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random-introverted-blog · 9 months

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His Star - His Queen [Chapter 5 - A Lesson in Submission]

The first of many...

Summary: Perhaps you push your defiance a bit too far. Perhaps it would have been wiser to be more tactful with your behavior.

Perhaps this was only a matter of time.

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Want the uncut/uncensored version? - Read it on AO3

Warning/Advisories: -Noncon elements - A ripped nightdress and noncon roaming hands on bare skin (He warned you in Chapter 1)

HI TUMBLR, THIS IS FOR YOU: The graphic scene was cut from this version because I'm not comfortable having an SA scene left hanging on my blog. If you want to read the GRAPHIC, UNCENSORED AND UNCUT SCENE - the link to the AO3 version is above.

-Emotional manipulation

-Forced pleasure

-Generally creepy dialogue (chapter 4 ramped up to 11)

-You fro up and have a relatively realistic response to being assaulted

-There's a party happening down there and you're fiancé isn't letting you participate

A/N: Sorry guys, I'm sure there's other people who have written and posted something like this on tumblr before but that ain't for me. But I worked like a dog to get this chapter written and edited. It's as good as I can get without tearing my hair out [Thank you, bestie for putting up with me, Astarion ain't even your mans]

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

For the rest of the walk, you couldn't help but notice the curious stares you were catching from the servants and patrolling guards. Though the latter seemed less perplexed, the former looked between you and the Ascendant like you had two heads and noodles for hair. Worse, some of them seemed... jealous.

If you could tell there people to have some self respect, you would make a formal announcement where ever the Ascendant and his puppets make them. But at least for now, you need to try to behave.

Even the sound of the word makes your skin crawl.

When you reach the door to what you assume is Orchid Hall, a swirling darkness appears behind you before rapidly becoming a person. "Forgive the intrusion, your Almighty—"

"I said no interruptions, Ballar." Astarion bites, glaring at the tall and lanky elf man.

Ballar, hands clasped behind his back, bows his head. "I know better than to do so without reason, my Godking."

"Godking?" You echo, glaring at the Ascendant. "You're more conceited than I thought, and that's saying something."

His gaze hardens, firm. "You are still learning, it is only your first day. And I do not wish to discipline you on your first day, pet." He warns in a tone that is the farthest from your Astarion that you've heard. "An apology will suffice as suitable recompense this time." Straightening his posture and lifting his chin.

Oh, so that's a button for him. Is it because you're in front of people, or does he not like being called out on his bullshit? If he expects you to actually seek forgiveness, then you suppose the both of you are in for a surprise.

The Ascendant studies your expression and seems to realize you have no intention of indulging him. With a deep groan bordering on a growl, he looks away. "Much as I love you and your strength of will, there is a time to exert it and a time to submit to your husband-to-be. And it seems to be a lesson I will need to have with you sooner rather than later."

He turns to Malacai, his arm raised in a familiar gesture that reaches above his navel. "Take my fiancé inside and guide her along until I return." And just like that, he steps away with the tall elf, who simply acknowledges you with a respectful "Lady Ancunín" before following close behind his master.

"My lady, if I may," Malacai's mellow, velvety smooth voice says to grab your attention. For a brief moment you feel concern but whatever "lesson" he has in mind, but you let it go for now and turn to drag yourself through the doors. Precise and perfectly timed, Malacai opens and holds the door for you and flows smoothly into step behind you.

Until you come to an abrupt stop, and he immediately stops behind you.

For a moment, you're left bewildered and unsure how to interpret this. Some well armored guards in fancy armor stationed in the corners, sure. A long row of men and woman, of somewhat varying ages. None of them seem even close to their elderly years, but you also weren't very sure about how other races aged. Also, no gnomes. Or dwarfs. Halflings seemed to be the fewest in number. Elves, half-elves, tieflings, and humans made up the combined majority with some half orcs and dragonborns in between.

"Would my lady like an explanation of the task set before her?" Malacai asks beside you, his hands clasped behind his straightened back after you've had time to assess the row of people.

"Yes. Please." You nod once, not moving your eyes from the row, feeling mildly self conscious as they stare at you with half stifled confusion.

Malacai steps into your field of view but not in front of it. "Of course, my lady. His Almighty Majesty has gathered these offerings to be selected and chosen for your esteemed service. He would like you to personally choose a number of them, if it would please you."

Your eyes knit together. "Please me?" You query.

"If you deem the matter unsuitable or beneath you, His Majesty will respect your wishes and handle the matter himself."

