disadvantage, don’t you, darling? What’s next—curing vampirism with positive thinking?”

“I get the feeling you’ve never tried that,” Riptide remarks.

Astarion shoots him a sharp look. She gets the distinct impression they don’t like each other much.

“I appreciate the concern, Astarion,” she says, “but really, I’ll be fine. I studied anatomy for years—I know how to hit every spot that hurts.”

Astarion exhales a soft hmph just as Aunt Ray steps into the room. He barely hesitates before giving a mock bow and slipping away. Anacra can’t help but feel annoyed at the intrusion; it feels like she’s cursed to always be interrupted. Perhaps another mark of Ilmater’s current ill will towards her…

The door shuts.

“I still don’t trust him,” Ray says, tone clipped.

Anacra exhales, already exhausted. “I’m sure you don’t, Aunt.” Anacra moves toward the door, peering through the narrow window. The pre-show is in full swing—the jester rolling about on the ground for reasons that elude her entirely. The crowd is roaring.

“Don’t lose.” Ray’s voice is sharp. “You’ll make a fool of this House.”

“We’ll try not to.”

“But don’t win, either.”

Silence. Anacra and Riptide exchange a look before turning back to Ray.

“What?”

Ray clasps her hands behind her back. “If you lose, they’ll talk. If you win, they’ll talk.” The noble houses. The ones watching, waiting. “I need this to be a spectacle, not a disaster. So just…be smart, child. You too, dragonborn.”

Even after all these years, she rarely calls Riptide by his name.

The crowd outside swells louder. A drum beats once.

Anacra exhales, then nods.

It’s another half hour before they step onto the field. The arena, usually meant for sport, now belongs to them.

Anacra strides out beside Riptide, their randomly assigned third trailing just behind—a massive orc woman named Bathaka, who looks like she could take Riptide in a fight and almost win.

The crowd erupts as they enter. Some cheer, some boo, all dictated by the bets placed moments before. Anacra scans the stands, easily spotting Aunt Ray. But Astarion is nowhere to be found. Hiding, most likely—if he’s even watching at all.

The sun is low, just beyond sight, staining the sky a breathtaking blend of pink and periwinkle. Anacra feels the sand shift under her boots, the thick smell of dust and sweat settling around her.

Then their opponents enter.

Riptide speaks first, sharp and sure. “Bathaka, take the elf on the left.”

The elf is tall, dark-skinned, with the longest hair Anacra has ever seen. “Druid, most likely. Anacra, the dwarf in the middle—spellcaster, judging by the lack of weapons.”

Anacra exhales, trying to hide her nervousness. “Why do I get the smallest one?”

“Because you’re barely taller than him.”

“Okay, ouch.”

Bathaka eyes the human on the far right, hefting a terrifying axe. “That leaves me with him.” It’s the first thing she’s said since introducing herself.

Anacra swallows hard. “No one die, okay?” They start closing the distance. Thirty feet.

Riptide chuckles. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Not funny.”

Bathaka barely glances at her. “Death is the most honorable fate a warrior can have.”

Twenty feet.

“That’s…one way to put it.”

Ten.

The chatter stops. Riptide breaks into a run first. Bathaka follows. And then, in a blink, the fighting begins.

Anacra dodges the first strike—a crackling bolt of red magic slamming into the sand just inches from her boots. She rolls aside, springing up just as the dwarf lunges.

A rapier. Damnation. She’d missed that.

He thrusts, and she parries, stepping in to drive her knee into his chest. It connects, but he barely grunts before sweeping her legs out from under her.

Anacra slams to the ground, breath torn from her lungs. The dwarf is fast—he’s on her before she can recover, a knee pressing down on her stomach, hands reaching to pin her arms.

She reacts on instinct and grabs his arm to cast Bestow Curse .

Nothing happens. No flash of green, no divine energy. Only a gaping hole where her magic should be.

A fist drives into her face, snapping her head into the sand. Blood fills her mouth.

Idiot. She was an idiot for fighting without her magic. She’s sparred Riptide a hundred times, and she’s never beaten him without magic. All fantasies of winning, bathed in glory alongside her friend evaporate in seconds. What was she thinking ?

Another punch. She barely manages to grab the dwarf’s thick, flabby neck, squeezing with what little leverage she has. Another blow lands—something cracks. Her ribs? Her nose? It doesn’t matter. She holds on.

The man smiles down at her. She shifts tactics. Twisting, she hooks her leg around his, bracing with all her strength. One sharp motion, and she throws him off her, reversing their positions.

But he doesn’t stay down.

A jab to her throat forces her back, and he scrambles free. Both of them stagger upright, though Anacra is definitely losing this fight, blood running down her face in streams.

The dwarf lunges. She’s ready this time. Sidestepping, she lets him charge past, then slashes across his back with a dagger.

He roars.

Anacra spits blood and watches him stumble, weighing her next move—

Then she hears the screaming.

Riptide is locked in combat, sword clashing against axe with brutal force.

Bathaka—

Bathaka is being mauled.

A panther tears into her, claws raking through muscle, blood spilling over the sand. The screams—Ilmater, she knows those screams. She’s heard them from the dying in her infirmary.

Anacra gasps. Her opponent is forgotten.

She runs. “Stop! Stop, you’ll kill her!” Technically killing is allowed, but it is highly frowned upon even by the richest spectators.

She doesn’t make it far before pain erupts.

A crack of red lightning strikes her in the back.

Anacra flies forward, slamming into the ground face-first. Her ears ring, her body convulses. She coughs, sand and blood mixing on her tongue. Somewhere in her mind, Aunt Ray’s voice echoes: Don’t lose, child .

She forces her head up, vision swimming. Bathaka is no longer fighting. She isn’t even moving.

No.

Anacra tries to push up—

The rapier plunges through her.

Her breath stops. The pain is blinding, white-hot and searing. She gasps, choking on air as the blade pins her to the sand.

They’re going to kill us.

They’re going to kill Riptide.

This was supposed to be a game. This was supposed to be a fucking fundraiser .

The rapier rips free with a sickening squelch. Anacra collapses, barely able to process the blood soaking into the sand beneath her.

Her head lolls toward the stands. Her breathing doesn’t sound right.

Aunt Ray is gone.

Astarion is nowhere to be found.

She tries, one last time, to push herself up—to get to her knees. She refuses to die here. She refuses to have such an embarrassing death.

But the darkness swallows her whole.

Chapter Text

Astarion is seriously starting to get frustrated with himself.

He had spent decades perfecting the art of apathy, of looking at carnage and feeling nothing beyond amusement—or hunger, when it suited him. Yet as he watches the fight unfold below, something deep in his chest twists. Not enough to move him, not yet.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Even when Anacra takes a hit to the face so hard he half expects her to crumple. She is resilient—stupidly so—but resilient nonetheless. She would get back up.

But then she runs. Not away, as any sane person would, but towards the orc who is being torn apart. The survival instinct he has honed over two centuries wavers.

A bloodbath. This is turning into a full-blown bloodbath. The smell is intoxicating, thick and metallic, curling around his senses like an old lover. He had once dreamed of standing in the middle of such chaos, basking in the bloodshed while Cazador whimpered for mercy. And yet, even he grimaces as the orc is torn to shreds.

And then Anacra is impaled.

Astarion stiffens, breath catching in his throat. He wasn’t even aware he had risen from his seat until a sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

"Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help her, you numbskull?"

He startles, whirling to face the intruder. Anacra’s aunt. Astarion thinks that she looks as if Anacra had grown 40 years and then gotten hit by a couple of carriages.

She’s striding toward him, face drawn tight with something that looks suspiciously like fear. How in the hells had she even found him?

He narrows his eyes. "Charming. You always address potential allies with insults, or am I just special?"

"You’re a vampire!" she snaps, her voice just shy of desperation. "Help her!"

Astarion glances back at the arena. Anacra is on her hands and knees now, trembling as if every muscle in her body is failing her. Blood pools beneath her in an ever-growing stain. She isn’t getting up this time.

Something inside him twists so violently it almost hurts.

“Cazador could be out there for all I know—” he starts, voice sharper than he intends, but Ray cuts him off with a single word:

“ Please .”

Astarion’s gaze snaps back to her. Pleading. She is actually pleading with him.

He clenches his jaw, frustration bubbling under his skin. He should stay hidden. Stay safe. That had been the plan. That should still be the plan. But instead, here he was, standing at the edge of disaster, torn apart by something raw and infuriatingly human.

Because that stupid girl —the one who couldn't even hold her own in a fight—was the only person in two centuries who had ever cared about him.

With a hiss of annoyance, he leaps into the fray.

- - -

Pain. Like none she’s ever known before. A searing, blinding agony that makes her entire body convulse. A sudden, almost ridiculous burst of sympathy rises in her for every patient she has ever treated. This is agony. This is—

Relief.

Anacra gasps, eyes fluttering open to find a broad, scaled figure looming over her. Riptide. Her vision swims, tunneling in and out of focus as the sensation of liquid fire pours over her wounds. No, not fire—potions. One after another, dumped hastily onto the bloodied ruin of her stomach.

The pain dulls as quickly as it came, leaving her breathless and shaking. She groans, rolling onto her side, dazed and deeply uncomfortable. Her fingers trace where the wound should have been, only to find smooth, unbroken skin. Riptide is speaking—loud, insistent—but the words are garbled, lost to the ringing in her ears.

She forces herself up onto her knees, then her feet, her head still swimming as memory slams back into place. The tournament. The bloodbath. The fight .

Her vision clears.

Two bodies lay on the ground, unmoving. One, Riptide’s opponent. The other—

Her stomach turns. Bathaka. What’s left of her.

Riptide’s roar snaps her back. He’s a blur of motion, deceptively fast despite his massive frame, locked in vicious combat with the black panther shifter. He fights like a man possessed, axe carving through the air in sweeping, brutal arcs. He’s winning.

But it isn’t Riptide who makes her freeze.

A flash of silver. A familiar figure, moving too fast for her sluggish mind to comprehend.

“Astarion?” She isn’t sure if she whispers it or screams it.

He doesn’t hear her. He’s locked in combat, a deadly dance of knives and flashing fangs, dueling the dwarf who left her bleeding in the dirt. There’s none of his usual theatrical grace, none of the playfulness that usually laces his movements. This is different. Ruthless. Precise. He moves like a man who has spent centuries perfecting the art of killing.

Blood still drips down her face as she stumbles toward her weapon, eyes never leaving the feral snarl twisting Astarion’s features.

He’s angry .

She’s never seen him angry before.

Her fingers close around the hilt of her weapon.

The black panther lunges for Riptide’s throat, but the dragonborn is faster, twisting at the last second. His axe comes down in a vicious arc, catching the shifter clean in the ribs. A sickening crunch—then silence. The panther falls, unmoving.

One left.

Anacra barely has time to register it before Astarion strikes.

The dwarf is skilled, but Astarion is faster. He twists, a flick of his wrist sending a dagger burying into the dwarf’s shoulder. A scream. Then another blade, this time slicing deep into his stomach.

The dwarf staggers.

Anacra surges forward, closing the distance with the last of her strength. Before the dwarf can react, her sword buries deep into his back, pushing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.

For a moment, the only sound is their breathing.

Then the dwarf crumples, and it’s over.

Silence.

Anacra sways, her body suddenly, overwhelmingly heavy. But before she can collapse, Astarion is there, steadying her with firm hands, his face still twisted in something unreadable but angry.

"You absolute idiot ," he hisses. His grip tightens—just for a second—before he lets go.

A slow, stunned realization settles over her.

They have won.

- - -

They have about half an hour before the next round.

The prep room is dark, barely lit by the flickering sconces along the stone walls. The air is thick—humid with the scent of sweat, blood, and too many bodies passing through before them. From outside, the arena roars. The echoes of steel on steel, the sickening crunch of bone, the cheers and jeers of the crowd—it all presses against the walls like a living thing, waiting to swallow them whole.

Riptide paces like a caged beast, his heavy footfalls rhythmic against the cold floor. Anacra sits hunched forward, her elbows braced against her knees, head in her hands.

And Astarion—Astarion is leaning against the far wall, the picture of indifference, idly picking at his knife.

“That was fucking insane,” Riptide grumbles, running a hand over his horns. He’s still covered in blood, but it’s hard to tell how much of it is his. “Who the fuck even does that? Who goes on killing sprees just for fun ?”

A sharp snort from the corner. Astarion barely looks up from his blade.

“I’ll tell you who,” Riptide continues, throwing his arms in the air. “ Psychopaths! ”

“And sociopaths,” Anacra mutters, voice raw, like she’s been swallowing glass.

“And sociopaths! ” Riptide flails again, spinning back to continue pacing.

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You both should drop out of this damned thing.”

Anacra’s head snaps up. “And embarrass my house? I think not.”

“You won, you stubborn fool. And nearly died, if I must remind you.” Astarion pushes off the wall, stepping closer, his voice low, sharp, cutting.

“Aunt Ray will kill me anyway if I drop out now,” she snaps. Her composure is slipping, and she knows it, but she can’t stop . Rarely has she been so afraid as she was on that battlefield. The memory is still thick in her mouth, coppery and bitter. The pain still lingers, phantom echoes beneath smooth, newly healed skin. Hot, angry tears burn in the corners of her eyes.

“Don’t you get it?” Her voice cracks. “This is about more than just money! Or pride!”

“Oh, please do tell, my lady.” Astarion’s voice turns mocking, but his eyes—his eyes are colder than before. Calculating. “You’ve lived in nothing less than silks and jewels your entire life. You’re not fighting for survival. You have never known what it’s like to fight for survival. So tell me. Why are you so hell-bent on getting yourself slaughtered again?”

The words cut. Not because they’re cruel, but because they scrape too close to the truth.

To her great embarrassment, Anacra’s lip trembles.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Turns her head away. Don’t think. Don’t remember.

But the darkness is already curling at the edges of her mind. That creeping, suffocating fog. She knows this feeling. That awful pull like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into a memory she should be able to see—

But she can’t.

It’s like standing outside a locked door while something inside pounds against it, begging to be let out.

She shuts off. She has to shut off.

It makes it hard to think. Hard to breathe. The sounds around her distort, stretching thin, breaking apart. She feels like she’s slipping —

Her breath stutters. Quickens.

She’s spiraling, she knows she’s spiraling, but she can’t—

A warm touch. Steady hands.

“Anacra.”

The voice is firm but familiar. Riptide.

She blinks. Once. Twice. The room comes back in pieces—the damp stone walls, the flickering firelight, the weight of her body in the chair. Riptide crouches in front of her, his massive hands gentle against her wrists, grounding her.

She swallows, still unsteady, but here .

Astarion, however, is staring at her like she’s just sprouted a second head. “What the fuck was that ?” His voice cuts through the fog still clinging to her thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re insane now, darling.”

She glares at him. “I’m going back out there, you dick. Whether you join or not.”

To Astarion’s credit, he looks properly off-balance. For once, he doesn’t have a quip ready.

Riptide just exhales through his nose and starts wrapping his hands, like he already knows how this is going to go.

A long silence stretches between them.

Then—

“ Fine. ”

Anacra glances up. Astarion crosses his arms, expression unreadable.

“But if you get yourself killed, I’m not the one dragging your corpse out.”

It’s a lie. She knows it. He knows it.

She gives him a sickly smile anyways. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Chapter Text

Just stay up. That’s all Anacra cares about this round. Just stay on her feet.

Her body is screaming, bruised and battered from the earlier fights. Every movement is slower than she wants it to be, every breath too sharp in her ribs. But she forces herself to keep going.

Riptide has already taken down one of the three opponents, leaving her to limp back to the prep room. Now he’s locked in combat with a massive orc whose roars shake the arena, their weapons clashing like hammer on steel.

Anacra doesn’t look. Doesn’t let herself get distracted.

Instead, she and Astarion circle the half-elf man with dirty blond hair. He moves well, stepping lightly even as he grins through bloodied teeth, one eye already swelling shut. He’s quick. Tough.

And he looks like Solren.

Not exactly. The nose is wrong, the freckles absent. But for one dizzying moment, her mind replaces him with her brother, standing across from her, arms raised in a familiar stance.

Solren is dead.

She blinks. Focuses.

Astarion feints left before slashing with his right, his blade cutting deep across the half-elf’s ribs. Blood splashes across the dirt. The half-elf stumbles with a strangled grunt, and Anacra seizes the moment, smashing a vial of poison into his face. The glass shatters. Acrid liquid seeps into open wounds.

The man screams.

And it’s Solren’s voice.

Anacra reels back, her breath strangling in her throat. The world spins. The screams keep going. High, agonized, too familiar. 

The half-elf writhes on the ground, clutching his face as his skin blisters from the toxin. Astarion steps over him, daggers raised, ready to drive them down and end it.

“No! Please! Enough!”

She doesn’t realize she’s lunged forward until she’s grabbing Astarion’s arm with both hands, stopping the strike before it lands.

His head snaps toward her, eyes wild, fangs bared, his expression nearly unrecognizable. For a moment, she sees another monster standing over a fallen body, something from a nightmare.

But then his gaze flickers. Whatever he sees on her face makes him hesitate. His grip loosens, his posture shifting. Slowly, his arm lowers. Instead of his blades, his boot crashes into the half-elf’s ribs, knocking him unconscious.

The fight isn’t over. The orc is still going strong. Riptide is struggling now, breathing hard, but he grins through it, blood smeared across his temple. Astarion turns, stepping in. They fight side by side, a rhythm they’ve barely practiced but fall into all the same.

It’s brutal. It’s desperate. It lasts longer than it should.

And then it’s over.

They won.

Anacra is barely aware of the official calling the match. The cheers and jeers of the crowd blend into a dull roar in her ears. Coins rattle as bets are passed, and the mud-covered jester gives her a mocking bow from the stands.

She doesn’t care.

Her eyes are fixed on the half-elf as healers rush in, magic lighting their hands. He stirs, groaning as his wounds close, the poison wiped from his skin as if it was never there. He’ll be fine. He’ll walk away from this.

Unlike Solren.

And as Anacra stands in the dirt, aching and empty, she realizes—winning or losing, it wouldn’t have mattered. Ilmater won’t forgive her.

He never has.

- - -

“You sent him into the arena?”

Anacra is screaming. Astarion has never heard her scream before.

The sound is sharp, cutting, raw, completely unrestrained. It makes something uncomfortable coil in his stomach, and he tells himself it’s just the surprise of it.

“You were dying, you ill-mannered girl!” Ray screams back.