"Now wait just a tick!" says a raised voice from the line and a quick scan of them quickly reveals a human, possibly in her mid thirties with light colored hair and wearing a broach of some kind. "I was told the sovereign himself would pick the servants, not some nobody prissy!" She glares at you, her words seemingly rallying some of the others to her cause...

The response surprises the both of you, and you're perfectly fine agreeing with them and taking your leave. Malacai is stunned, though - and anger flashes in his eyes. "You dare speak of—!"

"Yeah, who let the tramp trudge through the door?" Another woman sneers, some taking a threatening step or two in your direction.

"Look, I'm just—" But like Malacai, they're not interested in what you have to say. They want their sovereign and they're getting very loud about it.

And everything that follows occurs in a blur, leaving no time for a response. In a fit of rage, the woman flings her broach towards you. The pin connects with your cheek, piercing the skin. You instinctively flinch and reach for it, warm blood trickling down your face in a thin stream. The broach then tumbles to the floor, making a sharp clattering sound.

In an instant, the shadows swiftly converge in front of you from the dim corners of the room, swirling and twirling in a mesmerizing dance. Suddenly, they burst open, resembling a plume of smoke after an explosion. Gradually, the shadows recede, cascading like a heavy blanket, steadily taking the form of a humanoid figure, mirroring Him with its imposing stature that towered over the room and the presence of large, jagged wings. The cacophony of screams and cries emanates from the furious crowd, creating a dissonant symphony of fear.

The atmosphere was charged with tension, but as the creature surveyed the scene, it became clear that there was no genuine danger. The shadows slowly peeled back, unveiling the visage of a relatively normal, though gorgeous elf, with pale skin and a crown of curly white hair.

Unconcerned about the once angry mob, he diverts his attention to you, his grip on your chin steady as he meticulously observes every aspect of your face. He narrows his eyes and huffs through his nose upon assessing only the one scratch. With a silent command, he raises his hand, and the shadows immediately obey, darkening until his palm becomes an inky abyss. He then places it softly against your cheek.

Biting cold pierces through the air in front of you, like tiny needles pricking at your skin. The faint scent of winter frost drifts from his shadow shrouded hand, followed soon by subtle warmth as his magic seals the slight break, like a gentle caress. "Which one?" He asks no one specifically, as if searching for an answer that only the silence can provide.

Lacking any hesitation, the others shove the woman to the front, paying no mind to her feeble protests. Astarion doesn't look up right away. Instead, he slowly released his hand and carefully studied his work. The darkness slowly retreats from his palm, and he gently massages the area where the cut once was with his bare thumb.

At last he turns to the silent row of servants, and the woman in particular. "You dare to lay a finger upon the one who is destined to share my throne? How quaint." Astarion's sneer is filled with disdain, steadfastly holding his ground before you, almost protectively. The fury evident in his eyes.

The woman's face became a canvas of realization and horror as she desperately shook her head, attempting to retreat. Once more, Astarion raises his hand, and inky tendrils of shadow emerge, wrapping tightly around her and forcefully dragging her closer. "Oh no," he sneers, a malicious glint in his eyes, "you disgusting little worm, you're going nowhere." The threads coil around her, their grip tightening as she's forced to her knees before him.

Astarion's eyes meet yours as he turns to you, his hand reaching out to take yours, coaxing you to stand by his side. "Think of this as another chance for me to teach you something, darling." He steps aside, gently guiding you until you stand directly in front of her.

So she's kneeling before you.

"Now. Look upon this creature. What do you see?" The Ascendant asks, slowly circling behind the woman.

"Astarion—"

"Answer." He interjects sharply, bringing his open hand up and closing it. The woman winces as the dark strands around her constrict.

Despite your desire to save or spare the woman, make him stop or even just not take part in this, you begrudgingly accept you have to play along for now. You exhale deeply and look her over. Her eyes, red and swollen, were filled with tears that cascaded down her face and dripped off her jawline. She's sniveling, her shoulders shaking and voice quivering. Her breaths come in unsteady gasps, a sign she's teetering on the edge of a hysterical outburst.

It's a trick question. The real question is how much you really want to play his game? "I see a woman who didn't—"

"Wrong." The Ascendant scolds firmly, his reprimanding tone interrupting you as he leisurely strolls back to your side. "Before you kneels an insect. A pest. A creature fit only to serve however we desire."

"She didn't know who I was, Astarion," you argue, your voice filled with defiance. Turning to face him, a flicker of amusement dances across his face, challenging your statement. "Or rather, who you insist I am," you risked correcting, folding your arms resolutely over your chest.