Astarion lingers in the hallway just a room away from them, standing perfectly still, his breathing measured and silent. He’s always been good at this. Quick, quiet, unseen. A lifetime of practice.

Well, except for that one humiliating moment when he knocked over a vase. Anacra had teased him about that. He’d scoffed at the time, but now, strangely, he almost wishes for that moment again. It was easier when she was just some odd little cleric who patched him up and made exasperated noises at his flirtations.

Now? Now she’s fire.

“You’re a bitch , Aunt Ray!”

Astarion grimaces, expecting the sharp crack of a slap, maybe the shattering of glass; violence always follows words like that. But nothing comes.

Only silence.

Then, finally, Ray speaks again. “Everything I do, I do for this house. For this family.”

“What family, Aunt?” Anacra’s voice is venom now, laced with something brittle. “It’s just you and I left. You cannot claim to be doing this for me when you actively hurt and undermine the people I care for! You use me and everyone else as a pawn, as long as it fits your goals.”

Astarion can’t help it, he gives a tiny, approving shrug. She’s got a point.

“You’re naive, Ana. You do not understand the power and control it takes to run a house. To keep us from falling under and into the streets—”

“Would that be so terrible, Aunt?” Anacra cuts in, voice burning. “Do the poor and hungry make you so dreadfully uncomfortable that you’d rather kill than be near them?”

Hells. Astarion leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral. He doesn’t want to think about how, only weeks ago, he was exactly what she’s referring to. Used up, starved, left in the dark.

He still might be.

It’s not a pleasant thought. So, he dismisses it.

He loses the thread of the conversation for a moment, too deep in his own head, and tunes back in just as he hears his name.

“Stay away from Astarion,” Anacra snaps. “He’s very obviously been through enough.”

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes. He’s not some wounded animal to be pitied, thank you very much. Though…the way she says it. He’s been through enough. There’s no condescension, no pity, just something fierce. Something protective.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t hate it.

Ray’s voice drops low, slow and warning. “You be careful with that one, girl. I’ve known men like him.” A pause, then, a sneer— a knowing sneer . “He will bite.”

Astarion’s fangs catch on his lip. He doesn’t know if it’s amusement or irritation that makes his fingers twitch.

And then, footsteps. Sharp. Familiar.

Ray walks past without so much as a glance at him. The door slams behind her.

Astarion stays where he is, staring at the empty space she left behind. The house feels quieter now, like the argument carved something out of it.

Inside the room, Anacra is still standing stiff and unmoving. She looks furious, yes, but also—tired. Worn down to the bone.

Astarion watches her for a moment longer before silently turning away.

- - -

“Astarion?”

He stops mid-step and turns. The dim hallway cloaks him in shadow, save for the slivers of moonlight catching the sharp edges of his face. For a moment, he looks almost unreal, like a painting, oil-dark and striking, something meant to be admired from a distance.

But he is not distant. He is right there. Watching her.

“Yes, darling?”

She swallows. The air between them feels heavier than it should.

“I thought you weren’t going to eavesdrop anymore.” She tries to keep the tremor from her voice, but fails.

Astarion doesn’t quip, doesn’t smirk. He only looks at her. A slow, unreadable study. It roots her in place, makes her feel… exposed. Stripped bare under his quiet scrutiny.

She should say something. Anything.

“I’m not sure if I thanked you yet,” she finally says, voice softer now. “For saving me earlier.”

There—his lips twitch, his eyes flicker, a sure sign of a teasing remark forming—then, strangely, he stops himself. Holds the words back.

Instead, he just says, “You are welcome, my dear.”

His voice is light, but there’s a weight behind it. A sincerity that catches her off guard.

They stand there, studying each other in the hush of the corridor, where the only sound is the distant murmur of the household settling into the night. The dim sconces flicker, throwing shifting shadows against the walls.

She exhales, her shoulders loosening, her eyes growing heavier. “I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe, Astarion.”

His expression changes. It’s subtle, but there, just like in the hospital courtyard. A flicker of something unreadable, something almost…wary. As if she’s said something strange.

“You…” He hesitates, then exhales a quiet breath. “You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

She blinks. The words shouldn’t feel like anything, just an observation. And yet, they land in her chest like a stone dropped into still water. 

“I’m a priestess of Ilmater,” she says, clearing her throat. “I am sworn to do good by—”

“No,” Astarion interrupts, shaking his head. “No, you are more than a cleric, darling.”

His tone isn’t meant to be comforting. He’s simply stating a fact.

It’s her turn to look at him like he’s spoken a riddle.

She looks at him. Really looks at him. And something in her gut twists, though she doesn’t know why.

The silence stretches. The flickering sconces cast their shadows long.

Then, finally, he exhales and steps back, breaking whatever strange tether held them in place. “Thank you,” he says, voice lower now. “For standing up for me.”

And then, before she can think of what to say, he turns and slips into the night, disappearing into the hospital’s gloom.

She doesn’t follow.

She only watches him go.

Chapter Text

The night is thick with mist. It clings to the manor walls, curling around the windows like spectral fingers. Anacra feels suffocated by the humidity, like she’s being pressed down into the mattress, her own body turning against her. She tosses and turns, her blanket long forgotten on the floor.

She can’t stop thinking about the fight.

Piercing, blinding pain as the blade was forced through her body. The sight of her own blood pooling in the dirt.

And the panic.

The panic that she would die without earning back Ilmater’s goodwill. That she would die with her promise to her mother unkempt. That she would leave Astarion in Aunt Ray’s hands.

The darkness in her mind swirls like the mist outside, an unrelenting tide of exhaustion. A fleeting, ridiculous thought presses against it: running. Just leaving it all behind—the expectations, the burdens, the fight. And then, to her own embarrassment, she idly wonders if Astarion would come with her.

The image is foolish. Astarion in a quiet cottage by a lake, tending to a garden, baking bread, living simply? He’d hate it. He wasn’t made for that kind of life. And yet… the vision is so calming that she lets herself hold onto it for just a moment longer.

She has just started to drift into uneasy sleep when a knock comes at her door. The darkness is back in an instant.

She groans, eyes still half-lidded. “Yes?”

“A visitor, my lady,” a servant calls through the wood. “He insisted it was urgent. He asked for you specifically.”

She’s about to tell them whoever it is can wait until morning, but the next words stop her cold.

“It’s Lord Cazador Szarr, my lady.”

She is out of bed in an instant, hands fumbling for the first proper gown she can grab.

Her heart pounds as she moves down the unlit hallway. She tells herself not to run, but her feet struggle to obey.

At the top of the grand staircase, she freezes.

Lord Szarr stands just beyond the manor’s threshold, the mist curling hungrily around his feet. The open doorway allows it to spill lazily inside, slithering against the marble like it belongs there.

The wards still hold. He cannot step inside.

But that doesn’t seem to matter. Even standing on the precipice, he exudes ownership. This is not a request for an audience. This is a master surveying his property.

His eyes, exactly like Astarion’s, find her instantly. And he smiles. It is slow, deliberate—like he already knows how this conversation will end.

Something ugly twists inside Anacra. Rage . The same rage that had burned through her when she’d first realized what Astarion was, what had been done to him. It rises so fast, so violently, that it feels like she’s been stabbed through again.

This man is a monster. This man is Astarion’s abuser. He has been bleeding her house dry for months, and now he stands here as if he has every right.

“You have something of mine,” Cazador says smoothly.

His voice is sharp and grating, like a blade scraping against stone. Like a song meant to hypnotize rather than soothe.

Anacra forces herself to breathe. She will not let him see her shake.

Her back straightens, and she steps forward. Her voice is calm. Controlled. She plays the part she has always played and always will.

“We’ve already given you the last payment, Lord Szarr—”

“Do not play dumb with me, child.”

The words crack through the air like a whip.

Anacra flinches before she can stop herself, more from the sheer force of his voice than the volume. It is not the sound of someone raising their voice in frustration—it is command. A reminder of exactly what he is, and what he does to those who displease him.

Even with her standing above him, he is the one in control.

“Did you really think you could hide him forever?” Cazador’s head tilts, his eyes almost seem to glow. “You might as well have paraded him through the streets. You threw him into an arena. And you expect me not to notice?” 

Anacra’s nails dig into her palms. She debates playing dumb but decides against it. “What you seek is under House de Solstice’s protection.”

“ Protection ,” he repeats, as if mocking the word. Then he laughs. It’s an awful sound, dry, humorless, sharp enough to cut.

“My dear girl,” he says, tilting his head. “You are very young. And your house is very weak.”

His eyes flick around the hall, lingering on the details that reveal House de Solstice’s struggles: the fading rugs, the long-unpolished silver, the gaps where paintings used to be.

“Do you truly believe a dying house can shelter a runaway dog?”

Anacra bristles.

“You’re a monster,” she hisses, voice tight with emotion.

Cazador steps closer to the very edge of the threshold, where the wards hum in warning. His lips pull into something sharper than a smirk, something colder than a sneer.

“You think you know who you’re dealing with,” he says, “but tell me, does your brother’s shadow still linger here? What about your mother? Or have they finally rotted away like the rest of this place?”

Anacra’s breath catches. The way he says it…

He knows something.

He sees the flicker of understanding in her face and smiles. A secret well kept. A truth just out of reach. That truth she and Aunt Ray have been so very desperate for. Mother’s death was tragic and Father died so long ago she hardly remembers him… but Solren? Oh, Solren. What happened to her brother?

“You are your father’s daughter, after all,” he muses, almost to himself. “It would be such a shame if you made the same mistakes.”

Then, just as quickly as he arrived, he steps back.

“I won’t waste my time tonight,” he says lightly, straightening his cuffs. “But I do hate loose ends. Sooner or later, we will have to settle this properly.”

“You will not have him,” she calls out suddenly.

His eyes find hers one last time, and the air turns heavy.

“Enjoy your borrowed time.”

The mist rises as he turns, swallowing him whole before he vanishes into the night.

- - -

When Anacra returns to her room, she’s already on edge. Every nerve is frayed, her body still taut with the tension of that encounter. So when she sees Astarion making himself comfortable on her bed, she stills in the doorway.

The room is dimly lit, the lanterns flickering against the heavy drapes. The mist from outside still clings to the glass, and for a moment, the shadows warp and stretch like they’re trying to find their way in.

And his eyes…they truly are identical to Cazador’s.

The realization slithers under her skin, cold and unwelcome. A shiver ghosts down her spine.

She’s in no mood for banter. And he wouldn’t be here if he didn't already know who had just visited.

“The wards held,” she says softly, smoothing her damp palms down the fabric of her dress, needing something—anything—to ground her.

Astarion’s voice is quiet but sharp at the edges, like a blade wrapped in silk. “Was there a doubt they would?” He pauses, and she hears it—fear, laced beneath the words. He’s trying to hide it. He always does. “I was assured I had ‘nothing to worry about.’”

Anacra cringes. She should have chosen her words more carefully before.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You should have sent him away. You should have let the servants answer him. You should have let him stand there, knocking, until dawn burned him away.”

Her hatred for the man is nothing compared to Astarion’s.

“And you think that would have stopped him?”

A beat of silence. Then, almost too softly—

“No.”

The word lingers between them, an acknowledgment of something inevitable.

Anacra watches his expression shift, something delicate and dangerous slipping behind the mask he so effortlessly wears. He hides in plain sight, as he always has, as he was taught to. But she sees the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he holds himself, the way his fingers twitch against the blankets.

She wants to promise him safety. She wants to swear on her name, on her blood, that she will never let Cazador lay a hand on him again.

But she knows better. Cazador’s words weren’t empty. And that truth settles in her stomach like a stone.

Still, she crosses the room and sits next to him anyway, careful not to touch him, though she wants to.

“Astarion,” she murmurs, voice steadier than she feels, “I’m honestly telling the truth when I say I’ll protect you.” Maybe it’s her fatigue, or maybe the lingering weight of fear in her chest, but the words come out raw, invested. “I will not let him have you. I will not let him take you back to that hell. I…” She hesitates, her throat tightening and voice cracking. “You deserve more than that, Astarion.”

Something flickers across his face. It’s unreadable, gone as quickly as it came.

And then, to her utter shock, he leans in.

Anacra jolts back before his lips can find hers. Her breath stutters, heat rising in her cheeks.

But Astarion does not look embarrassed.

His face is eerily blank. He watches her, but he doesn’t see her.

His eyes are far away, locked onto something in the past.

It disturbs her deeply. But she knows that look.

“Astarion,” her voice is tight, thick with something close to grief. “Astarion, you owe me nothing.”

Now he looks confused.

And then, in an instant, that’s gone too. The mask clicks back into place, effortless.

“Darling,” he drawls, far too flippant, “you… you are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Anacra swallows thickly. She tries to smile, tries to meet him where he is, tries to help him feel normal.

“I like to keep the men on their toes,” she jokes lightly, and she’s relieved when he actually smiles.

“No wonder you’ve yet to marry.”

“That and one other reason,” she replies, smiling properly now.

He quirks an eyebrow, waiting. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“You should get some sleep, Astarion,” she says softly, hesitating only a moment before very carefully placing her hand on his. She does so slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t. “The wards will keep the house and hospital secure. I’ll post extra guards near your door just in case, though.”

His gaze falls to their hands. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his palm upward and entwines their fingers. Anacra’s stomach flips. They both sit in silence for a moment, the only light the moon, just staring at their hands.

“I don’t sleep, darling.”

“Fine. Trance. Whatever you do,” she murmurs, lips twitching at the corners.

He seems considerably calmer now, and, she realizes, so is she. The worst of it has passed. Maybe that little daydream of him baking bread fits him a little better than she thought.

He stands, letting her hand go, and gives a mock bow. Just before stepping through the doorway, he turns, his expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “Anacra.”

And it’s the most sincere she’s ever heard him sound.

Chapter Text

Astarion is starting to realize that Anacra is… depressed.

It isn’t hard to notice, nor is it difficult to understand. It’s like she has a little black cloud that clings to her like a shadow, curling around the edges of her being, settling into the spaces between words she doesn’t say. It’s in the way she carries herself: shoulders drawn too tight, gaze distant. She doesn’t smile, despite the faint lines at the corners of her mouth that suggest she once did. Once, perhaps often.

He watches from the shadows as she moves, a bo staff spinning through the air with theatrical precision. She exhales sharply, striking at some unseen enemy, her movements fluid but lacking the ruthless efficiency of someone who has fought to survive. The room is nearly empty, though the scuffs on the floor and the lingering scent of sweat tell him she hasn’t been alone here all day.

Astarion hadn’t even known this room existed until he saw her slip away a few hours ago, jaw tight, expression drawn. And now, he stands in the dim light, observing.

She’s good. Not great. Just good. Her stances could be lower, her strikes sharper. There’s too much flourish, too much unnecessary movement. The tournament the other day had made that much clear.

Astarion frowns as she moves through another form, spinning the staff behind her back before sidestepping and cutting through the air in a wide arc. Why would you ever want your weapon behind your back? That’s how you get yourself killed.

He steps forward, letting his voice cut through the silence.

“It’s no wonder you nearly died yesterday.”

Anacra jolts, snapping toward him, her staff raised like she might actually strike. Astarion grins, pleased. At least she has some instincts.

“You look like you’re dancing.”

“Ilmater’s chains, Astarion,” She  curses sharply, lowering her weapon with an irritated glare. “How the hells do you do that?”

He chuckles, taking his time as he strolls toward her. The dim torchlight catches in her dark blonde hair, casting a faint glow against the deep gray of her eyes. Her freckles, covering her entire body as far as he can tell, are still visible despite the lighting. He stops just close enough that she has to look up at him.

The height difference isn’t drastic, but it’s enough to make him imagine… other things.

He smirks. “Two centuries of stalking the streets like a ghost have made me… agile .”

She blushes. Pink blooms across her cheeks, and she looks away just a fraction too quickly.

Something sharp warm twists in his chest. And then it’s accompanied by panic . Not the kind that sends him running, but the kind that makes him want to fight, to crush the feeling before it can become something dangerous. He shoves both emotions away like a vial of wretched poison.

He grins wider. Too wide. “Tell me, darling, are you actually training? Or am I about to be forced to watch some dreadfully slow performance piece?”

“I—you know I’m trying my best,” she says quickly, taking a step back with a slight pout.

“Oh, don’t go getting all defensive on me,” he purrs, stepping forward to close the distance again. “I was hoping for a fight.”

Anacra’s eyes narrow.

“Fine. A basic sparring match, then.”

“Basic, hm? You don’t seem the type for… basic exercises.”

“Very funny,” she says dryly, setting her staff aside before turning back toward him. “We don’t have someone to judge, so we’ll just have to keep track of points ourselves.”

Astarion quirks an eyebrow as he moves to the opposite side of the ring. “Points?”

“Would you rather go until—”

She doesn’t get to finish.

Astarion moves, fast and unforgiving. He rams his shoulder into her hips, knocking her off balance, and uses all his weight to send her crashing to the ground.

It’s instinct. A hundred alleyway fights before this one. Anacra gasps as she hits the floor, and in the next instant, he’s on her—one arm hooking around her neck, the other securing the hold. It’s not a true choke, not yet, just enough pressure to subdue.

She freezes. But only for a moment.

Then she moves, faster than he expects. A shift of her weight, a twist of her hips, and suddenly he’s the one on his back, grappling against a force stronger than it looks.

Astarion grins.

They roll, neither of them striking to wound, but there’s a sharpness in the way they move, an edge of frustration, of something neither wants to name. Astarion doesn’t mind. It’s fun, in a way.

Until she hooks her legs around his waist.

Something inside him shatters.

The warmth of her body. The way her limbs tighten around him, trying to get him where she wants him.

His mind splinters. He isn’t in the training room anymore. He’s in Cazador’s manor, forced into another game of pretend, another moment of waiting, entertaining, serving…

Anacra shifts beneath him, adjusting her hold.

Astarion growls.

She notices. And she hesitates. “Astarion?” Her voice is cautious now, unsure. “We can be done—”

His body reacts before his mind catches up.

He wrenches his arm against her throat. Still a sparring move, but he doesn't hold back now.

Anacra chokes, her body bucking beneath his as she tries to get an advantage again. And for one terrible moment, Astarion doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t see her.

She taps against his arm. Lightly at first. Then harder.

Too hard.

He jerks away like he’s been burned.

Astarion stumbles to his feet, panting despite the fact that he doesn’t need to breathe. Anacra rolls onto her side gasping for breath.

His stomach twists. How long had she been trying to tap out?