A subtle change comes over Astarion as a hint of darkness flashes in Astarion's eyes, followed by a frustrated scoff. "Your denial will do you no favors, pet. Best you understand and accept your new life now and save us both the pain." There's something about the way he lowers his voice and the intensity in his eyes quells any retorts or defiance you could lash back with.

Clearly, he discerns your reaction from your facial expression and appears pleased with your compliance. He smooths his jacket and delicately grips your shoulders, redirecting you towards the woman. "Your natural inclination is to think of this creature empathetically. But you don't think twice if a fly crosses your ear one time too many." The Ascendant continues, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "Now, if the fly had been a mere nuisance, perhaps it could be ignored. But if it had bitten you? Harmed you...?"

"Please..." you mutter, your voice tinged with pleading. A sinking feeling manifests in your gut, already hating where this was going.

"Say the word, my consort." Astarion urges softly, his hands drifting to encircle his arms around your waist.

The urge in your blood knows exactly what it is being called to do. What's being offered. It would much rather your own hands be the ones tearing the wings off this insect. Gouging its pretty teary eyes from those fragile sockets. But you close your eyes, letting the world fade away as you concentrate on the calming rhythm of your breaths. Ironically, the smell of bergamot, rosemary, and the aroma of a frosty winter evening ground you. You find yourself instinctively leaning into him somewhat, seeking more of the comfort to hold the urge at bay.

When your eyes open, a tear or two rolls down your cheek, their journey ending on the dark blue sleeve of the Ascendant's tailcoat, creating small wet spots. The warmth of his breath flushes your ear as he sighs against it and he adjusts his arms to hold your back snug against his chest. "It was difficult for your old self too, the first couple of times..." He murmurs sympathetically, his lips brushing against your temple in a soft kiss. "Ballar."

At the sound of the uttered name, the tall elf materializes beside the two of you. "Very well, your Almighty Majesty." The elf nods with a respectful bow of his back before approaching the woman. His grip is firm as he clasps her arm tightly. Suddenly, a plume of dark smoke envelops them, obscuring their forms from sight. The air carries a faint, acrid scent as they vanish into the mysterious smoke, leaving you with an uneasy feeling. Whatever silent command was issued, maybe you don't want to know.

Astarion remains close to you for the rest of the... selection thing. There's an incident where one of the halfling girls tries begging you to choose her, which almost kicks off another dramatic mob, but Astarion is quick to shut it down.

Calling it uncomfortable would be an understatement. When you ask if there is a criteria or whatnot to follow, he almost literally dismisses you with a "pfft." It is only when he comprehends the seriousness of your question that he adds with a more compassionate tone, "whatever pleases you, my dear... but not all of them - there will be a wider selection after the festival."

Near the end you notice a young tiefling girl. Grey skinned with the shortest horns you'd ever seen. Astarion had indicated an interest in moving on from this, and his hand on your shoulder reminded you of it. But he didn't stop you from wandering over to her.

You recognized the look in her dark, fiery eyes. Not just desperation. Purpose. It wasn't anything you could put your finger on as you held each other's gaze. For better or worse, you were curious about what she felt so strongly about that led her here. Come to think of it, she wasn't involved in any of the earlier chaos. "What's your name?" You had asked the other ten or fewer this question as well, as you weren't fond of the idea that they'd be nameless creatures in your service.

Plus, you could tell Astarion disliked you were asking, and that was a nice incentive.

She held her head high and awkwardly held her arms behind her back. "Elowen, Lady Ancunín."

Behind you, the vampire lord let out an annoyed huff, clearly bothered by both your question and what you assumed was an improper way of addressing of you. You didn't care. "I'd welcome you if you'd like to accept the offer." You say, your attempt at a smile faltering.

Surprisingly, this is the first one you've talked to that reacts almost sympathetically. As if noticing how forced your gesture really is. Maybe even recognizing the dissonance between your genuine desires and everything that surrounds you. "It would be an honor to serve you... my lady." Elowen bows and quickly corrects herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of the vampire and Steward behind you.

"That will do for now, my sweet." Astarion's voice sounded from behind and gently tugged you away and encircled an arm around your waist. He snapped his fingers with his other hand and servants entered the room. They move with silent understanding. "Considering everything," he adds once you're near the door, "you did well."