Shame coils in his ribs like a beast ready to devour him whole.

And beneath the shame is something uglier. Anger .

Not at her. Not really. But at himself. At Cazador. At the way his body still obeys commands he doesn’t remember making.

His hands curl into fists. He should go. Before she says something, before she looks at him like that—

“Astarion—please, wait—”

He stops.

Turns.

Their eyes meet.

And her face cracks into…a smile .

It’s weak, breathless, but genuine.

And god's help him, he doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“Shush.” She’s breathless, still rubbing her throat, but there’s something bright in her eyes. “That was the best sparring match I’ve had in… forever . I might actually—I might actually get better.”

Astarion stares at her, his mind struggling to make sense of what she’s saying. She should be furious. Warier. He wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to be near him again. But instead…she looks excited. Like she hadn’t even noticed his… episode . Maybe she hadn’t. She has been particularly naive about those sorts of things, he’s noticed. 

The thought makes him feel some relief.

“You…want me to train you,” he says, slowly, like he’s trying the words on for size.

Anacra nods, pushing herself up, brushing dust from her clothes like this is just another evening spent brawling with friends. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to find an instructor who actually knows what they’re doing? This city is full of wannabe adventurers who think killing one draugr makes them the talk of the town. And—well, goodness, it does. At least in this part of town. I can’t—”

Astarion laughs. Actually laughs . It’s startled out of him, sharp with disbelief and something else. Relief, maybe. Or perhaps just the sheer absurdity of it all.

For a moment, he almost says something real. Almost lets his guard slip.

Instead, he picks up a practice dagger from a nearby rack and tosses it to her, watching her carefully as she catches it. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her expression, buried beneath all the other emotions swirling between them.

“Well, darling,” he says, smirking despite it all. “How could I say no?”

Chapter Text

Astarion has started touching her.

Anacra’s house is in danger, her god has abandoned her, and, according to Jaheira, Cazador is watching their every move. But despite all of that, she can’t stop thinking about the way Astarion touches her.

When was the last time she felt the touch of a man? Two years? Three? There had been a brief fling with a boy from another noble house. It had been months filled with confusion, miscommunication, and more tears than she cared to admit.

But Astarion never leaves her wondering.

Meetings with Jaheira and the Harpers consume many of her afternoons and nights, and Astarion is always there, by her side. A light hand on her back. Fingers brushing dirt from her cheek. Innocent, fleeting touches that she gladly returns.

And yet, every time she touches him, she hesitates.

He was a slave. A sex slave. For two hundred years.

She’s terrified of touching him wrong. More than once, he’s flinched when she’s reached for him. He always reassures her that he’s fine, but she doesn’t believe him. Not really.

So she keeps her hands to herself until he initiates first.

And then, in the middle of a meeting, he has the audacity to squeeze her thigh.

Jaheira is deep in discussion with one of the Harpers, a brunette named Datris, while the rest of them listen. Anacra’s mind drifts, dulled by the monotony of political maneuvering, until she feels Astarion’s fingers idly tracing patterns against her leg.

Her breath hitches. Heat flares under her skin.

She knocks her knee against his, wordless but firm. When he turns to her, taking in the flush on her cheeks, he smirks.

She glares, a look that’s meant to be chastising but fails miserably in masking her arousal.

Astarion rolls his eyes but removes his hand. She instantly misses the touch, which only makes her blush harder.

“Ana.”

Ray’s voice snaps her back to reality.

“What? Sorry?” Anacra sits up straighter, trying to school her face into something more composed.

She suddenly feels like she’s back in school, under the sharp scrutiny of her elders. Jaheira sighs. Aunt Ray rolls her eyes.

“Do you remember where he lives?” Ray’s voice is cold. They’ve barely spoken since their fight nearly two weeks ago. “Lord Singleton. Your mother’s favorite man—”

“Yes, I know who he is,” Anacra cuts in swiftly, her embarrassment shifting to irritation. Ray is just trying to get under her skin. Her mother had been romantically involved with Singleton before her death, and Anacra has never liked the man.

“Good,” Jaheira says. “It shouldn’t take much to make him talk. I suggest feeding into his old sentimentalities.”

“Right. Okay. I…can do that.”

Anacra exhales sharply and glances at Astarion. His expression is unreadable but careful, tinged with curiosity.

She’s told him almost nothing about her mother. Nothing about her family, for that matter.

Maybe it’s time.

It’s mere hours later when she and Astarion slip into the night, the empty streets swallowing them whole.

“You don’t need to come, Astarion,” Anacra murmurs, tugging the hood of his cloak tighter over his white curls. “I’m not defenseless.”

“Tell that to the man who stabbed you through—”

“Mention that tournament one more time, and you’ll be the one getting stabbed.”

Astarion chuckles, low and amused. “Fiery. I do like that about you, you know.” But despite his teasing, she can tell he’s on edge. His eyes flicker to every alleyway and shadow, his body wound tight as a bowstring.

She’s surprised when he suddenly steers them down one of those alleyways, his grip firm on her arm.

“What—? The house is that way—”

“This way’s faster,” he interrupts smoothly, flashing her a grin full of fangs. “Unless, of course, you’d rather take the scenic route? I could regale you with tales of every little dark corner of this city…”

She doesn’t argue, but as they walk, her mind drifts. What had his life been like in these streets? Hunting, seducing, luring victims back to his master. It must have been hell. But rather than just assume, she asks.

“What was it like? These streets, I mean.” She carefully matches his stride, light-footed, deliberate. But no matter what she tries, her steps aren’t as silent as his.

“Oh, it wasn’t all bad.” He waves a dismissive hand, pivoting his hips with an easy grace. “I know these streets better than my own reflection.”

“I meant…” She hesitates. “The whole seducing part. I imagine it wasn’t great, but I want to hear it from you, I suppose.”

He stops. If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she would have walked right into his back.

When he turns, his expression is unreadable, but his voice…his voice is venom.

“For two hundred years, I stalked these streets like a ghost. Unseen unless I needed to be seen. Desired unless I needed to be devoured .” He tilts his head, lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I was very good at it, you know. The charming, the luring, the touching. It was my purpose. My only purpose.”

Anacra doesn’t know what to say. She just looks at him, carefully avoiding the pity he so despises. Instead, she says, softly:

“It wasn’t your fault, Astarion.”

His crimson eyes flicker. Then, his shoulders ease the barest fraction.

“No,” he agrees at last. “It wasn’t.”

They walk in silence for a time, Astarion guiding them through winding alleys, until suddenly he stops and gestures grandly.

“Ah, here we are. And look, hardly a scratch on you. My skills truly are impeccable.”

She blinks at the manor ahead. Lord Singleton’s. It’s small, especially compared to House de Solstice, barely more than a house.

Memories surge of her and Solren playing in its spare rooms while their mother flirted with Singleton. Her stomach twists in a strange nausea.

“What’s the history with this one?” Astarion asks, watching her closely.

“He courted my mother, for a time, after my father’s death.”

“Oh my, a scandal?” He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.

Anacra scoffs. “Hardly. It was all very legal. My brother and I just… didn’t approve.”

“You never speak of your brother.”

“I don’t like to.”

“Fair enough, darling,” he croons, his voice dancing on the edge of taunting. “Keep your little secrets. May I at least know the grand lady of the house’s name?”

She shoots him an unimpressed look but answers anyway. “Celeste. Celeste de Solstice. You’d know that if you did any research at all.”

“Ah, but words are so much prettier from your lips.” His smile is slow, wicked. “Celeste… Ray, Solren… my, your family has a bit of an obsession with the sun, don’t they?”

“More with magic, but yes, actually.”

“And ‘Anacra’? Where does that fit into all of this?”

She snorts. “It’s ‘Arcana’ spelled backward. Now quit wasting time.”

She moves to step out of the alley, but Astarion catches her wrist.

When she turns back, she finds his face unusually serious.

“What?” she asks, her voice softening instinctively.

“You get reckless when you lose your head,” he murmurs. “Don’t lose your head.”

For a moment, she just looks at him. Then, quietly, she nods.

He grins. “Good girl.”

She huffs and pushed him away slightly. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“Yes, yes, but you adore me.” His expression flickers with mischief. “Now, after this little endeavor, what do you say to a detour? There’s a bookstore I used to… frequent.”

Her brow lifts. “A bookstore?”

He hums. “Mmm. If you’re lucky, I might even let you buy me something.”

She rolls her eyes and steps forward. “Focus, Astarion.”

“Oh, darling,” he purrs, falling into step beside her, “I am.”

- - -

It is so strange to be back in this house. The ghastly yellow carpets stain the floors, too bright paintings cover the walls, and the furniture, soft and too plush, sinks under the weight of her memories. Even as a child, it had been overstimulating. Overwhelming.

Anacra and Astarion sit on the sagging couch in the gathering room. Vases of fake flowers stand on every table, lifeless and uninviting. She vaguely remembers Solren knocking one over, the vase bouncing harmlessly on the floor, not even breaking. It had been made of rubber, not glass. The thought brings a sharp, aching nostalgia for her brother, and a sickening wave of nausea rises up in her chest.

Astarion’s presence beside her feels like a quiet anchor, though she knows he’s not one for holding people up. He’s too composed, too polished. She wants to believe it’s comforting. Wants to believe he’ll be a shield. But inside, there’s only cold emptiness, like the artificial flowers scattered around them.

"Celeste?"

Anacra’s head jerks up. Her eyes fall on Lord Singleton, his appearance as aged and fragile as the house itself. His once long, dark beard has turned an ashen gray, and his hands are gnarled with age. But it’s his eyes that unsettle her the most. They are tired, hollow, no trace of the man she remembers that was so full of self-assurance and sales-man like charm.

Astarion’s fingers brush lightly against her wrist, a subtle reminder that she’s not alone in this place, but it doesn’t stop the sick churn in her stomach.

“It’s… It’s Anacra, Lord Singleton,” she says, her voice sharp in the stale air.

Singleton's body deflates, the weight of time sinking into his bones. He looks older than she remembers. Much older. He uses a cane to hobble toward the couch, each step a struggle. As he sits, he seems to crumble inward, as if the weight of her presence is too much for him.

Astarion moves beside her, his posture stiff, perhaps expecting something more violent, more dangerous.

“Please, call me Tedd,” the old lord says, his voice wavering. "Like you used to, dear Ana."

“Tedd… I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t visited sooner,” Anacra manages, forcing a semblance of kindness that feels foreign in her throat.

“It’s been five years, my dear,” Tedd sighs, his gaze distant.

Five years? Has it really been that long? The years have blurred together into one indistinguishable haze.

“I’m… I’m sorry. Truly.” Her words feel empty, but the apology is sincere. She can feel Astarion’s gaze on her, but she doesn’t dare meet it. Not now when she’s so fragile.

“I am sorry about dear Solren,” Tedd continues, his voice a murmur, "He had a strong soul and stronger will."

Stronger than me , Anacra thinks bitterly, her chest tightening. She struggles to keep her composure.

"Thank you. His death was… is still a bit of a mystery," she responds, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. Gods, how she hates speaking of him.

"Mmmm. Murder in your own home. I suppose that's what one gets when they get involved with The Hollow Pact."

The words hit her like a physical blow, cold and sharp. Her pulse spikes. The air thickens, heavy with the weight of something sinister.

Astarion’s voice cuts through the growing tension, his tone laced with curiosity. “The Hollow Pact?” 

That is the same group responsible for stealing her house’s potions. And that Aunt Ray has been having under the counter dealings with.

“Yes, young man,” Tedd replies, his eyes flickering to Astarion before returning to Anacra. "Ana, dear, you look shaken. Do not tell me you did not know?"

Anacra freezes, the air thickening in her lungs, suffocating her. She hadn’t known. Hadn’t she? The truth seems to slip away from her, elusive and sharp. Panic prickles at the back of her neck, cold sweat forming on her brow. She opens her mouth to respond but nothing comes out.

Darkness.

The house blurs around her, like fog settling into the corners of her mind, a suffocating presence creeping over her thoughts. Her heart races, her body frozen in place.

Her best friend. Darkness. A suffocating fog, stealing her breath—

“We’re just here to ask about your dealings with Lord Cazador Szarr,” Astarion’s voice pulls her back, his tone firm but gentle, a reminder that he’s still there.

“Oh? Hm. Szarr…” Tedd’s voice is slow, detached. “Yes, I did participate in business with him recently. Let’s see…”

The next few minutes pass in a blur. Astarion speaks, questions, his words calm and practiced. Anacra’s vision flickers, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. The sound of Astarion’s voice is like an anchor, keeping her tethered, but it’s so hard to hold on.

In the distance, she hears the shuffling of papers and the gift they had brought for him, Tedd's faint mutterings, but it all feels so far away. The last thing she remembers before she steps into the alleyway is Astarion’s cool, smooth voice asking questions, his hand gently on her arm.

The cool air of the alleyway hits her, but it doesn’t cool the fire burning in her chest. She bends over, the bile rising up her throat. Astarion’s hand is suddenly on her back, steadying her. His voice is low, concerned.

"Anacra, oh hells, are you all right?" he asks, but the words feel like they’re coming from far away.

She falls to her knees, her entire body shaking. Something is so terribly wrong. Wrong with her. Wrong with her mind.

She’s remembering.

“Ilmater!” Anacra cries out. “Oh, my dear god, what have I done? What have I done?”

The darkness envelops her like a tidal wave, and she succumbs to it.

Chapter Text

Something is not right.

Ana is young, but she isn’t stupid. At least, she hopes she isn’t. Her teachers praise her intelligence, and she doesn’t think they’re lying. So when she feels something is wrong, she believes it.

"Ilmater," she whispers, trailing her fingers along the cold stone walls of the manor’s main hallway. A quiet prayer, a plea wrapped in breath. "Protect me and my family."

A hum answers, thrumming in her bones. No voice, only presence, vast and watchful.

Muted voices tug at her attention. They leak from behind the heavy wooden doors of the meeting room, drawing her closer. She knows what’s inside. The great oak table where her father once spread his maps, the chandelier flickering with enchanted light. And her brother. She knows his voice too well.

“How much longer?” Solren’s voice used to mean safety. Now it makes her stomach tighten.

“You think you’re in control here?” The response is sharp and unfamiliar.

“I’ve played my part!” Solren snarls. “I’ve done my job! You promised me payment after it was all delivered!”

Ana presses herself into the shadows, heart hammering. The voices are loud enough that she doesn’t need to be close to understand.

“Cal, what my nephew is kindly trying to say,” Aunt Ray’s voice slides into the air, measured and smooth, “is that we have deadlines. We thought we were in good graces with Genevieve and Tanner; don’t tell me something has gone wrong?”

Ana stiffens. Aunt Ray? She struggles to piece the conversation together, but her growing fear knots the words in her mind. She edges back, deeper into the shadows.

“Enough of your games, witch,” a new voice snaps. “We should’ve left your family to rot.”

Aunt Ray hums. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re cut off, boy. Have the money by sundown tomorrow, or you know who’s coming for you.”

The door rattles open before Ana can react. Footsteps - harsh, stomping. She scrambles back, ducking behind a bookshelf as the men storm past. The front door slams shut, leaving only the echo of their anger.

She exhales shakily, her mind racing. But before she can make sense of anything, a shadow stretches over her. Cold dread creeps up her spine.

Solren.

She barely has time to gasp before his fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her forward.

“Ow!” she yelps, stumbling. “Solren, stop!”

He doesn’t. He drags her down the hall, grip vice-tight. Solren had grown into a man last summer, broad-shouldered and strong. He’d made friends with the Upper City boys, the kind that sneered at the weak. And ever since Mother died…he had changed and not for the better.

His freckles still speckle every inch of his body, the same as hers. But his hair, once sunlit, always looked darker now. His eyes, Father’s eyes, lidded and almond in shape, pin her with cold fury.

“Sol, please -”

She gasps as his grip tightens. Pain sparks. Instinct flares. A pulse of heat blooms in her chest -

Golden fire erupts, Sacred Flame licking over his form. Solren curses, recoiling. It’s weak, more flash than harm, but enough. He lets go, hands rising to shield his eyes. Ana stumbles back, breath coming fast.

He raises a hand as if to strike. She flinches.

The hand never falls. His scowl deepens, calculating. He can’t leave marks. Not where Aunt might see.

Silence crashes between them, as suffocating as thick rain. Their breathing is ragged, unsteady.

Then, to her shock, his face crumples.

Tears spill over his cheeks.

Ana stares. She remembers the last time she saw him cry. Mother’s funeral. After that, he had hardened, become something else. But now…

“What, did your favorite whore leave you?” she spits.

His nostrils flare. For a moment, she thinks he might hit her after all, but he only exhales sharply, voice dropping to something venomous.

“Isn’t that what you’ve become, Ana? A whore?”

Her breath catches.

“You have nothing to offer this house,” he continues. “You were so useless you had to beg the gods for scraps.”

“Stop it.”

“The first in seven generations without magic.”

Tears sting her eyes.

“A disgrace to your name. To your bloodline.”

She doesn’t recognize this man. He looms over her, taller than he’s ever been before.

He leans close, eyes gleaming. “You already know it too. The only thing you’re fit to become is a whore .”

Ana wants to argue. She wants to claw at him, scream that he’s wrong. But the words won’t come. Her lips tremble, her body shaking with silent sobs. Because isn’t he right? She is nothing without magic. She was born as nothing.

“You’re pathetic.”

The lock clicks behind them. Ana stiffens. Solren smirks, slow and cruel.

“Mother would be so disappointed.”

Her chest caves in.

“Stop it, Sol.”

“Why? Does the truth hurt?”

“Stop it.”

“I remember how she cried the day you were born.”

“Stop it!”

“How she named you after magic, hoping it would force some into you.”

“STOP IT!”

She doesn’t remember lunging. She doesn’t remember the golden light bursting from her. Only the searing heat, the blinding flash.

And the scream.

Then silence.

Ana blinks, disoriented. The world is slow and sluggish.

Little golden doves drift around her, cooing softly. She stares up at them. Spirit Guardians. She had cast Spirit Guardians. 

Solren lies still.

Blood pools beneath him, seeping into the carpet. His eyes are open but empty, his body torn by beak and claw. Ana can’t breathe.

“No…”

He’s warm. He’s still warm.

She can fix this.

She casts every healing spell she knows. Light flares, again and again. But his chest does not rise. His lips do not part for breath.

“No—NO! I can fix this!”

Her hands shake, fingers pressing into his lifeless skin. More spells. More prayers.

Nothing.

She clutches him until he goes cold. Until her vision blurs with exhaustion.

“Ilmater!” she sobs.

Her head tilts toward the ceiling, toward nothing, toward everything.

“Take it away!” she screams. “ Please , take it away !”

Silence.

Then, a voice. Not words, but weight, pressing against her soul.

“It will have a cost, holy one.”

“I don’t care,” she gasps. “ Take it away .”

A pause.

Then darkness swallows her whole. A darkness that will soon become her friend.

Chapter Text

“Anacra!”

Astarion doesn’t know what to do. One second, they were swindling some old man in a ghastly yellow house, their usual game of smooth words and quicker hands. And the next-

Anacra was on the ground.

Unmoving. Unresponsive.

But breathing. At least she’s breathing.

Astarion drops to his knees beside her, fingers flying to her pulse, pressing against the delicate skin of her throat. He forces himself not to think about the blood just beneath, just focus. Steady. There. A heartbeat.

But she won’t wake.

“Anacra!” He shakes her shoulders, once, twice, and then harder. Too hard, probably. “You idiot, wake up!”

Nothing.

Astarion curses, a frantic, breathless sound as he cradles her face. Her skin is too pale, her expression slack, almost like—no. He grits his teeth.

And then-

Without warning, her body spasms. A violent, full-body jerk like something has seized her from the inside.

“Shit!” Astarion reacts fast, catching her head before it can strike the cobblestones, pulling her into his lap. His fingers thread through her hair as he keeps her still, his own hands trembling.

The spasms don’t last long. Just a few seconds, maybe, but it feels like an eternity. Then she goes still.

Too still.

“No, no, no.” His voice is barely a whisper. He feels like something inside him is unraveling, thread by thread. This can’t be happening. He just - he just got her. Someone who cares. Someone he cares about in return. The gods - no, the universe - wouldn’t be so cruel as to take her now.

Or maybe that’s exactly what they’d do.

Wouldn’t that be just like fate? To give him something warm, something good, and rip it away before he could even properly indulge in it.

Then -

A sharp, desperate gasp rips through her chest.

Astarion barely has time to react before those storm-gray eyes snap open, unfocused but alive.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he chokes out, pulling her close before he even thinks about it. His arms tighten around her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping the fabric at her back like she might disappear if he lets go.

He’s only faintly aware of how he’s shaking. Of how he’s whispering her name like a prayer.

“Oh, thank Ilmater.”

- - -

Her head hurts. Her body hurts. And her heart— gods, how it aches.

I killed him.

The thought slams into her like a hammer to the skull, and everything else feels distant.

She is faintly aware of the soft bed beneath her, the scent of clean linen and dried herbs meant for healing. The world is a blur of murmuring voices, fragmented and worried.

I killed him.

A hand brushes back her hair, gentle and careful, as if she might shatter. Another hand presses fingers to her neck, checking for life and reassurance.

Someone is crying. Anacra had heard those same cries when Solren died and she knows them intimately. Aunt Ray.

She wants to say something, but her lips won’t move. Everything is slow, submerged, like she is drowning beneath the weight of memory.

Where is Ilmater?

He was supposed to protect her. That night. Every night. He was supposed to protect her family.

But now she remembers.

She remembers the argument with Solren, the fire in his eyes, the venom in his words. She remembers his hands on her, too strong, too unforgiving. And she remembers holding his body, limp and cooling by the second, something in her breaking as she whispered prayers that would never be answered.

But there’s another memory, too. Rushing into that awful room, the stench of blood thick in the air, and feeling shocked to see him dead.

Both cannot be true.

Ilmater had taken her memories. She had begged him to.

She had ignored his warning. There would be a cost.

Her magic.

Her fingers twitch. Months and months of torment, of trying to understand why she had fallen from his grace, why she had woken up one day to find herself empty.

But it was her own doing.

She had been born without magic, the first in generations. She had found a way to take it, to wield it through devotion, through Ilmater’s mercy. She had become a cleric at thirteen, a beacon of faith and healing, a symbol of something greater.

And now it is a curse.

Solren is dead because of her magic. Because she wielded something she never should have touched.

Her lips part, and the name slips out like a prayer, broken and lost:

“Solren…”

The sound of her own voice pulls her from the haze. Slowly, painfully, she forces her eyes open.

Astarion is by her side.

He is not smirking, not raising a brow, not crafting some biting remark to deflect the moment. Instead, he is watching her, his crimson eyes dark with something unreadable, something real.

The hospital light makes him look angelic, which is almost ironic. His pale skin is luminescent, his white curls falling soft over his forehead, the pointed tips of his ears barely peeking through. His hand is on her cheek, fingers tracing slow, soothing lines along her skin.

The touch is so intimate, so achingly careful, that for a moment—just a moment —it is easy to push everything else away.

But reality does not allow such kindness.

“Oh, Ana,” a voice gasps. Not Astarion’s.

Aunt Ray.

She rushes to the bedside, blocking out everything else in Anacra’s view.

The sight of her twists something deep in Anacra’s gut.

“What the hells happened? What did he do to you? Why would you—”

“Enough of your babbling, Ray.” Another voice, sharper, cutting through the noise. Jaheira.

Anacra blinks slowly, her body heavy with exhaustion. She wishes everyone would just go away. Can’t she rest for one cursed moment?

Jaheira’s voice reaches her, but it feels distant, like she’s hearing it from behind a veil.

“Let the poor girl rest.”

She tries to move, gods, it feels like she was trampled by a whole damn cavalry. Astarion’s hand shifts as she struggles to sit up, his grip adjusting to steady her.

Jaheira speaks again, though it all feels far away still. “Your insistent questions can wait. She needs sleep.”

The voices fade.

She barely registers Jaheira leading an upset Ray out of the room. The door clicks shut, sealing them off from the outside world.

And then…

Silence.

When she looks at Astarion again, he tries for a smile. A small, lopsided thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And Anacra breaks.

The tears come fast, shaking her shoulders before she can stop them. Before she can build the walls back up.

Astarion doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move away.

He just stays there, his hand still on her cheek, his touch warm against the cold that has seeped into her bones.

At first, Astarion only stays still, his arms half-raised, caught in hesitation. Anacra almost pulls away, regretting the vulnerability. But then, slowly, carefully, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.

And he keeps holding her as she tells him everything.

She doesn't know how long they sit there, wrapped in the hush of the infirmary, the steady pulse of candlelight flickering on the walls. It’s strange to be the one in the bed instead of the healer murmuring prayers over someone else. But the familiar scents of herbs and antiseptic are grounding. The weight of Astarion’s hand against her back, the careful way he strokes her hair. It’s enough to steady her. Enough to remind her she is here .

Eventually, the tears slow. Her breaths even out. And when she finally pulls back, bracing herself for whatever expression he might wear. Perhaps disgust, pity, fear. She finds none of those things.

Instead, he looks at her like he understands.

“You know,” he muses, tilting his head, “I didn’t realize you and I were so alike.”

Anacra blinks. “What?”

He doesn’t elaborate.

She sniffs, feeling foolish now as she wipes at her nose. The exhaustion is setting in, sinking deep into her bones.

There’s a beat of silence before Astarion speaks again, his tone shifting to something cooler, more measured.

“Cazador has invited you and your aunt to his manor. Two days from now.”

The words take a moment to register. When they do, she feels like she’s been dropped back into cold water.

“What?”

“It’s almost definitely a trap,” he says, his voice edged with something sharp. “But your dear Aunt insists on going.”

There’s venom in his tone. A tension in his jaw.

And it hits her. No matter how much they have come to mean to each other, no matter how safe she might feel in his arms, his first priority is always Cazador. Always his freedom.

Right.

She swallows, her voice quieter when she speaks it out loud. “Right.”

A beat passes between them.

Anacra studies him, waiting for…something. Some acknowledgement that he sees how much this moment shouldn’t have been about him. She needed comfort, and instead, he pulled her into his own story, his own suffering. But he had comforted her, hadn’t he? So why does she feel this ache, this quiet frustration curling under her ribs?

The thoughts spiral, overwhelming, until the weight of exhaustion finally drags her back against the pillows.

She exhales sharply. “I need to talk to my aunt. Send her in, will you?”

Astarion hesitates.

For a moment, something flickers across his face: something dark and hard to read. But he masks it just as quickly.

“Of course, darling.”

And then he turns and leaves, slipping into the hall without another word.

She stares after him, a fresh wave of emotion building in her chest. A part of her wishes he had argued. That he had insisted on staying, had fought to remain by her side.

Instead, he had left the moment she asked.

The tears threaten again but then Aunt Ray is there, stepping into the room before they can fall.

“Oh, Ana,” she murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

The words throw her.

Anacra’s head snaps up, and she finds her aunt standing there, eyes red and swollen from crying.

“What?” she says, for what feels like the hundredth time.

“I knew that man was unstable,” Ray says, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have let you near him—”

Anacra’s stomach twists. “Astarion is not unstable—”

“No,” Ray interrupts, stumbling over her words. “Not the vampire—Lord Singleton.”

For a long moment, Anacra just breathes.

Her limbs still feel heavy, her thoughts slow and muddled. But the weight of what’s coming is already pressing against her ribs, making it hard to stay still.

She turns to Aunt Ray. “We’re going, then.”

Ray exhales through her nose. “We have no choice.”

The words settle over them like a shroud. No choice. No choice but to walk into the lion’s den. No choice but to play along with Cazador’s game and hope they make it out intact.

No choice. No choice. No choice.

Ray sinks onto the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples. “Jaheira is already preparing. The Harpers will be stationed nearby.”

Anacra nods. “Riptide?”

“He’ll be there.”

They sit in silence, the weight of the decision pressing down on them both.

Ray is the first to break it. “You should rest, Ana.”

Anacra lets out a tired breath. “You should, too.”

Ray huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. She stands, smoothing the creases in her coat. “Sleep while you can.”

Anacra doesn’t answer. She only watches as Ray walks to the door, pausing with her hand on the handle as if she wants to say something more.

She doesn’t. The door clicks shut behind her.

Anacra stares at the ceiling, the familiar ache in her chest settling deep. She's starting to consider it to be a constant companion.

Two days.

And then they'll walk right into the net that's been set for them.

Chapter Text

Two days of preparation. Two days of planning with Jaheira, the Harpers, and Aunt Ray.

Two days of feeling…tired.

Anacra feels like she’s drowning. Anger, confusion, exhaustion; they coil around her like weights, dragging her deeper. She tries to shove them down, but the smallest things keep tipping her over the edge. Yesterday, she had a breakdown over forgetting her towel before bathing. Once, she could have dried herself effortlessly with magic but instead she shivered in the cold morning air, hiccupping through sobs, feeling utterly stupid.

Then there was the table. A stupid, insignificant table that someone must have moved, because it certainly hadn’t been there before. She stubbed her toe, bit back a curse, then instinctively reached for magic to heal the pain. Nothing. Just an aching emptiness, a hole where something once was. And she broke again.

These are small things. Petty, meaningless struggles.

She reminds herself of that as they ride the carriage towards Szarr Palace. She reminds herself of Astarion’s suffering, the horrors he has barely begun to speak about. Flayings, whippings, centuries of torment. The kind of pain that devours a soul, leaves it raw and starving. And yet, she’s crying over a towel .

The self-hatred is suffocating.

Her fault. All her fault.

She doesn’t bother speaking to Aunt Ray. The anger is still there, simmering just beneath the exhaustion. Instead, her thoughts drift back to him , as they always do these days.

Astarion has been nothing but helpful these past few weeks. Supportive, patient. At least most of the time. But when she thinks of him now, the fantasy is no longer a quiet, safe cottage or stolen moments of warmth. It’s the image of him drinking the blood from Cazador’s corpse. Sated. Free. Finally happy.

She doesn’t even realize that, in her mind, Cazador’s corpse has shifted into Solren’s body—still, blood pooling, a face frozen in a moment of shock—until Aunt Ray’s voice breaks the trance.

“We’re here, child.”

Anacra startles. Her chin slips from her hand.

The carriage door swings open, revealing a large figure. Riptide, standing outside, watching her. The moment lingers before her gaze shifts past him to the manor.

She’s been here before. Once. A party, long ago. She barely remembers the details, just the strictness in her mother’s voice, the way Celeste de Solstice had warned her and Solren not to run off. Not here.

Even then, Anacra had understood: this was not a place for fun.

At a glance, Szarr Palace looks…normal. Large, but not monstrous. Its grandeur blends into the noble district like any other old house with a dark history. But as she steps inside, she feels it.

Something is wrong here.

The servant who greets them wears an expression that isn’t quite right. The stiffness, the vacant stare…it’s all wrong. Charmed , she realizes. The arcana clings to him like a stain, a leash tied to his soul.

Anacra forces herself not to stare. She’s seen this before in the hospital a couple times.

And then there’s the house itself. It breathes. The air presses against her, thick with enchantments. Dim lighting flickers over intricate wooden molding, deep reds and golds swallowing the walls. Paintings of pale figures with hungry smiles line the corridor. A dozen sets of eyes watching. Waiting.

The carpet is the color of blood.

Solren’s blood.

Anacra swallows hard, glancing at Aunt Ray and Riptide.

“Homely,” Riptide mutters.

Aunt Ray clicks her tongue. “Yes, that’s one word for it.”

Anacra isn’t sure if she’s being ironic or not, but she doesn’t get the chance to ask. A servant moves, the doors ahead creaking open. Aunt Ray strides forward without hesitation, her skirts whispering against the floor. Anacra and Riptide follow, their footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet.

She already knows where they’re going.

The ballroom.

She’s studied the maps for days now, memorizing every turn, every possible exit. Astarion’s voice echoes in her mind, low, sardonic, as if the weight of his memories is something to be mocked.

"The ballroom. Smaller than one might assume, though large enough for Cazador’s favorite guests. Most of whom had… exotic tastes, mind you. Hm… I never was a fan of that room…"

The maps hadn’t done it justice.

It is smaller than she expected. But it’s no less impressive. No less suffocating. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the far end of the chamber.

To him.

Lord Cazador Szarr.

He lounges on a throne upon a raised dais, his presence like a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

And Anacra feels, for the first time in a long while, the sickening pull of something she once understood far too well.

Power.

Cazador’s gaze sweeps over them as if they’re merely curiosities. Then, a slow smile curls his lips.

“Ah, House de Solstice.” His voice is silk spun over steel. “A candle only understands its purpose when it meets the flame. Tell me, little Solstice, have you yet discovered what you were meant to burn for?”

Anacra clenches her teeth, but Aunt Ray steps forward, inclining her head just enough to be respectful.

“Lord Szarr,” she greets smoothly. “We appreciate your…hospitality.”

“Mm.” Cazador hums in amusement, tipping his head as his gaze lingers on Anacra. “Hospitality. A lovely word, is it not? But I wonder, dear Ray… how much longer did you think my patience would last?”

Anacra feels her aunt stiffen beside her, though Ray’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch.

“My lord, if this is about our previous arrangement—”

“Previous?” Cazador interrupts with a soft laugh, utterly mirthless. He leans forward, elbows resting on his throne. “You speak as though the debt of House de Solstice is something that can simply be… rewritten. But then again, that was always the Hollow Pact’s specialty, was it not?”

The words land like a stone in Anacra’s stomach. Her breath stills.

Cazador’s smile widens just slightly, enough to show the glint of his fangs.

“Ah, so you hadn’t told her?” His gaze flickers to Aunt Ray. “How sweet.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Aunt Ray says swiftly, voice tight. “The Pact is dead .”

“Yes.” Cazador exhales as if deeply satisfied. “And with them, the only leash keeping my hands from tearing your house apart. ”

Anacra’s blood runs cold. The way they speak…Anacra understands for the first time just how deep the history with the Hollow Pact and her house must be. Must have been . Had everyone known but her? Had her mother? Her father? She senses a rich history in the subtext but she’s not sure if she will ever know the true extent of it all. Perhaps that is for the best.

She knew the Hollow Pact had been protecting them in some way, but she hadn’t realized—hadn’t known that Cazador was the threat being held at bay. And now, with them gone…

“So.” Aunt Ray inhales sharply. “Let’s negotiate .”

Cazador watches her for a long moment, then flicks his fingers. A man steps forward from the shadows: an aging, sharp-featured vampire with ink-stained hands.

“Dufay will handle the terms,” Cazador murmurs. “Go with him, my dear Ray. I’ll join shortly.”

Aunt Ray hesitates, glancing once at Anacra, but Cazador doesn’t move.

“You have nothing to fear,” he assures. “I simply wish to speak with your niece. A moment, nothing more.”

Anacra swallows hard as Aunt Ray finally exhales and follows Dufay across the room, disappearing through an arched doorway. She feels a hint of betrayal when Riptide follows her aunt, but Ray is the head of the House.

Then, slowly, Cazador stands.

“Now then, little Solstice…” He descends the steps from his throne with the unhurried grace of a predator. “Shall we talk?”

Anacra readies herself, spine straight, forcing her heels to stay rooted as Cazador walks toward her with all the slow grace of a beast toying with its prey. His eyes shimmer with something that isn't quite light but something older, more terrible.

She speaks before he can, needing control of something—anything.

"What can you tell me about the Hollow Pact?"

Cazador’s laugh is soft, like silk being torn.

“A little behind, are we?” He stops just short of her, invading the air between them. “All you need to know is they don’t matter anymore. And they never will again.”

The distance between them is thin as parchment.

Then he tilts his head, the smile never reaching his eyes. “You have no idea how important you are, do you?”

Anacra feels even more lost at the tonal shift.

"What are you talking about?"

Cazador leans in, almost fond. “What is a predator without hunger? A creature of purpose, stripped of its reason. Tell me, dear Anacra, does it gnaw at you yet?”

“Stop with the riddles,” she snaps, refusing to look away as he starts to slowly circle her like a vulture measuring its feast.

“Or you could use your brain, child,” he hisses.

Her jaw tightens. But she forces herself to think, to dig beneath the fear.

“…You mean my magic,” she says at last, quiet but certain.

Cazador rolls his eyes with theatrical flair, exasperated as if speaking to a dim student.

“My… my magic is not my purpose,” Anacra says quickly, as if the words might make it true. But it sounds hollow even to her. Because even now, she reaches for it. Even now, she aches to find it waiting, and stifles a sigh when it isn’t.

Cazador halts beside her.

Then, with a sharp stomp of his heel, the world tears open.

Panic floods her chest. Gone is the hall, the candles, the marble underfoot.