Part of you is reminded of all his "lessons," including the one he hinted at earlier about the importance of submission. Dread finds a home in the pit of your stomach, making it heavy and uneasy. You don't really care to learn the intricacies of ruling, being his queen, or any of it. It won't matter in the end. Not when you get free of this place and return to your world, where the warmth and safety of your friends will make you feel whole again. And you will get free.

...won't you?

________________

Day in, day out, it was almost the same. Sometimes he'd tutor you himself, other times it was Malacai. There had been a considerable focus on etiquette and presenting oneself, which you could only assume had to do with this festival you had heard so much talk about.

They assured you that your confinement to this wing of the palace was not permanent. Once your engagement to the godking had been announced, there would be less need to hide you away. But for now, the Ascendant wanted your presence kept quiet.

You had seen little of the servants you picked several days ago. Malacai said they were undergoing a strict training regimen in preparing to serve a ruling sovereign.

An endless parade of seamstresses and shoemakers had trotted their way through the doors of the southwest wing. You weren't one to be dolled up or wear silly dresses to begin with, and this just deepened the feeling. But the Ascendant wanted you in a special outfit for the engagement and you were still beholden to what he wanted.

Not for long, you told yourself every day. This would not be your forever.

The seamstresses and shoemakers worked tirelessly and with no complaint at how difficult you made their lives, though the Ascendant had sat in a few times and tried to encourage you to be less resistant to some suggestions, though he was more involved in the design of your dress for the festival.

As for your interactions with him? They were surprisingly tame. At most, he would hug you. Press a sweet, lingering kiss to your cheek or peck your lips. Maybe at one point he kissed your neck, and his hands wandered. But never for long and never too far. Just enough, you were certain it was on his mind.

If you felt uncomfortable or instinctive recoiled, he wouldn't stop you from drawing away. He would smile a little, as if to say "you just need time" and that would be that.

You hadn't even slept in the same bed yet. He went to the royal bedchamber, and you tucked yourself into yours. It was a nightly routine for him to visit you before bed. Occasionally, your exchanges were filled with playful banter, but at other times, they took a confrontational turn or revolved around his plans for you. And he would always kiss you goodnight. Never on the lips. Like a fragile little princess.

"May I offer you more reading material, my beloved?" He asks upon entering your room, noticing you in your nightgown, an open book propped up on your knees.

To your surprise, he was there, and a part of you couldn't help but be taken aback. "Tomorrow is the big day. I thought you'd be too busy tonight." You comment with curiosity and reach for the glass of water on your bedside table.

The Ascendant huffs a soft laugh, the sound escaping like a gentle breeze. "Not too busy for you, no," he stated, a smile evident in his voice.

You sip your water, taking him in. Simple clothes. He seldom wears them, not even at this hour. It brings to mind his old camp clothes, though they appear less tattered. His black shirt clung tightly to his body, accentuating the contours of his sculpted chest. He wore dark brown pants so tight that they seemed to be painted on, leaving little room for comfort. As you set down your glass, the gentle tapping of rain against the window fills the room, setting the ideal mood for reading. "The bookcase in here is paltry to begin with."

He pauses, and the silence hangs heavy in the room, reverberating off the walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse his focused gaze, carefully assessing the size of the small bookcase. The scent of aged paper and polished wood lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance. "Hmm," he muses, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue. "Agreed. Would you like me to remedy it?" His question hangs in the air as he redirects his gaze back to you, waiting for your response.

It catches you off guard, although it shouldn't. "I want nothing from you." You mutter quietly, not interested in a verbal confrontation at this hour. "Unless it's letting me go home." Absentmindedly turning the page of your book, you caught a whiff of the musty scent of old pages.

It comes as no surprise that the suggestion causes the Ascendant to bristle with indignation. "You are home, pet." His firm reply echoes exactly as you anticipated.

He reaches across and effortlessly plucks the book from your grip, flinging it to the other end of the bed. Without missing a beat, his hand tenderly moves to hold your face. "Perhaps it's time you've learnt what home feels like." His voice dipped low and sultry, sending a shiver down your spine, as if velvet caressed your ears.

Unable to think clearly, your mind is consumed by confusion as you struggle to understand his intentions. Searching his crimson eyes for a hint of the intent behind his words.

It dawns on you a second too late and your body becomes rigid and dread crashes over you like a tidal wave. "Lay back and hold still."

Right from the start, you find yourself wrestling against his orders, determined to regain control of your body. In the blink of an eye, he's on the bed, asserting his control as he positions himself on top of you, straddling your legs and keeping them trapped beneath him.