She’s in a clearing now - dense, endless woods. Moonlight bleeds through twisted branches. Mist winds between the trees like living breath. 

She doesn’t know how, but she knows this place isn’t real.

“The weight of lineage is a heavy thing, is it not?” Cazador’s voice slithers through the trees. “Like a noose spun from silk—so soft, so elegant… until you try to breathe.”

She whirls, skirts slicing through the fog, but he’s nowhere.

“We are all bound, in the end,” he continues. “By shackles of our own making or another’s hands—does it truly matter which?”

A twig snaps behind her. She spins. Nothing. 

Blackness swallows everything past a few feet. 

Her heart is a drum in her ribs.

“You stand at a precipice. The darkness you fear isn’t some distant thing, child. It’s already in you. You’ve only forgotten how to use it.”

“Show yourself!” she screams, spinning again, voice shaking.

“The light has failed you.” His voice is suddenly close, brushing her ear.
“Come then. Walk in shadow. Embrace your potential. Stop lying about who you are .”

She chokes on air.

The darkness…it's not around her anymore.

It’s inside .

It always has been.

“Your brother played at darkness.” His tone turns reverent, almost proud.
“You, however, you were born to it.”

She stumbles, blindly grasping for something, anything—

Her foot catches. She crashes to the ground, her palms sinking into cold, wet mud.

But when she looks up—

She chokes on her own breath.

Solren .

His corpse lies broken in the dirt, flesh decayed and reeking of memory. His eyes, glazed and rotting in death, accuse her.

“No…”

She scrambles back, desperate, landing on something else- her hand crushes bone into dust with a sickening sound.

Her mother’s face.

Lifeless.

Eyes open. Mouth slack. Judging even in death. Disappointed even in death.

She screams, trying to crawl away, clawing at the ground, trying to wake up, to breathe , to end —

“A House built on secrets will always collapse in silence.”

And then…stillness.

The forest is gone.

The mist is gone.

The corpses are gone.

She stands in an endless dark, smooth and cold beneath her feet. She’s not walking on the ground; it’s more like a dark oil that has no shine. Viscous. Infinite.

No stars. No horizon.

Only her.

And it .

Ahead, suspended in the black: a single orb. Small. Silent.

It draws the darkness in like it feeds on it. It is darker than anything she’s ever seen. It is not black but colorless. Pure .

It’s so quiet she can hear her shaking breath as if it were a scream.

She’s always known it, hasn’t she?

That this is where she belongs.

Anacra is the stain on a perfect name. The spill on parchment. The burden of Solstice blood. She was never their legacy, only its ruin.

She’s known this little dark orb intimately for a long time now.

Her hand trembles as she reaches out to it.

The orb pulses, beckoning. She wonders if this is her heart taken physical form.

Will it take the pain away?

Will it take the memories…?

Will it—

“ANACRA!”

The illusion shatters like glass.

- - -

Astarion can’t stop the scream.

He was meant to stay hidden, tucked away with Jaheira and the Harpers, watching as the trap closed in on his former Master.

But the second Anacra vanishes, along with Cazador, his mind fractures.

He knows this magic. He remembers it.

The illusions. The false walls and rooms. The damn riddles and half-truths.

He breaks from cover, Jaheira’s hand catching only air behind him.

He bursts into the throne room, panting - 

And sees them.

Exactly where they were.

Anacra stands frozen, dazed, her breath unsteady and face pale.

But Cazador turns. Slowly. Deliberately.

And in that heartbeat, Astarion feels it.

That presence in his skull. That weight.

Cazador’s will.

It slams into him like a chain pulled tight after years of slack. Astarion gasps, body locking in place.

The control is back. Cold. Familiar. Crushing.

His knees won’t bend. His arms won’t rise.

Terror rushes in like blood to a wound.

He’s not free. He never was.

And worst of all…he came back.

Chapter Text

“Astarion?”

Anacra doesn’t know if she says it aloud, or if she only thinks it, desperate and trembling on the edge of a dream she can’t wake from.

But she knows that voice.

The voice that had screamed her name.

The one that tore through the illusion like a blade through silk, stopping her before she reached out to touch the darkness that had promised to love her.

She’s not in the void anymore. The silence is gone.

Now the world is fire.

The ballroom is chaos incarnate. Steel rings against steel and shadows flicker like wild beasts across the carpeted marble. People scream. Magic crashes. The scent of blood and sulfur and determination chokes the air.

She stumbles, dazed. Her knees buckle beneath her, but strong arms seize her before she hits the floor.

“Stay with me!” Riptide snarls, dragging her upright. His scales are slick with blood. He’s shouting, but she can barely hear him over the shriek of pain and fighting all around.

Her feet scrape uselessly across the stone as he hauls her toward the doors. She twists in his grip, frantic.

“Astarion!” she screams, the name ripping from her throat like her spells once did.

And then she sees him.

He’s standing still in the eye of the storm like a statue. His hands limp at his sides. His eyes wide. Unblinking. But so fearful.

Cazador stands before him, fingers hooked cruelly beneath Astarion’s jaw, tilting his face up as if he’s inspecting a prized possession. His mouth moves, saying something Anacra can’t hear. But she can see the hate on Cazador’s face. The anger.

Cold fear snakes up her spine before finding its home in her heart.

“No!” she shrieks, throwing herself back toward the ballroom. “ASTARION!”

Riptide grunts, tightening his grip. “We have to go!”

“We can’t leave him—!” she thrashes, slamming her fists against Riptide’s arms. “We can’t leave them! He—he’s not—” Her voice breaks.

Riptide doesn’t answer. His jaw is set, eyes grim as he muscles her through the manor doors and into the crisp night.

Cold air crashes over her like a wave. Her lungs seize. It’s too quiet out here, too wrong. The sounds of battle echo behind them, muffled by stone and distance. Still too close and yet till too far.

She twists one last time to look back, catching only a final glimpse of manor.

And then it’s gone.

Riptide is practically carrying her now as they move deeper into the city’s winding alleys. Harpers emerge from the gloom, some bloodied, others wide-eyed with grief. The plan is in shambles. Aunt Ray is missing. The battle is half-lost.

Anacra sobs, breath hitching violently in her chest. Her fists have stopped beating against Riptide’s chest. Her body is limp now, shaking and silent as tears streak her face.

But her eyes stay open. Searching the shadows. Watching the night behind her. Waiting for the shape of him to appear.

He doesn’t.

And somewhere deep inside her, something cracks-

Hope, maybe. Or faith. Or whatever fragile thread had kept her from falling apart completely.

Riptide doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He just keeps walking. Carrying her home, as her screams fade into silence, and the night swallows what’s left of her light.

- - -

Anacra needs to sleep. She knows it. The exhaustion coils through her bones like a sickness, staining the skin beneath her eyes a deep, aching violet. Her hands won’t stop shaking—tiny tremors that never fully disappear, no matter how tightly she clasps them together.

Riptide doesn’t press her. He never does.

But Jaheira does.

“You cannot help them while you are like this,” she tells her, again and again, her voice a mixture of flint and concern.

Them .

Both Astarion and Aunt Ray.

Still trapped in the jaws of that ancient monster, their fates turning in the dark like fish caught in hooks.

And Jaheira is right. She can’t do anything like this, hollowed out, unraveling by the hour. So she nods, distant, and lets the Harpers take the lead. Their voices blur into the background as she climbs the narrow stairs of her home and folds herself into bed.

She falls asleep with the taste of ash in her mouth.

Her dreams come for her fast.

Memories she hasn’t dared touch in years spill open like wine on white silk.

She’s in a carriage. Velvet seats. Brass fixtures. The wheel bumps along cobbled streets, and outside the windows, lanterns bloom like fireflies in the dusk. Inside, warmth and laughter wrap around her.

She remembers this day.

A party. A rare, resplendent one, hosted by one of Baldur’s Gate’s most powerful families. Only the elite had been invited and Ana, young and glowing in her best dress, had thought that meant they were finally elite too.

In truth, her father had paid a steep price for their entry.

Her mother, Celeste, sits beside Aunt Ray, the two of them whispering gossip beneath their breath, their heads bent close. Aunt Ray laughs, a sharp, knowing sound. Celeste’s giggle follows like the gentle chime of a bell.

Across from them, Solren sits with his knees up, still shorter than Ana even though he’s older. He leans over and whispers, “You’ll look like Mother when you’re grown.” It makes Ana smile, proud and shy all at once.

Their father doesn’t look up from his newspaper. He mutters about taxes and tariffs and dull, gray things that fill his days and empty his heart. They hardly saw him. He was always away on some overseas trip, talking about the boring things he always talked about.

Then: the party.

Ana remembers it as a dream even then. The ballroom is a swirl of color and radiance, ribbons like streams of light overhead, food that smells of distant kingdoms, music that dances through her blood. It is everything she imagined wealth should feel like.

She and Solren stick close. They don’t know anyone, so they form their own little island in the tide of nobles. She teases him when he sneaks too many chocolates. He threatens to set her dress on fire with a flick of his fingers. She gasps, offended, and declares she won’t speak to him for the rest of the night.

That lasts about three minutes.

Time passes. The air thickens. Candles burn lower. The perfume of exotic spices fades beneath the sharp tang of wine and sweat. Laughter grows louder and uglier. Decorum slips like discarded gloves. Nobles begin to indulge with mouths too close, hands too bold, eyes too glassy.

Ana turns to look for her brother and finds him missing.

“Solren?” she calls, peering over a sea of silk and shadow in hopes of seeing a freckled face.

But he’s gone. He’s left her.

Her pulse seems to falter. She scans the crowd.

“Mother?” she tries. “Father?”

No answer.

She starts pushing through the dancers. The press of bodies is suffocating—too tight, and yet the space around her feels impossibly vast and cavernous. Her small voice is swallowed by the music.

The nobles’ faces blur. They leer. They laugh. Their hands trail too close. Their lips speak without words.

“Mother!” Ana cries again, louder now.

They turn to her.

“She has no magic,” someone whispers behind a jeweled fan.

“She’ll marry no one,” says another voice, cold and sure, never mind she was far too young to even be considered for that sort of thing.

“She is their shame .”

“I would use the word ‘ stain ’.”

“What about ‘ abashment ’?”

“I like ‘ blemish ’.”

Ana turns in circles, panic rising like a tide. Their eyes are on her. Judging. Mocking. Laughing.

And then—

One familiar face in the storm. Pale skin, white hair, eyes like wine, a dark ruby. He holds a crystal glass filled with blood-red liquid. Pity creases his features.

“Astarion!” she gasps. “Help me!”

But when he speaks, it is not his voice.

“Anacra.”

She jolts awake.

Sweat clings to her spine. Her breath comes in shallow gulps.

“Anacra.” The voice is real this time. Firm. Low. Gentle.

It’s Riptide, standing in her doorway. The candlelight behind him casts his tall frame in gold and shadow.

“It’s time,” he says. “The Harpers are downstairs. We’re going over the plan real quick… You okay?”

She blinks at him, the lines between dream and memory still bleeding together.

“I…yeah.” She sits up, brushes a shaky hand through her hair. “Yes. I’m fine. I’ll be right down.”

Riptide studies her for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once and disappears down the hall, his footsteps fading like the echo of a closing door.

Anacra exhales. The taste of fear still lingers on her tongue.

But she stands. She always does, doesn’t she?

Jaheira stands at the head of the long table, the war map of Cazador’s manor spread out before her like a battlefield. Around her, a ring of hardened Harpers listen intently. Humans, elves, half-orcs, even a tiefling or two, each marked by scars and tired eyes that speak to the weight of the war they’ve been fighting for too long.

Anacra slips into the room, quiet as a breath, and takes her place beside Riptide. Her hands are clenched at her sides, but her heart beats like a drum. When Jaheira looks up at her, there is the briefest flicker of worry in the older woman’s gaze, then she returns to the map.

“We’ll enter here, here, and here.” Her fingers trace three entry points: narrow servant tunnels, a shattered basement window, and a partially collapsed wall. “Joset, Lioness, Faren: east wing. Claire and Lune, you’re west. Anacra, Riptide, and Datris, you’ll take the lower floor.”

Anacra glances at Datris, a brunette elf with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense expression. One of Jaheira’s most trusted that Anacra recognizes from previous meetings. They exchange a nod, wordless understanding passing between them.

“Our objective is twofold,” Jaheira continues. “Find Ray de Solstice. Get her out alive. And if you see Cazador…” Her voice hardens. “Do not engage. Not unless you want to die. He’s stronger than he’s letting on, we’ve all felt it. If he’s not fighting at full strength, it means he’s focused on something. Or someone.”

Anacra’s fingers curl tighter and she swallows her guilt like poison.

- - -

The manor looms in the dead of night, its high towers biting into the foggy sky like fangs. Anacra’s breath fogs as she moves under the influence of an invisibility potion, her footfalls soft against the gray stone of the basement corridor. Shadows press against her from all sides, ancient and heavy with something like malice.

She trusts that Riptide and Datris are still behind her, just as invisible. The air is thick with silence.

Every instinct screams danger.

They descend deeper into the earth, and Anacra’s hand brushes against the wall. Her fingers pass through illusion: a fake surface vanishes to reveal a hidden room. Astarion has spoken of these fake walls littering the building.

The smell hits her first: rot, blood, sweat, and despair. Her gut twists. Another corridor lies beyond, heavy with shadows.

They slip inside and her potion fades. She panics for a moment and then-

And then movement.

A low growl, followed by a blur of motion. Something lunges from the shadows: not one, but two spawn, feral and snarling, eyes glowing red. alight with a hunger. A hunger that she saw when she first dug up Astarion from the dirt. One barrels into Riptide, breaking his invisibility. The other dives for Datris.

Steel sings from a sheath as Datris spins and meets the attacker with a small blade to the throat. Blood sprays, mixing into the already thick scent.

Riptide roars and slams his foe (a man with long blond hair) into the stone wall.

Then a third spawn darts toward her. But she’s ready. Anacra’s mace finds the girl’s jaw in a blinding arc. The force of the blow knocks the tiefling back and the spawn hits the wall. She crumples and twitches before disappearing in a cloud of mist.

Breathing hard, Anacra steadies herself and looks around. Datris is wiping blood off her blade. Riptide stands among smoldering remains.

The other spawn disappeared too before they could be killed.

“That wasn’t all of them,” Riptide mutters, peering into the dark. “There should be six spawn, according to Astarion. They pulled back too quickly.”

“Or were called back,” Anacra replies, her eyes narrowing. “Cazador’s holding them back. He doesn't want them dead.”

“Which means our vampire is likely still alive,” Datris says softly.

“Then we’re not too late.”

Seconds later, Anacra finds it by feel more than sight: the final door tucked behind layers of magic and malice. As her fingers brush the handle, another illusion falls away, revealing a narrow entry into the place Astarion had once called “ the kennel” .

The smell is worse here. Iron and rot and misery. Chains rattle softly in the dark, echoing like whispers from a nightmare.

And there, on the far side of the room…he hangs.

Astarion.

Chained at the wrists, knees sunken beneath him, head bowed like a fallen statue. His pale skin is smeared with blood and grime. He’s too still. Too quiet.

Her breath catches, and then breaks.

She runs. Skids to her knees, uncaring of the floor, of the filth, of anything but him.

“No—no, no —”

Her voice cracks. Her hands tremble as she cups his face. The cold of his skin sinks into her bones.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve—gods, I should’ve kept you safe.”

All of her despair, all of her pain, boils up in a long awaited moment. It’s too much to see him like this, to be shown her failures in such a stark way.

Anacra sobs.

Astarion’s lashes flutter, and then, weakly, painfully , his eyes open.

“You…came…?” he whispers, like a prayer he never dared utter aloud.

“ I did—I did—I did— ”

She cuts herself off by kissing him.

It's not soft. It's not perfect. His lips are cracked, and her face is streaked with tears, but they meet in the middle of that broken place, and he kisses her back.

When she pulls away, her hand still lingers on his cheek, shaking and so, so gentle.

“You don’t have to be okay,” she whispers while crying. “You don’t ever have to do anything else, if you don’t want to. We’ll find you a place to rest, Astarion…But, gods, I’m not going anywhere . I’m not leaving you again .”

And she means it. He could ask her to never touch him again and she would oblige in a heartbeat. She just wants to be near him.

A pause. Then he leans into her palm, just barely. And then there's the ghost of a nod and Anacra can breathe again.

Datris moves behind her, already working at the chains. Riptide stands guard, his eyes never leaving the door.

The shackles fall with a cruel clang.

It’s Riptide who lifts Astarion, carefully supporting his weight. Astarion doesn’t protest. He doesn’t have the strength.

“The other spawn—” Anacra begins.

“Leave them,” Astarion rasps, voice sharp and broken. “They don’t want saving.”

She falters as her eyes fall on his leg which is torn open. She can see muscles and tendons… 

“Okay,” she mutters back, forcing her eyes back to his face. “Okay, let’s leave.”

They move quickly. The manor pulses with dark magic, but it does not stop them. Not yet.

And as they flee the kennel, Astarion’s head against her shoulder and her heart breaking open, Anacra knows this isn’t the end of it. She can’t shake the feeling that recuse was too easy.

But gods be damned, he’s alive . That’s enough for right now.

Chapter Text

Astarion is lost in his own mind.

The bed is soft. The blankets are warm. And still, the wool scratches against his skin like tiny claws. The candle flickers gently on the nightstand, but his eyes keep darting to the shadows it casts on the walls — dark shapes that stretch and move like they might leap at him.

Cazador. Cazador. Cazador.

That name beats like a drum in his skull.

Will he ever be free of it? Of him ?

The healers did their work well and his wounds are long gone. In truth, he would have healed just fine on his own. But still, he stretches out one leg beneath the blankets, half-expecting pain. When none comes, he exhales and lets the tension drain from the muscle.

Anacra had promised he would be safe. And gods… he had believed her. He’d let himself believe her.

And now here he is. Alive. Free.

But not whole.

The chains are gone, yet he still feels the ghost of them - a phantom pressure around his wrists that won’t ease. He used to feel that constantly, in the early years of his spawnhood, when weeks in the kennel would blur together. Gods, he had almost forgotten what that suffocating weight was like.

Not anymore.

His thoughts flicker back to the tomb, to the cold marble, to the taste of blood. He shuts them down with practiced precision. No. Not tonight. He’s not ready. He might never be, no matter what Anacra says about healing and time and scars that fade.