The overwhelming task of regaining control of your limbs leaves no space in your mind for insults. With a gentle yet firm grip, he tears your gown open, his lips finding their way to your jawline, leaving a trail of sweet kisses and teasing bites. Lowering his mouth along your neck, he senses the rapid throb of your pulse, a reflection of your panic. "Your scent is even more alluring than your other self," he whispers against your skin, his fangs appearing much sharper than your Astarion's, delicately grazing over your pulse. "I've waited over a century for you, my love... To find you..."

Before you have time to process any of what he just said, the ordinarily sharp, frigid piercing feeling now just feels like two tiny daggers of ice melting deep into your neck. But then the sharp sting of his fangs gives way, and you're left with a strangely soothing sensation that defies explanation. A calming tingle that dances across your senses and defies logic. It leaves you gasping for air, but the soothing caress of his hand in your hair seems to be an attempt to reassure you as he drinks deeply. Meanwhile, you begin to wiggle your toes, feeling a tingling sensation as you strive for control over your legs.

With a contented groan, he indulges in one last sip from you before withdrawing and gently lapping at your weeping wound until it ceases to yield any more to his palate. The scent of your blood lingers, mingling with the heady aroma of bergamot and rosemary and frost, his increasingly familiar presence all creating a bewildering blend to your senses. "Exquisite... Even better, I could scarcely believe it a possibility." The Ascendant muses quietly as his hands explore the curves and contours of your vulnerable body, tracing every line and curve with a mix of curiosity and desire.

He hastily grabs his shirt, yanking it over his head as impatience fuels his movements. He swiftly pulls off his pants in two motions. Just then, you feel a tingling sensation as your right leg awakens, granting you unrestricted movement.

You jab your foot at his chest, and you can feel the strength and power in his grip as he effortlessly catches it. With a firm yet gentle grip, his hand closes around your ankle, arching an eyebrow in intrigue and amusement. "Impressive..." The Ascendant remarks. "I may need to use stronger charms on you already."

As his words resonated in the air, he appeared to be contemplating them aloud, while his fingertips traced the smooth surface of the gold and silver band that snugly encircled your ankle, emphasizing the sense of captivity within this elegant prison. You question if his attention on it is to underscore your status as his possession or if he's simply delighting in the knowledge that you belong to him.

Until you find a way out of here. You have to find a way out...

Releasing your foot, he deftly flicks his wrist, conjuring a shadowy tether that extends from the shackle and secures itself to the bedpost.

"Don't fight this, my treasure." The Ascendant murmurs. With a slow, deliberate movement, he delicately hooks his knee under your left leg, guiding your body to open itself wider to him, causing a shiver to cascade through your body. "Once you experience how pleasurable submission to me can be, you'll hardly fathom you resisted me at all." His words, laced with a velvety purr, penetrate your senses, capturing your attention completely.

The moment your hands regain their freedom, they shoot forward, eager to rake your nails across his bare chest. Yet, his reflexes outmatch yours as he quickly seizes your wrists, forcefully pinning them beside your head. "The Astarion I know and love values consent above all else." You finally hiss behind your teeth, hating the way your voice wavers. "He didn't need to force me down like this..."

"And he will never make you feel the way I can," smirks the Ascendant, his voice oozing with confidence and a seductive undertone.

"Now relax, little love..." Your senses ignite as a rigid, pulsating sensation grazes over your sensitive nub...

And he teaches you a lesson you won't be so merciful to forget...

______________________

You nuzzle closer to the warmth rather than open your eyes, encouraged by the soothing touch of fingers in your hair. Gods, you could lay here forever. When was the last time you slept this well? With...

The thought dies off, and you tentatively peel your eyes open. Dread sits in your stomach as you realize your position. Practically laying on top of a naked Ascendant. "Good morning, darling." He purrs, his fingers gently tangling in your hair, before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I've had a warm bathe prepared, ready for you to immerse your beautifully bare skin whenever you desire."

As you move, you realize just how sorely your body aches. There's a dull pain between your legs and your cheeks flush faintly remembering how... immense he felt last night. Mercifully, he pretends not to notice as you fall limp against him. An around you didn't realize was around your back tightens some as you press closer, his hand and fingers stroking gentle patterns on the smooth expanse of your skin. "You said something last night," your voice hoarse and dry as you speak, "about waiting over a century." Turning your head on his sculpted chest to meet his scarlet eyes.

Behind his lips, a subtle hum escapes, reminiscent of soft laughter, as he tilts his head to one side. "Well, your other self didn't abandon me yesterday." He murmurs, petting your hair. "Finding you, acquiring the means to reach you, to bring you here. It didn't all happen in an evening." Something about his choice of words unsettles you. More than just finding out the Other You died one hundred and fifty years ago.

His fingers lifting your chin, guiding your lips to his. You don't fight it; you know better. Not now. Not when you're naked in the same bed as him. Vulnerable... "As much as I'd like to remain here, savoring the morning of our first lovemaking with you, there is much to be done before the festival tonight."

"That's what you think it was?" The words fall off your tongue before you can think better of them.

The Ascendant pulls back just enough to see both your eyes clearly, almost searching them. "What else could it be?" The words soft, warm. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing. You don't fail to note the serrated teeth laced along them. He's daring you to challenge him...

Silence is your only answer. And that seems enough to satisfy Astarion's quiet annoyance with you.

He presses a tender, lingering kiss to your lips and you reciprocate despite the knot it creates in your gut. Only risking to remember your Astarion after he's pulled away and carefully guided you off of him to slip out from the covers and leave the bed. Curiously, he wanders over to an armoire you've never touched and when he opens it you see tailcoats, doublets, jackets, dressy shirts with ruffled sleeves and collars... He's been keeping a spare change of clothes in your room the whole time. "I'm going to bathe separately, otherwise nothing will get done..." The Ascendant explains to your unspoken confusion. With that, he dresses himself, regards you with a brief smile and leaves the room.

Just like that, you're alone with yourself. Nearly overwhelmed with a deep loathing for your own flesh. Every fibre of your being recoils in disgust. The repulsion extends beyond the surface, rooted deep within your very core. The weight of despair anchors you to the bed, but a desperate urgency propels you towards the shower, disregarding the searing ache between your legs.

Frantically, your hands vigorously scrub at your body, the harsh friction against your skin amplifying the turmoil in your stomach. The memories of last night assault your mind relentlessly, like a relentless storm. The room feels suffocating, the air thick with the scent of regret and desperation. How could you have surrendered so easily? Disappointment settles upon you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as you reflect on your lack of determination. Does your Astarion mean nothing to you? Doubt seeps into your thoughts, questioning your own abilities, your own worth. Is it because deep down, unknown to you, you fear you can't escape on your own?

Will he even want you back after this? Gods, it's like you barely put up a fight against the bastard. All he had to do was climb on top of you and...

Abruptly, you jerk your head over the side of the bath, the sensation of nausea overwhelming you as your stomach empties, contents spilling onto the pristine white tile.

Then you allowed yourself to go completely slack, feeling the edge dig into your ribs you as you fell onto it. Warm tears cascaded down your cheeks, blending with the fluid pooling on the floor.

The first sob wracks your body not long after...

__________

Whatever happened to a good pair of pants? Whose idea was it that all the fancy ladies should wear dresses most of the time? And why in the hells are you considered a fancy lady? You never wanted to be such a thing. A nice, quiet ocean side home was probably the closest to "fancy" you'd ever choose for yourself.

But that's the keyword, isn't it? You didn't choose this for yourself...

Soft hands touch yours, causing you to retract your hand swiftly. "Leave my nails out of this." You hiss at whichever servant girl made the attempt on your fingers.

Through an instinctive wince at the comb in your hair, your eyes catch the sight of dark and fiery eyes as the tiefling kneels beside you. "Forgive me, Lady Ancunín. I promise I will only tidy them up." She smiles, and it almost feels comforting. True to her word, she simply files them down to a clean, round shape. Cleaning the dirt from underneath. She was one of the few servants from the ones you chose in the room with you. Astarion chose the others with precision, carefully assigning them the duty of taking care of you and making sure you were prepared for the evening. And as they incessantly fussed over, brushed, and prodded you, they were steadily making you want to gouge your eyes out in frustration.

However, this tiefling and the one or two others you picked that were here with you carried themselves differently, and it wasn't just because they were untrained. As they tended to you, you were fairly certain that Malacai's critical observations of their work had nothing to do with it.

"Elowen, isn't it?" You ask, free from Astarion's constant shadow to treat these poor girls like people. As you speak, a gentle breeze brushes your skin from the open window, carrying with it the scent of blooming flowers. The knowledge of your time spent with Malacai reassures you he wasn't one who would readily report you for such minor infractions.

Meeting your gaze, the tiefling's eyes held a subtle surprise. At a loss for words, she quickly recovered and graced you with yet another lovely smile. "Thank you." The words are sincere from your heart.

Something passes fleetingly across her face, and even in that momentary glimpse, you recognize what it is.