That darkness is still too fresh. Too sharp. It doesn’t feel like something you “process.” It feels like something you drown in.

Better to shut it out. He’s always been good at that.

Astarion watches the wax drip and pool beneath the candle. He’s in Anacra’s room. She insisted he take it, though she said he could stay at the hospital of Ilmater again if he preferred.

But this place felt safer. Not because of the walls or the locks. Because it smells like her. Feels like her. Her presence lingers in the air, grounding him.

Safety.

It’s still such a foreign word. Slippery. Delicate.

He’d grasped it once, after two centuries of horror when she first pulled him from the dirt, bloody and gasping, and told him she saw him. Truly saw him.

He had been safe.

And then he wasn’t.

And now… now he is again. At least for the moment. Within hours, she came for him. No hesitation. No debate. She burst into his hell without a second thought.

He knows he should feel grateful. And he does.

But beneath that gratitude brews a quiet, seething fury.

At Cazador. At the world. And at Anacra too; for letting him be captured again.

But mostly at himself. For daring to hope. For letting his guard down. For believing in peace.

He almost misses the pain.

Pain is simple. Pain makes sense.

He knows how to scream. Knows how to endure.

But this? This… safety ?

This soft candlelight, this warm bed, this unfamiliar comfort?

It feels unbearable. And beautiful .

And utterly terrifying.

Because for the first time in his cursed existence, Astarion doesn’t just want to survive.

He wants to live .

And that… that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

A knock on the door pulls him back to reality.

A freckled face peeks in.

“Astarion? May I come in?” Anacra asks softly.

“It’s the middle of the night, darling,” he replies. “Nothing good happens after dark.”

Anacra snorts, slipping in and closing the heavy wooden door behind her. “You’re the one in my bed.”

“Touche.”

She moves to sit at the foot of it. Astarion wants to sit up, to not look so pitiful, but…gods help him, he is so tired .

“I…” she starts, hesitant. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Astarion. I promised I would keep you—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts gently. “It was my choice to come, not yours, you sweet little thing. You can’t go around making my choices for me.”

His face sours slightly. “I’ve had enough of that in this lifetime, thank you.”

Anacra doesn’t speak for a moment. Astarion lets the silence settle as he’s learned she often needs it before speaking.

“I’m sorry nonetheless,” she whispers. “And I promise to do better.”

He has the urge to kiss her again. Instead, he says, “Perhaps you can apologize by getting me a stiff drink, darling.”

There’s a beat.

“I actually had something else in mind. If you’re up for a little walk?”

When he quirks a brow, she quickly adds, “We’ll be safe—I promise—it’s not far—”

“A walk sounds lovely.”

- - -

Astarion stops dead in his tracks when they round the corner.

Far from the city’s crowded heart, nestled into the quiet dark, stands a little bookshop with a still-standing sign.

The Lantern’s Rest.

“How did you…?” he breathes, pulling his cloak tighter, suddenly more vulnerable than he ever feels when bare.

“You mentioned a bookshop once,” Anacra says. “Well, a few times. Wasn’t hard to find a place that matched.”

“You idiot,” Astarion says, voice sharp.

She looks sideways at him, trying to read his expression—one he’s very deliberately masking.

“You stupid, wonderful idiot.”

She lets out a soft huff, relieved, and gestures for him to follow.

“Come on. Unlock the door already.”

It takes him seconds to pick the lock, pulling a pin from his curls and grinning at her slight bewilderment.

Soon, they’re roaming the dusty shelves, never straying far from one another, fingers trailing over leather spines and ancient tomes.

Astarion doesn’t remember this place.

He doesn’t remember anything before Cazador took him. All he knows is what his master told him and the scraps he’s managed to uncover since.

He knows he was once a magistrate in Baldur’s Gate. That he likely wasn’t  totally fair in perhaps one or two of his rulings. 

But he does remember the night he was turned: ambushed by the Gurr, beaten half to death, and left begging for life at the feet of a man he’d met only once at a party. A tall, pale noble with too many teeth and not enough mercy.

If only he’d known death would’ve been kinder.

But even with the past wiped clean, something about this place hums familiar. The book in his hands knows him, even if he doesn’t know it.

At the bottom of the first page, in faded black ink, sits a list of names—readers who borrowed the tome before. And there, in the middle, centuries ago:

Astarion Ancunin.

“What’s that you’ve got?” Anacra asks, rising onto her toes to peek over his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer. He just hands her the book.

She finds the name quickly.

“You checked out this book?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Why in the Nine Hells would you need Edicts of the High Court of Baldur’s Gate ?”

It takes him a moment to find words. “I don’t know,” he says at last.

The lines around her mouth deepen with thought. Then she looks up at him, her face close.

“Do you…do you recall anything before Cazador?”

“No.” His voice comes out sharp, bitter. He regrets the venom. Just a little.

“Maybe…” she hesitates, choosing her words. “Maybe that’s not so bad. Maybe that just means there’s more room for the future.”

He almost laughs. Bitterly.

So sweet. So innocent.

He’s always liked the sweet ones best, hasn’t he?

He turns to look down at her.

And then he grabs her face and kisses her.

Anacra lets out a soft gasp, fumbles to place the book back on the shelf, and kisses him back, eager and warm.

She tastes like honey left out in the sun—warm, golden, and slow to melt. But underneath? A bite of salt. Crushed petals. Like kissing the memory of safety he forgot he’d ever had.

He can’t remember the last time he kissed someone and wanted more. Maybe back in the early days of servitude, back when he still believed he might as well enjoy it.

That hadn’t lasted.

But now? He craves this. He’s craved her .

It doesn’t take long for them to end up pressed against the shelves, uncaring for the books they disturb.

His lips move to her throat, breathing in that delicious aroma just under her skin. He sucks at the delicate space, but doesn’t break it. But he does let her feel his teeth when she starts gasping, fingers buried in his hair.

- - -

Anacra feels alive again.

There are no expectations as they lie curled together in a nest of blankets and pillows, tucked into the shop’s quiet second floor. Only one candle flickers, the rest long forgotten. They talk until the candle burns low, until the city goes still.

Astarion had been the one to stop.

“I want this,” he’d murmured at her ear, fingers tracing her waist. “But I want to do it right.”

Her hands were still in his hair when she whispered back, “Then we wait. There’s no rush.”

Now, the silence wraps around them like a balm. Sleep comes easy, close.

“Maybe peace isn’t a place,” Astarion says quietly, voice rough, bottom lip still slightly swollen. “Maybe it’s a person.”

Anacra smiles, then falters. “Let’s not become too codependent, yeah?”

He snorts and kisses her lightly. “What’s wrong with that, my sweet?”

“I…” She pauses, thoughtful. “I want this to be real. I want this to last , Astarion.”

He turns to her, eyes meeting hers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ll always be your safe place, of course. I’ll always protect you. But I…want to be more than that. Does that make sense?”

He’s quiet a beat too long—not because he doesn’t understand, but because he wants to get it right .

He stares at the ceiling as he answers, voice low.

“You are safety to me,” he says. “But not just that.”

Then he turns to her, gaze open and startlingly soft.

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to want things again. Not just survive. Not just perform. Want. Choose. And I want you.”

Her breath catches.

His eyes are raw and vulnerable, unfamiliar in their openness—but sincere.

“If I only wanted comfort, I wouldn’t have kissed you like that. I wouldn’t be here , my sweet.”

She studies him for a long moment, then slowly nods. Something inside her loosens.

She shifts closer, tucks her head under his chin. He wraps his arms around her in return.

“Okay,” she says, small and sure.

In the hush of the bookshop, surrounded by stories of other people’s lives, Anacra thinks that two broken souls might have finally begun to write their own.

Chapter Text

Morning comes too soon, and with it, reality.

Gone is the quiet bookshop and the borrowed comfort of Astarion’s arms. Instead, Anacra awakens to the grim truth of what still lies ahead.

This time, she doesn’t join the planning. Jaheira is relentless, barely sleeping as she pores over maps and scenarios, dissecting every misstep, questioning whether they should even return to the manor at all. But Anacra stays quiet. She's too tired, and besides, her part in these kinds of strategies always felt thin. She’s not a tactician. Not like them.

So…what is she then?

She spends her hours tending to the house, helping where she can. It’s easier than thinking.

Not long after she and Astarion returned from the bookshop, word came: the mission to rescue Aunt Ray had failed. No body. No message. Just silence.

All it did was confirm what Anacra already feared—that Cazador let them take Astarion back.

“Do you think she’s in pain?” Anacra whispers one night, curled into Astarion’s side beneath their shared blanket in her bedroom.

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, solemnly, “She likely is, yes.”

When she turns her face away, tears welling, he pulls her closer.

She spends the next few days with him, clinging to whatever light he can offer, and offering hers in return. There’s something healing about being near each other—something neither of them can quite put into words.

Eventually, Astarion opens up. She had guessed the horrors he endured in those short hours of captivity, but hearing it aloud feels like being stabbed in slow motion.

“I went right back to begging,” he says, voice hollow. “As soon as the first lashes fell. I swore to him that I’d been taken against my will. That I tried to come back…”

His gaze is distant. That vacant expression makes her chest ache. She doesn’t wait and she reaches out and draws him into an embrace.

He doesn’t cry, but he trembles.

And she holds him tighter.

The morning before they plan to strike Szarr Palace again, Anacra sits with Jaheira in the hospital courtyard. The older woman eyes the rose bushes with something close to disdain.

“Don’t you have preparations to make?” Anacra asks, squinting at the flowers, trying to figure out what Jaheira is looking at.

“Everything is prepared,” Jaheira replies. “Now we wait.”

“What’s different this time?”

“This time, we know what we did wrong. And we will fix it.”

Anacra watches her straighten, the sunlight catching on the silver strands in her hair.

“I think Astarion should stay back,” Jaheira says suddenly, her face edged with more sympathy now. “We can’t risk him falling into Cazador’s hands again.”

“I already tried. I even tried to talk him out of it before…the other time.” Anacra sighs. “He gets pissy just at the idea. And can you blame him? After everything that bastard’s done to him?”

“No. I suppose not.” Jaheira fingers the hilt of a slim belt-knife—laughably delicate compared to the twin swords on her back. “Still, I’ll do what I can to keep our vampire safe.”

Anacra studies her, then says quietly: “Thank you.”

Jaheira’s voice softens, only slightly.

“I’m sorry about your aunt. For what it’s worth, I believe she’s still alive—”

A scream cuts her off.

And then another, raw, strangled, unmistakably filled with pain.

Both women leap to their feet.

- - -

The hospital corridor is a massacre.

Blood stains the beautiful white marble floors. The air reeks of rot. And at the far end of the hallway, something inhuman crouches over a fallen patient, gnawing at his throat with blackened teeth.

Jaheira reacts first, already moving. Anacra follows, instincts firing. She has no weapon, no armor, just her bare hands. Still, she doesn’t hesitate. 

She throws herself at the creature, dragging it off the dying man. It snarls, jaw slick with gore, but she pins it long enough for Jaheira to drive her blade through its skull.

It collapses with a sickening crunch.

Anacra rolls it off her and scrambles to the patient’s side. Blood pours from his neck. His eyes are wide and glassy with terror.

She presses trembling hands to the wound, already knowing it’s futile.

“Shhh,” she whispers. “It’s alright. Just breathe…”

The man chokes. His fingers twitch.

More screams echo down the corridor, steel clashing against bone, the unmistakable rasp of undead growls growing louder.

She ignores it, eyes on the dark-haired man in front of her.

She bows her head and mutters the words…words she’s said to dying soldiers, strangers, and friends.

“ Ilmater… by your wounds, may theirs find meaning.
By your tears, may they feel loved.
And by your mercy… may they be free .”

As she finishes, the man exhales his last breath.

She closes his eyes, one trembling hand against his brow, then rises to her feet, fury and grief twisting in her chest like a knife.

She runs toward the sounds of battle.

- - -

They came from nowhere.

One moment, Astarion had been reading in the library. The next, the undead were pouring through the windows like a flood of rot and bone.

Cazador has come to them, it seems.

He swallows his panic and draws his blades. Fear coils in his stomach, but he knows this dance. Knows how to kill.

He cuts through the first wave of undead in the west wing. Elegant, efficient, deadly. The scent of blood fills the manor like perfume. Screams echo from every direction.

But he’s not alone.

The manor is full of Harpers who are ready, armed, and unyielding. Fools, maybe. But brave ones.

And for once…this time…

They are fighting on his ground.

Well… is that what this place has become?

This fractured manor, stitched awkwardly to the hospital where he once lay half-dead. A place with half-missing furniture and a legacy tangled in old blood and deeper secrets.

Is this his ground now? His new home?

It had started as a hideout, nothing more. Anacra had been a means to an end; a tool, a sweet face to manipulate, a door into Harper protection. But now… now she lingers in his thoughts like light against stained glass. She’s confusing. Frustrating. Terrifying. But maybe, just maybe, home doesn’t have to be safe. Maybe it just needs to feel like someone .

He doesn’t get to finish the thought.

The snarl comes first, a ragged, wet rasp, and then claws rake across his chest.

Astarion jerks back with a hiss as a zombie flings itself toward him with all the suicidal frenzy of the truly mindless. It sinks rotted fingers into his coat, and he snarls, twisting the creature’s neck before plunging his dagger deep into its gut. Bone breaks in a satisfying crunch as he twists the knife.

Breathing hard, not from need but from instinct, he shoves the twitching corpse aside and stumbles into the hallway.

He can’t see the next threat yet, but the scent of decay is thick. Screams echo from deeper in the manor. The clash of steel. Magic bursting against stone.

And worse…he can feel it.

Him.

That cold, invasive presence like hooks behind his ribs. Cazador is close.

Astarion’s stomach turns. Panic claws at the inside of his throat. Not again—not again not again—

Anacra.

Her name sears through his mind like lightning.

Then, faintly, like a thread pulled taut across stone: her scream.

His body moves before his thoughts can catch up.

- - -

Hell arrives without warning.

One moment, Anacra is gasping prayers over the dead. The next—

Boom.

The wall beside her detonates .

She doesn’t see the magic, only the aftermath: stone and fire and shrapnel raining down in a violent crescendo. The air is sucked out of the hallway, replaced with smoke and heat.

Another explosion. Then another.

The hospital is no longer a sanctuary. It’s a tomb in the making.

Anacra hits the ground hard, ears ringing, lungs burning. Dust clogs her nose, blood spatters her sleeves.

She tries to sit up, fails, then tries again.

Through the settling smoke, she sees it: her family’s manor, visible through the jagged hole in the hospital wall.

Her bedroom window stares back at her like a hollow eye.

That’s my room , she thinks dimly.

Unconsciousness rushes up to meet her.

- - -

Astarion’s world narrows to a single heartbeat.

Her hair is the first thing he sees. Blonde, matted with blood and ash, tangled across her face. He can’t see her freckles. Can’t see if she’s breathing.

Everything slows.

He drops to his knees, not caring who watches, and pulls her into his arms with a gentleness that feels unnatural against the backdrop of fire and screams. She’s limp. So still.

“ Healer! ” he yells, voice cracking. “ I need a healer—gods damn it, someone help her! ”

He’s in a hospital for hell’s sake. There should be clerics! Staff. Someone. Anyone.

But the halls are broken.

Rain lashes through the open wounds of the building, soaking stone and skin alike. Panicked voices rise over the chaos: cries for help, prayers, orders barked in desperation. Magic flares—blue, green, gold, and white—each burst marking a fight for a life as the surviving healers do what they can.

Astarion doesn’t give a shit about any of them. Just her.

Jaheira stumbles into view, blood painting her shoulder, her expression grim but focused.

She doesn’t ask questions. Just kneels, places a hand over Anacra’s stomach, and murmurs something low and old. A gentle green glow spills over the girl’s body, then the bleeding stops.

Astarion lets out a ragged breath. “Oh… oh thank the gods…”

He cradles Anacra tighter, brushing hair from her soot-streaked forehead. She stirs faintly, lashes fluttering, but doesn’t wake.

The rain falls harder.

Jaheira nods once, then gestures for him to move. Together, they climb over chunks of collapsed marble and burnt timber, slipping into the courtyard.

It’s a ruin now; drenched in blood, smoke, and divine light.

But she’s alive.

And Astarion holds her like he’ll never let her go again.

And then, all the hair on his body stands on end.

The wind seems to be whistling louder, ringing in his ears like eery music composed exclusively for him.

He turns. Slowly. Like a marionette resisting its strings.

His heart, a dead and useless thing, somehow manages to plummet .

There, in the courtyard, Astarion’s master stands.

And at his side: Anacra’s aunt.

Chapter Text

“Ah… the prodigal child returns. And he brings the dregs of rebellion with him.”

Cazador's voice cuts through the storm like the first breath of winter, icy and inevitable.

“You can never stay away, can you, Astarion? Like a dog on a leash , still crawling back to its master.”

The words slither into Astarion’s ears, a parasite from another lifetime.

He’s back there again, in the dark, starving, his body trembling as he becomes desperate enough to do anything for a drop of blood.

But he’s also here, now, and the only thing louder than the voice is the hatred it rips out of him.

“What would you be without me?” There is no deceptiveness in Cazador’s tone. Only a truth Astarion has fought so hard to resist.

Astarion doesn’t answer. Not yet. His eyes flick, sharply, not toward his slaver, but towards Ray.

She stands still beside Cazador, draped in elegant velvet like some wretched mockery of nobility. Her hands are loose at her sides. Her eyes… empty.

No spark. No tension. No Ray.

He knows that look.

Knows it intimately.

She’s charmed.

The realization hits like a strike to the gut. He tries to parse it…was she taken? Was she weak? Was she always going to betray them?

But there’s no time to answer, because with a sudden crack of thunder and a flash of pale lightning, Cazador slams his staff into the ground.

The courtyard shudders.

Astarion flinches. Instinct, muscle memory. Pain.

“She was so easy to turn, our dear Ray,” Cazador croons. “Love makes fools of all of us. Even the cunning ones. But what is family, if not the monsters we are forced to love?”

Astarion spits, venom and fire in his voice: “We were never family, you son of a bitch.”

Cazador’s smile dies. “You never learn your lessons, do you?”

That’s when the bats swarm.

They pour from the mist like ink bleeding from a wound, hundreds of them, wings slicing the air, screaming.

Astarion rolls into the wet grass, daggers drawn mid-fall. A blur of movement and mist, steel meeting shadow.

Jaheira shouts something. A spell flashes hot-blue beside him. Cazador’s undead surge forward with a shriek of rage.