Understanding. How wonderful it feels to be seen as a person.

Not long afterward, the servants finish your hair - and you can feel the weightless, silky strands falling into place with gentle waves. The custom designed, elegant blue dress, with its delicate silver swirls and leaf embroidery on the shoulders and collar, fell just short of your ankles, exuding an air of grace.

Deep brown ankle-high shoes, crafted with precision, expertly concealed the shackle from prying eyes. Although you couldn't discern their exact material, their undeniable comfort put a smile on your face. These shoes were the only item you took the time to specify to the shoemaker, and they certainly didn't disappoint. Honestly, you did like these.

To your relief, Astarion did not insist that the seamstress design a low neckline for the gown. It revealed only the slightest tease of your cleavage. Sure, it was because he wanted to be the only one who delighted in the view of your body, visually and... otherwise. But even that you were thankful for somewhat. Anything to escape the feeling of being a prized possession on exhibition.

A feeling that intensifies as you follow Malacai through the door to exit the wing of the palace you've been imprisoned in. You thought the stares in there were bad, but this was even worse. And shameless. Whispers, like delicate feathers, brush against your ears. Carrying snippets of conversations, questioning your identity, as you pass by servants and what you assumed were guests as your personal steward escorted you through unfamiliar halls. The walls themselves emanate a feeling of grandeur tinged with a touch of uneasiness. The cool marble floors beneath your feet seem to magnify the restlessness in the atmosphere.

Two towering guards, adorned in gleaming silver armor, stand resolutely on either side of a magnificent pair of double doors. Painted in pristine white and adorned with intricate gold trim. As you and Malacai draw near, the guards gracefully swing the doors open, revealing a grand entrance, their movement accompanied by a faint creaking sound. A rush of cool air, tinged with a hint of polished brass, mahogany and fresh baked goods, greets you as you step into the grand foyer beyond. However, amidst their dutiful actions, the guards' piercing gazes linger on you, filled with a mix of curiosity and intrigue.

Suddenly, you're amidst a throng of people, the sounds of chatter and footsteps filling the air, with Malacai constantly by your side, ushering you towards a grand-looking dais or platform. The Ascendant, dressed in a white ensemble with subtle blue undertones to complement your dress, stands with regal poise before you, their tailcoat embellished with ornate golden clasps and perfectly tailored dress pants. Overlooking his guests. He exudes an ethereal charm, radiating a sense of divinity , his very being demanding reverence and awe from all who have the privilege to lay eyes on him.

Observing your approach, he instinctively takes two steps down and extends his hand towards you. The touch of his hand sends a warm sensation through your palm as he tenderly interlocks your fingers and gently draws you towards him, a playful smile on his lips. "Beautiful as always, my treasure." The Ascendant croons.

Your body tenses up as you catch sight of the two thrones behind him, trying to resist the urge to shudder.

"All silence for the Godking's address!" A thunderous voice demands, echoing with power and authority, resonating through the grand hall. The sheer force of it makes your heart skip a beat, but you steel yourself, resisting the temptation to flinch or recoil.

All eyes obediently fixate on the Ascendant as commanded, but yours cannot help but wander from face to face. Equally curious about you as servants were in the halls. Still, this is your first time being exposed to others outside of the palace staff and Ascendant, and despite feeling petrified by the sudden spotlight, you refuse to lose sight of what truly matters. Gathering and understanding what you can of this nightmarish realm you're trapped in.

First you note the tables spread throughout the grand hall with glasses, plates, pitchers, and kegs. The next thing she noticed were the enormous, intricately designed doors, swung open wide to reveal the sprawling entrance hall of the palace.

"Don't worry," he reassures, his voice resonating with authority, the rich aroma of festival spiced wine and delicacies filling the air. "I only require a moment of your time before you can all return to indulging in the festivities." As he scanned the crowd, his eyes revealed his lack of concern, not bothering to commit any of the faces to memory.

"As you all are aware, this past century has proven trying on us. The loss of our cherished, beloved queen was felt all across the sword coast." Your feet itch to run, bolt down the steps, off the dais, through the doors and into the streets. Anywhere has to be better than here. "As you all are aware, this past century has proven trying on us. The profound loss of our cherished, beloved queen was felt deeply across the sword coast." Your restless feet itch to run, to bolt down the grand steps, off the elevated dais, through the ornate doors and into the bustling streets. The anticipation of escape lingers, whispering that anywhere would be preferable to remaining in this stifling place.