It’s chaos.

And Astarion fights like hell.

- - -

Pain.

Is that all her life has become?

Anacra floats through a gauze of memory and aches. Somewhere distant, she can hear someone, her aunt, maybe, scolding her for wasting time in the hospital.

But she likes the hospital. The smell of herbs and antiseptic. The rhythm of healing. The only place left where she still felt useful.

Then she’s being shaken.

“Anacra! Get up!”

She gasps, eyes snapping open.

Riptide is above her, scorched, bleeding, panicked. His scaled hands are slick with someone else’s blood. Lightning flashes behind his head like a halo.

“What—?”

And then it returns, all of it. The screams. The undead. The storm.

“Cazador is here!” Riptide yells, dragging her up. She’s already running beside him, breath catching in her throat as she surveys the courtyard.

Undead. Wolves. Shadows with too many teeth. Harpers fighting them off.

“What? How? The wards—”

Riptide doesn’t answer. He just points.

There, at the center of it all, stands her aunt.

And beside her, tall and terrible, like a statue carved from nightmare, is Cazador Szarr.

Anacra stumbles. Her mind rebels.

“No…”

Riptide starts to explain—“I don’t know either—”—but a bloated undead beast lunges at him. He roars, and they are thrown into battle.

Spear in hand, Anacra moves like a soldier trained by desperation. She stabs, dodges, pivots. Every motion is survival, not grace.

And then, a sound.

Astarion’s voice. 

Broken. Raw.

A scream.

She turns and runs.

- - -

“You’ve only ever had one purpose, boy.” Cazador’s voice echoes above the clash of swords and spells. “To be consumed.”

Astarion’s eyes glow red, veins twitching as Cazador’s dominance claws into his mind.

His limbs lock. His heart thunders.

He’s being controlled again.

Again.

Again.

“ Fuck you ,” he growls, the words a final splinter of his will, aimed straight at the bastard’s throat.

- - -

Anacra bursts into the small clearing at the center of the chaos just in time.

Cazador stands poised, eyes glowing, hand outstretched. His fingers curl as though plucking strings no one else can hear. A spell, no, a curse, builds in the air.

Anacra’s spear sings through the storm, burying itself in Cazador’s wrist.

He snarls, reeling back, smoke rising from the wound.

“You cannot have him!” she screams, grabbing a stone from the ground and hurling it with all the fury of someone who’s already lost too much.

But she never sees if it lands.

Because Cazador’s hand twitches.

And the world melts from beneath her.

- - -

“Sol?”

Ana’s voice is a tremble, fragile and feather-light. It’s the kind of voice that breaks if you speak too loud around it. She’s small, just eight years old, but something in the air tonight makes her feel smaller still.

The storm outside howls like a dying thing, wind dragging long fingernails down the manor walls. Thunder cracks like bones splitting in the sky, and the windows shiver in their frames. The candle in the corner flickers, casting her brother’s shadow in monstrous, shifting shapes on the far wall.

They still share a bedroom. Twin beds sit on opposite ends, separated by a gulf of toys and old curtains draped over furniture like ghosts waiting for a cue.

Ana clutches the blanket tighter around her shoulders, knuckles pale.

“Sol?” she says again.

A groggy murmur replies, thick with sleep. “Ana...? Just go back to bed.”

“I can’t. Can I…can I sleep with you, please?”

A long pause. The kind that makes her chest squeeze.

Then: “Yeah, alright. Just… don’t take the whole blanket again.”

She hurries across the cold floor, every step echoing in the too-large room. The shadows seem to pull back for her, or maybe they lean in, curious.

Solren grunts when she clambers under the covers, elbowing her instinctively. But he doesn’t push her away.

She presses close, burying her face in his shoulder, and waits for the thunder to fade.

Soon enough he’s cuddling her back.

- - -

“Ana…”

Her name floats to her like a thread pulled through fog. “Come here, Ana…”

Her body resists the command. Each step toward the bed feels wrong, like she's moving through syrup, or time itself has turned against her.

She’s older now, but her legs drag like a child’s.

The room smells of copper and sage. The windows are shut tight despite the summer heat, and yet the curtains stir like they’re breathing.

Her mother lies in a nest of white sheets, skin paper-thin, lips cracked.

There’s no golden sheen left in her hair, nothing of the vibrant woman who once spun stories with laughter on her lips. Now she looks more bone than blood, more ghost than woman.

Gray speckles mar her skin like rot. Sablewilt . The word has a sour weight.

Ana reaches out and brushes aside the sheer veil around the bed. It clings to her hand like cobwebs.

“Mother, it’s too soon—” she begins, voice cracking like a poorly played violin string.

“Hush...hush…”

The words are dry leaves skittering across stone.

“You’ll be alright, little love.”

Her mother’s hand rises, barely, and cups Ana’s cheek. The touch is warm, but fading.

“No,” Ana chokes. “No, I won’t. I can’t do this without you.”

Her mother’s hand trembles. “Promise me… promise me something, Ana.”

“ Anything .”

The woman’s eyes, once fierce and bright, are clouded now, but they pierce her all the same.

“Look after Solren. I do not worry for you. You… you will endure. But him…”

Her breath catches. A tear escapes her eye and trails down the wrinkled curve of her temple.

“I fear… he will not choose the light unless someone holds the door open for him.”

Ana nods, too fast, too desperate. “I will. I promise, Mother. I promise .”

But something in her mother’s expression doesn’t soften.

Instead, it looks like sorrow.

Like she knows the promise is already broken.

- - -

The mat reeks of sweat, bruises, and blood that didn’t wash clean.

Ana’s muscles burn. Her limbs feel like lead.

She pivots hard, tucking and rolling as Riptide’s dulled sword whistles through the air inches from her ear.

Outside the sparring hall, dusk gathers like smoke, swallowing the light creeping through the high windows.

Her breath hitches. She throws her hand up, channeling the incantation through raw instinct.

Fire coils into her palm, eager and violent, and bursts toward Riptide’s head.

He ducks. Laughs, a low bark that echoes too loud in the quiet.

“Too slow,” he calls, dancing sideways.

“You’re just short,” she snaps back, but her grin is a cover for the tremble in her wrist.

The next exchanges are faster. Blades blur. Spells flash. And then-

Ana lands the final blow. A sweep to his knee and a well-timed spell. Riptide hits the mat with a winded grunt.

“Victory,” she pants, kneeling beside him. Her hands already glow with healing light.

“Show off,” he mutters.

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, still staring at the ceiling like it holds some answer she’ll never know.

She pulls at his arm, trying to get him back up despite the fact he weighs at least twice as much as her. “Best out of ten?”

Riptide sighs. “Fine. No magic this time, though.”

“Ha! No.”

- - -

Anacra floats.

The lake is endless…black, still, soundless. Her body drifts with unnatural ease, her limbs heavy and her chest light, as if breath itself has forgotten how to anchor her.

Above her: nothing. No moon. No stars. No sky.

Only the dark.

She’s been here before.

Some part of her remembers….remembers Cazador and his tricks.

But most of her doesn’t. Or doesn’t care. Does it matter? Does any of this fucking matter ?

And then, it appears again: that tiny orb. A black sphere suspended above the water, pulsing. Hungry. Pure. It absorbs everything near it, even her thoughts.

She stares at it. And it stares back.

And in it, she sees.

Astarion, broken and bleeding, hanging from chains, his leg torn open, all because she broke her oath to him.

Doves, golden and soft, fluttering like whispers around Solren’s lifeless body. Even with a god of healing’s magic, all she brings is death.

Riptide is screaming at her to get up, dragging her from a burning wreck time and time again.

And she sees a little girl who joined her family’s hospital, only to be the very reason it was destroyed, killing everyone inside. 

Anacra was always meant for this darker power. That was the reason she was never given her family’s gift.

“It was always going to come to this, wasn’t it?” she whispers, reaching for the orb. Her hand does not tremble this time.

The orb hums. Its pulse quickens.

She touches it—

“ Do not. ”

Her body jerks upright. Her heart hammers in her ears. The water ripples around her.

She knows that voice. She would know that voice in any realm, in any dream. She’s prayed to it a million times this last decade.

And now, he answers.

Chapter Text

Anacra feels the rain before she sees her god.

It falls like the tears of the sorrowful. Both relieving and devastating.

She turns from where she sits upon still water, away from the pulsing black orb, and sees a hunched, pale figure standing before her. His hands are bound in front of him with red string.

Ilmater, the incarnation of compassion and the eternal foe of suffering, has come.

Once, Anacra might have stumbled forward, dropped to her knees, and begged for mercy. Begged for forgiveness for her sins and whatever unspoken wrongs had led her here.

But now… she’s too tired. Too drained.

So instead, she lays back down, eyes on the blackness hovering just out of reach.

“It’s been a minute,” she murmurs.

“It has,” Ilmater agrees.

There’s a beat of silence before she asks, “Are they still alive?”

He doesn’t answer. That makes her turn to him.

She tries again. “Is there still hope?”

“Yes, child of light.”

Her expression sours at the title.

“I killed Solren,” she whispers.

The words hit just as hard as they did the first time. Grief swells up, sharp and suffocating.

“I killed him. And I lost everything that made me me .”

She rises, trembling with fury and shame, and takes a few steps toward the bound god. She points at him, accusing, shaking.

“You left me in silence for—for an eternity!” she shouts. “I lost my brother, and you left me alone .”

“I did not,” Ilmater says calmly, though his face is drawn and sunken with sorrow.

Anacra’s thoughts flicker to Astarion, her partner and her tether. It had been Ilmater who sent the dream. The one that led her to dig him out of the ground.

“How long did he pray for?” Her voice turns low, dangerous. “How long did you ignore his cries?”

“I cannot hear and answer every call for mercy, child of light. You know this.”

She does. But the knowledge doesn't make her less angry.

The urge rises in her like a tide, to scream, to curse, to break this place apart.

But instead… she cries.

Tears fall in silence. Then sobs. She weeps until her knees buckle and she sinks back into the strange black lake, sending ripples through its surface.

She isn’t surprised when Ilmater kneels beside her and pulls her into his embrace.

Time becomes meaningless. An eternity and a single heartbeat at once.

Eventually, her voice breaks the silence.

“I don’t forgive you,” she whispers.

“Understood.”

“I want my magic back.”

“That is no longer possible.”

She pulls away, blinking through the haze of tears.

“I need to save them. I need to save him .”

“That was never your purpose, child of light.”

Her gaze drifts to the orb. It still calls to her, though its pull is weaker now.

But the choice remains.

“Then what is my purpose, Ilmater?” she asks, eyes fixed on the darkness. On everything she’s done. On everything she will never be able to undo.

Part of her wants to fall to her knees and beg. Beg for her magic, beg for another chance.

But can she even be trusted with it?

She’s surprised to find in her heart a gentle “ yes ”. Not from him. But from herself.

Here in this strange blackness, in the embrace of a god who understands pain, beneath the soft rain, she finds a sliver of peace. The kind she’s only ever found in Astarion’s presence.

Solren was going to hurt her. She had been young. She had been scared. Maybe there was another way. But that doesn’t change what happened. And it doesn’t change that she had been a victim.

She’s always known that. Buried somewhere deep beneath the guilt and the grief.

“Do I have to sacrifice myself?” she whispers, still staring at the orb. “I will. For them.”

“No,” Ilmater replies. “That role has already been filled.”

Her head snaps toward him, alarmed.

He only smiles, a soft, maddening thing. It kind of pisses her off.

“You are strong, Anacra. You never needed magic. It is true you have the potential for great darkness,” he nods towards the orb, “but with that comes the potential for great good as well.”

And just like that, the black lake and sky dissolve, washed away by a flood of radiant light.

- - -

Anacra half-expects to be back in the courtyard.

But the ruined hospital is gone. So is the relentless rain that once drowned the screams of monsters and Harpers alike.

Anacra wakes in silence.

A vast chamber stretches around her, suffused with a sickly green-blue glow that clings to the air like mist. Everything pulses faintly with a cold, unnatural light. It takes only a breath for her to understand she’s underground. Deep underground. Somewhere wrong.

When she forces her gaze upward, it’s like peering into a nightmare. Spiked cages hang like rusted fruit from skeletal chains. Creatures that look half dead reside in them. Stone pillars and spikes twist unnaturally, etched with infernal runes that shimmer faintly. There is no ceiling she can see, just endless, choking darkness above.

She lies on a marble platform, high and isolated. The edges fall away into shadow, and only a steep staircase connects it to the rest of the chamber. Velvet banners, black and red, hang from the railings, each marked with the crest of House Szarr.

The ground beneath her is cold, etched with cruel golden lines that curve and split like veins. The pattern is sharp. Intentional. A cage of beauty meant to contain suffering.

Something moves ahead. Her vision swims, but she manages to blink, just enough to make out the figure standing at the center of the platform.

Cazador.

His pale form glows faintly atop a diamond-shaped dais, surrounded by infernal script carved into the stone. She blinks again, her heart stuttering.

The design matches the scars on Astarion’s back.

She tries to sit up, but the pain comes fast and sharp. Her wrists are yanked back down.

Chains.

Manacles fasten her to the stone, iron cold, etched with runes. Not just restraints. They’re feeding . Siphoning something from her, pulling it slowly, relentlessly.

It takes her a moment to understand.

Her essence. Her soul. Her blood. Whatever thread of divinity Ilmater left in her, whatever small amount of magic she inherited at birth…it’s being stolen. It’s killing her.

And it’s fueling him.

Across the platform, on the opposite edge, another figure slumps against the stone.

Ray.

Anacra’s aunt is bound in the same way, hands chained with cruel red links that shimmer in rhythm with her own. Her head is low, hair matted with blood, the same leeching magic gnawing at her spirit.

They are opposite ends of a ritual circle.

Batteries.

Sacrifices.

But they’re not the only ones.

Between Anacra and Ray, suspended like marionettes on invisible threads, are seven glowing figures. Each hovers just above the ground, bound in place by searing beams of red magic that root them to individual infernal circles carved into the marble beneath them.

Astarion is among them.

He floats just five feet from Anacra, close enough to save, if she could move. He’s already looking at her, his face pale and drawn, ashen like something already dead. His hair is soaked and matted, and his chest is bare. The scars on his back blaze with light, red-hot and blistering.

But it’s his eyes that chill her the most. They’re vacant. Distant. As if he's just survived the same mental torment she did…horrors, illusions, and memories stitched together to break them.

Anacra gasps, and even that hurts. Every breath scrapes her lungs raw. The magic is clawing through her, peeling her open from the inside out.

And through it all, Cazador stands like a god on the central dais, composed, arms spread, soaking in the power bleeding from every soul in the room, even the poor souls in the cages.

There is no sound, only the rush of her own blood and the low, ancient hum growing louder beneath the stone.

She’s going to die.

They all are.

And Cazador will ascend.

“No…” Her voice is weak, cracking. She tears her gaze away from Astarion. “Stop!”

If Cazador hears her, he gives no sign.

His eyes are closed. His head tilted back, lips parted in ecstasy. He is basking.

Anacra yanks at her chains, wrists bleeding as the manacles burn her raw. She twists. She thrashes until there’s blood on the floor beneath her. She tries to dislocate her fingers, her wrists, anything. But the harder she struggles, the tighter the manacles clamp, as if feeding on her pain.

Her arms shake. Her vision tunnels.

Still, she slams her hands against the stone in desperation, trying to break her own bones. “Please…” she sobs. “Please…”

The moment her thumb pops free, the manacles constrict again. The pain is blinding. Her scream is hoarse and strangled.

She collapses, head hitting the floor that’s speckled in her own blood.

Cazador’s glow intensifies.

The entire platform begins to vibrate with magic. It’s foul, wrong, sickening.

Sleep , she thinks dimly. Maybe it would be easier to just—

“ Anacra. ”

Her eyes snap open.

Astarion’s voice. His lovely voice.

She lifts her head. He still hangs midair, strung up like a starved puppet. His body trembles. His lips are dry. But his eyes…his eyes are locked on hers now.

“Anacra…” he croaks, barely audible over the rising hum. “Please…”

Her lip trembles.

“I tried,” she whispers, tears slipping past her cheeks. “I tried, Astarion. I’m so sorry—I love you—I love you—”

A blinding light erupts from across the platform.

Anacra has to shield her eyes. The brilliance builds fast, radiant and golden and holy . And when her vision adjusts, she sees it’s not Cazador.

It’s Ray de Solstice .

“Aunt Ray!” Anacra shouts, her voice shredded. “Aunt Ray!”

Cazador whirls toward the light, fury written across his face.

“NO!” His voice echoes like thunder. “NO, YOU FOUL CREATURE!”

Ray glows like the sun. Her figure is indistinct now, swallowed by the radiance. Her mouth moves—words of a spell? A prayer?—but the distance drowns them.

Ray’s eyes meet her’s. Anacra wishes she had more time to understand that expression. That final look.

Cazador lunges forward.

And is met by a blast of raw, golden light.

Ray’s sun magic hits him like a divine hammer, and for the first time, the Vampire Lord screams.

The platform rocks.

Anacra screams too, but not from pain.

She screams because she understands now. Ilmater’s words. The truth.

This was never her sacrifice to make.

“NO!” she sobs, wrenching at her chains with everything she has. “RAY, NO!”

But the light is already fading.

Too late.

Anacra is left blinded and breathless, her heart breaking beneath the silence that follows, left in a wave of shock and disbelief.

The head of House de Solstice, her aunt, and the great sorceress…is dead.

- - -

The ritual and its spells shatter.

Astarion crashes to the floor, but by some miracle barely lands on his feet.

His skin is burned, cracked, and ashen. His breath rasps through his teeth as he stumbles forward, blinking through the afterimage of Ray’s light. Around him, the other spawn, his siblings , fall like puppets cut from strings. Only Violet and Leon are still standing, dazed and swaying.

The infernal circles are gone.

And Cazador, the fucking bastard, lays twitching on his dais, smoking faintly. 

Astarion has one goal in mind. 

He doesn’t even hesitate.

He finds the ornate dagger, the same one that carved his back, and he strides forward, grabs Cazador by the hair, and yanks him upright.

The master vampire gurgles. His eyes flutter. He tries to speak, but no words come.

Astarion hesitates.

Not out of mercy. Never mercy.

But for a moment, the temptation lingers.

He could finish it.

He could take the power.

He could ascend.

Never be weak again.

Never be afraid again .

But then…he hears her.

He turns just briefly to see Anacra still straining against her bounds, sobbing as she calls out for her Aunt who’s death hasn’t even left a body. 

Her grief slices through the haze.

And Astarion knows he could never finish this ritual. Not if it meant she was a part of it.

He turns back to the creature who took everything from him…

And he tears the monster apart. 

Blood covers his hand, his face, the floor. But Astarion wants more. 

He doesn’t stop until the corpse stops twitching. 

He doesn’t stop until the corpse is more meat than monster. 

He doesn’t stop until the sobs take over and he can no longer continue.

Chapter Text

Anacra feels oddly numb.

Even as her throat rips open with screams, even as she thrashes against the searing bite of the restraints, she isn’t entirely there . It’s like watching someone else suffer. A shadow of herself that’s detached and distant. 

Nothing feels real.

Not until she feels him.

A hand, trembling and slick with blood, brushes her arm. And with that touch, like the sudden gasp after drowning, the world snaps back into focus.

Astarion.

She turns toward him in stunned silence, the sobs catching in her throat. Her screams die into shallow, broken breaths. The pain doesn’t stop, but it sharpens now. Grounds her.

“Shh… Stop moving, darling,” he whispers, voice raw and frayed at the edges. It’s the gentlest sound in a world that has just finished breaking them both. His fingers tremble as he fiddles with a lockpick, two tiny pins held between hands caked in blood.

Her stomach turns. The sight of her lover bathed in his abuser’s gore makes her dizzy.

“ Astarion …” she chokes out, barely more than a whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at her. His eyes are locked on the manacle, his mouth set in a tight, bitter line.

The click of the lock sounds deafening in the silence that follows. Then another. And then her chains fall away, clattering uselessly to the stone. Her wrists collapse to her lap, free but throbbing, raw, and mangled. 

“ Astarion ,” she says again, this time more sharply, more present . 

He finally looks up.

And she sees everything in his face laid bare, his mask for once completely gone. It hits her like she’s just stepped into an icy tub. The sorrow. The relief. The rage, white-hot and still burning behind his eyes. The guilt that sinks deep into his bones. The despair. And something worse: a kind of hollowness behind it all, as though part of him had died with Cazador and hadn’t come back.

She doesn’t have the strength to ask what he’s feeling. She doesn't think she wants to know.

So instead, Anacra just pulls him to her.

It’s not graceful. They collapse into each other, wounded and shaking and clumsy. Her arms wrap around his blood-soaked body as his bury into hers. His breath hitches. Then hers. Then both.

And then they’re crying.

No words. No explanations. Just the sound of two people falling apart together.

They hold each other through the ruins of everything.

- - -

Anacra is out in seconds.

Whatever enchantments lingered in those cursed manacles, whatever visions Cazador forced into her mind, they drained her completely. Her body had endured, but her soul had been wrung dry.

So Astarion carries her.

She’s weightless in his arms, her head resting against his chest, curls damp with sweat and blood. He can feel her shallow breaths against his collarbone, each one a fragile thread holding her to this world. His own limbs tremble from exhaustion and pain, but he doesn’t stop.

He only sets her down once, briefly, at the top of the stairs leading from the dungeon, where the six remaining spawn wait. His siblings. Not allies. Not family. Just...survivors. Creatures with a shared scar he’s hated for a long time now. Specifically Petras.

Their conversation is terse, bitter. The spawn argue among themselves about what should be done with the seven thousand souls still trapped in the wake of the broken ritual. Astarion barely listens. He doesn’t care what they choose. Mercy or chaos, freedom or death, it’s not his burden anymore.

All that matters now is Anacra.

He lifts her again and slips into the night.

It takes him time to get to the de Solstice manor. The streets are flooded with confusion, emergency responders crowding the wreckage of the hospital. The worst of the storm has passed, now only a steady drizzle slicking the cobblestones, but the damage is still done. Buildings are broken. People are lost. Magic still hums darkly in the air like smoke after a fire.

Astarion curses under his breath and turns away from the manor. No comfort would be found there. Not tonight.

Instead, he heads toward the Harper safehouse Jaheira once showed him, tucked behind ivy-covered gates and hidden enchantments. He stumbles a bit as he walks, refusing help, refusing even to breathe deeply until he knows she’s safe.

Only when Anacra is tucked into a cot, wrapped in clean linens and watched by the Harper wardings…only then does he sit beside her.

Only then does he allow his hands to shake.

Only then does he let himself feel.

- - -

A day’s ride from the city, atop a wind-bitten cliffside, lies the Solstice family graveyard.

It’s quiet here. The kind of quiet that wraps around grief like a shroud. The waves crash far below, muffled by the height. Fireflies drift lazily between the grass, and the last gold of sunlight slants through the trees.

Anacra sits at the edge of it all, her black dress torn and streaked with dirt. She hasn’t spoken since they arrived. Hasn’t needed to. The grief is too loud. 

Beneath the willow tree are the names she’s always known and always will:

Celeste de Solstice

Joahan de Solstice

Solren de Solstice

And now, freshly etched, joined by a bouquet of limp lilies:

Rayenne de Solstice

Her aunt. Her betrayer. Her protector. Her blood.

Anacra’s throat aches from crying, but the tears have dried for now. Her face is still swollen, her hands clenched. She feels empty in a new, cold way, as if someone has scooped out the last pieces of hope and left nothing but bones and memory.

Footsteps approach behind her.

“I’m sorry, Anacra,” comes Riptide’s voice. His tone is raw, tight at the edges. He isn’t crying, but his voice trembles with something close.

She doesn’t turn to look at him.

“She was your charge,” she murmurs. “You were there. You went into the room with her when she left with Cazador’s servant—right before she was “captured”. What happened, Riptide? What did she say? What did she do ?”

Finally, she faces him, her eyes glassy but sharp. Demanding. Desperate.

He hesitates. Not because he’s hiding something, but because he doesn’t know .

“I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “She spoke with that spawn, Dufay. Something about a pre-existing deal she’d made with Cazador. It was vague, but… there were references to a ritual. But I don’t think she ever knew you were meant to be part of it. Not in the end. She seemed... scared. But resigned.”

Anacra swallows hard, the air slicing her throat.

“I wish I had more answers,” he adds quietly. “I truly do.”

But the silence that follows is heavy with too many things unsaid.

She turns her gaze back to the headstones, but the dam inside her breaks anyway. The tears spill over again, quiet, fast, and uncontrollable. A soft, broken sob escapes before she can bite it down.

Riptide gently places a hand on her shoulder.

“The only thing I know for certain,” he says, his voice firm now, “is that she loved you. Whatever choices she made, however twisted or wrong they may have been, she made them to protect you. To protect the house. That doesn’t make it right, but…it was never hate. It was never betrayal for its own sake.”

Anacra closes her eyes.

She doesn’t know what to believe. But at this moment, she at least knows what she wants.

And he’s waiting at the bottom of the hill in a black suit, neat white curls, and a patience she’s never seen him possess before.

- - -

“I’m not sure how to do any of this,” Anacra whispers.

She and Astarion stand on the balcony of the de Solstice manor. The stars are out in full force, scattered across a velvet sky, and the city below has gone quiet. Construction on the hospital has stopped for the night; scaffolding and stacks of white marble casting long shadows under the moonlight.

That’s what Anacra is looking at: the mess, the unfinished pieces, the weight of what remains undone.

But Astarion is looking at her.

She’s backlit by starlight, her silhouette soft, silver catching in the strands of her hair. There’s a crease between her brows, something fragile tugging at her expression. He knows that look. Doubt. Pressure. Fear.

“You’ll be alright, darling,” he says softly, the endearment slipping easily from his lips.

Astarion has been glowing, truly glowing, in the weeks since Cazador's death. Something in him is lighter, uncoiled, like he’s finally learned how to breathe. He flirts still, of course, but there’s a sweetness to it now. Less armor, more offering. Anacra swears she even caught him humming to himself just the other morning, barefoot in the library with a book in one hand and a glass of blood in the other.

“You say that,” she replies, turning to look up at him, “but I don’t know how to run a house. I don’t even know where to start. My aunt’s gone. My brother’s gone. It’s just…me.”

He tilts his head, studying her in the moonlight like she’s the most beautiful mystery he’s ever seen.

“You’ve been doing a fine job so far, love,” he murmurs.

Then he steps closer, his hands finding her waist with the ease of someone who’s wanted to touch her all day. He draws her in gently, grounding her in the space between his arms.

She tries to hold onto her worries. but they slip like sand through her fingers when he looks at her like that. And she smiles. A true, loving smile.

The house isn’t fully restored, not yet. The coffers are still recovering. Nobles still whisper and scheme at the edges, trying to bleed the de Solstice name dry. But, strangely, some of the worst offenders have recently vanished. Astarion, of course, claims complete ignorance. 

She almost doesn’t care. Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like they’re winning .

“Besides, you’re not alone, darling,” he purrs in her ear, cupping her face in a way that makes her laugh. “I’m here. I’ll always be here, my love.”

His hands cup her cheek, and she leans into his touch instinctively, a small laugh slipping from her lips. He kisses her then, slow and steady, like a vow whispered against her mouth. She returns it with equal softness, her hands slipping around his back, holding him like a promise.

And for a moment, the future feels less terrifying.

They stay like that, wrapped in each other beneath the stars, the sound of distant waves and far-off laughter drifting up from the city. Somewhere behind them, the manor stands tall. Wounded, yes, but still standing. Still theirs .

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she says into the hollow of his throat.

“Neither do I,” he replies. “But I know this…we’ve both survived too much to settle for surviving. We deserve to live. To build something that lasts .”

She lifts her head, eyes meeting his.

There’s silence then, but it’s not empty. It’s full of potential. Of shared breath and hearts. Of the promise of mornings to come, of letters and policy and scandal and laughter. Of a home rebuilt, not just in stone, but in them .

And when they kiss again, it tastes like something beginning.

Chapter Text

Two Years Later

The stained glass casts soft rainbows across the spacious suite, bathing everything in gentle, prismatic light. When Anacra glances out the tall windows, she’s greeted by a view of golden hills, waves of wheat rippling in the last breeze of day.

The sun hovers just above the horizon, casting everything in a golden blush. It makes the world seem warmer, softer, especially the man seated beside her.

Astarion lounges with a book in hand, its worn title in Elvish. He’d offered to teach her once, but she’d waved him off, always too busy lately with House business.

Which is why weekends like this, far from courtrooms and whispers, are so precious.

“Love?” Anacra’s voice is sweet as she rests a hand on his shoulder, standing behind his chair.

“Hm? Yes, my sweet?” he replies, voice velvet-smooth as always.

“Are you ever going to propose?”

The page turns halfway before Astarion freezes. He looks up slowly, a little wide-eyed.

“I beg your pardon?”

Anacra laughs, delighted at catching her ever-composed lover off guard. “Oh, hush.” She leans in to press a kiss to his temple, fingers brushing back his curls. “I’m only teasing. Though, I wouldn’t mind it someday. Obviously.”

Astarion scoffs in amusement. “And why don’t you propose, darling?”

“Hm. A fantastic idea. I’ll start ring shopping immediately,” she teases with a smile that reaches her eyes.

She leans down to kiss his cheek, but before she can retreat, he pulls her in and kisses her properly.

She melts into it, as she always does.

Soon, she’s in his lap, the world falling away.

When they part, it’s just long enough for Astarion to murmur, “Imagine telling me two years ago that I’d be in love and voluntarily monogamous.”

Anacra rolls her eyes and kisses him again, arms sliding around his shoulders. Her movements make her intent clear.

It’s been too long. Too long since they’ve had quiet, uninterrupted hours with no summons at the door, no urgent letters to respond to. Just each other. And she’s going to take full advantage of that.

By the time they make it to the bed, the sky is dark and their clothes are still, annoyingly, in place.

“Turn around,” Astarion breathes into her ear between kisses, both of them already breathless.

She obeys without hesitation.

He undoes her corset with practiced hands as she pulls off her skirts. Soon, she’s left in only a thin undershirt and panties, breath hitching as she straddles his lap again.

Astarion’s smirk deepens when he feels how wet she already is.

“Oh, stop it,” she laughs, reaching down to palm the obvious hardness pressing against his trousers. “As if you’re not just as eager.”

Her hand wraps around his cock through the fabric, giving a playful squeeze that steals a gasp from his lips, one she cuts off with a kiss.

His fingers fumble with his waistband, and she whispers, “This off too,” tugging at his shirt before trailing kisses down his throat. Clothes come off in a flurry. She sheds the rest of hers too, the room dim and warm around them.

They pause, taking each other in.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this sight…” Astarion murmurs, hands roaming from her waist to her chest. His touch makes her shiver, her eyes fluttering shut. He sighs appreciatively. “These must be the best tits even I’ve ever seen.”

They trade slow, sensual kisses until he rolls a thumb over a sensitive nipple, drawing a gasp from her lips. He grins, devilish, and starts to move on top of her. but she places a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back.

He yields without question, reclining against the pillows as she kneels between his legs.

Astarion holds her hair back, eyes dark and wanting. Anacra gives him a knowing grin before trailing her fingers down, caressing just behind his testicles where she knows he’s most sensitive.

“Anacra…” he breathes, already getting needy.

She taunts him, tracing his length with her nails, swirling a finger over the bead of pre-cum at his tip.

“Stop teasing me, you…”

“No, go on. Say it.” Her smile is wicked as she tightens her grip.

“You bitch ,” he growls, head falling back, and the sound makes her ache with satisfaction.

“Relax,” she whispers after giggling. Then she takes him into her mouth.

She starts slow, tongue tracing him, savoring the way he twitches in her mouth. His hand tightens in her hair.

“Oh fuck ,” he groans.

She tries to take him fully, pushing her limits like always, and finds a rhythm that has him gasping.

She checks on him, always mindful, always watchful. There had been a time when moments like these were fragile, when old pain would bubble up and stop everything.

But tonight, he looks like bliss incarnate. Still, she lifts her head, both for breath and to double check on him.

She’s met with Astarion pulling her into a fierce, hungry kiss. A new shot of electricity shoots down her stomach when he moans at the taste of himself on her lips.

After some more kisses, Astarion flips her onto her back, and Anacra laughs in delight.

He trails kisses down her chest, nipping at her nipple until she’s panting, back arching. When he pulls away to give the other attention, one hand tweaks the now sensitive peak while the other holds her steady, making her squirm. On just their first time Astarion had figured out quickly how this makes her fall apart for him.

“Astarion—Oh, Astarion —” she gasps, her hand slipping between her thighs in desperation.

He catches her wrist. “No. Not yet,” he whispers, face hovering close. “I’m going to make you pay for teasing me earlier. Understood?”

She nods, heart pounding. Gods, he’s too good at this.

He kisses down her body and settles between her thighs. She braces herself for his tongue, but he teases her with kisses along her inner thighs instead that quickly turn to hickies, sending jolts of tense pleasure through her.

“You can bite,” she gasps and he doesn’t even hesitate.

She cries out as his fangs pierce her, the pain mingling with pleasure in a dizzying rush. Her fingers curl in his hair as he feeds.

When she begins to weaken, she taps his arm, and he withdraws, licking the wound clean, eyes shining, and moaning a sound of utter content.

“Astarion, please ,” she begs, breathless. “I need you inside of me.”

Astarion chuckles and finally whispers: “I suppose you’ve been good enough. As you wish, my darling.”

His mouth is on her in a second, tongue and fingers working her to the edge. She cries out, head thrown back, body trembling as pleasure crashes through her.

Only when she’s shaking does he finally stop, his fingers sliding out slowly.

“Gods, I’m going to fuck you so hard, Ana.”

She moans his name as he moves over her, the cold of his undead skin familiar but still startling.

He enters her in one smooth motion, and even after all this time, she isn’t used to his size.

No one could ever fill her like he does, the stretch of it setting her nerves on fire.

“Always so tight…” he groans, and she clenches in response, drawing a hiss from his lips.

He begins to move, the rhythm fast and focused. Her nails rake down his back as she struggles to catch her breath enough to cry out his name over and over.

When she tries to meet his thrusts, he stills her hips, laughing softly. “No, darling. Relax. Allow me,” he says, voice low.

But it’s not his body that undoes her this time, it’s his words.

“Perfect around me.”

“Just for me, aren’t you?”

“Look at you, my beautiful thing. So perfect.”

“You wanted me all night. Now look at you, already shaking.”

And then, the one that shatters her:

“Be good for me. Take it. That’s it—just like that.”

She cries out, orgasm hitting her hard, her body arching beneath him.

Astarion doesn’t let up, fingers finding her clit, other hand pressing gently on her lower belly. She sobs his name, overwhelmed.

“Ah—I’m going to finish—” he moans.

“No—please—I want you in my mouth,” she begs. “Down my throat—please—”

He stops, stunned for half a heartbeat, then obeys. He pulls out and quickly moves over her, guiding his cock into her mouth.

He’s rougher this time, and she welcomes it, letting him use her as he chases his release.

It only takes a few moments before he spills down her throat.

He tries to pull back, but she holds him there, swallowing everything with choked moans.

Only when he gently taps her shoulder does she let him go, his overstimulated nerves trembling from the intensity of their closeness.

But it's only a breath before they’re wrapped in each other again, this time not in hunger, but in reverence.

- - -

Their passion quiets into something softer, something sacred. They sink into the stillness together, limbs tangled, heartbeats syncing, breath warming the space between them.

“I love you,” Astarion murmurs into her hair.

“I love you, too, Astarion,” she breathes back, and it's not just truth, it’s a vow.

He kisses the crown of her head with a tenderness he once thought lost to him. She snuggles closer, anchoring him to the world he never thought he'd survive long enough to deserve.

Silence stretches, golden and calm.

“I wish I’d met you sooner,” Anacra whispers, regret at the edge of her voice.

“I used to wish the same,” Astarion says softly. He sighs and pulls her a little closer to him. “But if I had, I don’t think I would have been ready for you.”

She closes her eyes, breathing him in.

“No,” she agrees, a smile in her voice. “But we’re ready now.”

And for the first time in centuries, finally free of pain and misery, he believes in a future.

“Did you ever think we’d get this?” he asks.

Anacra hums, stroking his hair, her voice soft.

“No,” she admits. “But that’s what makes it sacred, isn’t it? Not because a god handed it to us, but because…we survived long enough to have it.”

He nods. And as he pulls her close, burying his face against his home, he finally understands:

He wasn’t just saved.

He fought long enough to be saved.

And this—this love, this life, this ordinary magic—is his eternity. 

He earned it.