The presence of Malacai and the armored guards at the bottom of the dais, reminiscent of royal armor, created a sense of foreboding, emphasizing the how you wouldn't get very far. Your escape would be halted before it even began. "Many have offered themselves before me. Believing they could hold themselves worthy of her throne. Of her place at my side. Yet they all fell embarrassingly short. Women, men, dragonborns, devils... None could compare to my Queen-Consort."

You don't want to be here. You don't want to hear this. Childish as it sounds, you want to plug your fingers in your ears. Or better yet, wake up from this nightmare.

"Nobility of Baldur's Gate! Assembly of highborn men and women, venerable lords, and esteemed ladies of the realm!" The spacious hall reverberates with the resounding voice of the Ascendant, their words echoing with a sense of divine authority. Your gaze wanders and lands upon a procession of musicians, their elegant garments mirroring the grandeur of a royal court. In their grips, they hold instruments of music—trumpets that gleam like polished gold, reflecting the splendor of the occasion, and others of fine make—poised to announce the forthcoming proclamation. Your expression transforms, an eyebrow raising in a silent display of inquiry. Sure, he mentioned this, but you can't recall him explicitly confirming it with you.

"On this, the dawn of The Festival of Gratitude," he proclaims with a voice imbued with the gravity of his high station, summoning from all present a silent veneration that arrested the air itself. It was incredible the power he seemingly held over the masses... It frightened you. "May you find yourselves gratified by the announcement and esteemed company of my betrothed! My queen-to-be, in her resplendent grace!"

His arm enveloped your waist, drawing you in snugly against his side as the trumpets sounded. The touch is electric, sending a shiver down your spine, as you sense the power of his command and the depth of his devotion in his gaze.

And like that, the moment you've been dreading is upon you. Officially and formally engaged to this pale imitation of the man you love. The enormous throne room reverberated with the sound of cheers and applause, as all eyes turned to study you - some filled with surprise, others with intrigue, and some a mix of both.

Their Queen-to-be.

The Ascendant flashes a short wave and a nod before he turns to you. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he said as he pulled you into a tight embrace, both arms encircling your waist now. "It's unfortunate we couldn't find the time for a brief speech from you as well. But there will be ample opportunities for that later," he continued. Again, he's talking at you. Your input seemed neither expected nor desired.

Frankly, you may be too shocked to offer any. Every day you wake up and tell yourself this isn't your new normal. Mastering all these ridiculous, fanciful manners and etiquette, learning how to conduct yourself as a "sovereign" doesn't matter. Because you're not staying here. You're going to get out. Find your Astarion, bury yourself in his comforting arms, and never let go again.

But every day, it feels less like a dream and more like an inescapable reality. The idea of escape seemed impossibly far away, like a distant star in the night sky. Your star... Your Astarion. Just the memory alone was enough to make your chest ache, as if it had been crushed into countless pieces. Between last night... and your formal engagement to the Vampire Ascendant, the monster wearing Astarion's face,

The feeling of hopelessness seeped in, dampening your once fiery desire for freedom.

His lips meet yours in a slow and gentle kiss, exuding tenderness and a faint sense of longing as your lips reciprocate mechanically. Not to say his kisses aren't intoxicating, but he wasn't your Astarion, and he'd never be...

When he pulls away, his hand on your back guides to toward the back of the dais...

To the thrones.

Trying to resist, you dig your feet in, but he effortlessly and subtly directs you towards the one on your left.

With a delighted smile that betrays a hint of determination, his grasp on your hand is gentle yet stern, coaxing you downwards. You struggle against it, but he eventually overpowers your resistance, and he manages to firmly seat you on the wretched thing that's haunted your nightmares. Reluctantly, you find yourself settled onto the grandiose throne, the velvet cushion enveloping you.

You feel your ankle snap to the base of the extravagant seat, a sickening sensation that you've grown accustomed to. Seated on the throne that has given you sleepless nights, he gazes at you with admiration. His smile hasn't left his face once. A contented grin played on his lips, evidence of his satisfaction with how well his plans for you were progressing.

The Ascendant lets out a soft, satisfied sigh as he settles onto his grand throne, the rich velvet cushions embracing his body. Beside you, the throne's extravagant carvings mesmerize your eyes with their intricate details, a testament to the majesty of his power. His strong arms rest leisurely on the throne's armrests, providing a sense of power and dominance. As he reaches out and gently clasps his hand around yours, you feel a warmth spreading through your fingertips, a tender connection formed. His thumb caresses the back of your hand, creating a delicate, soothing sensation that tingles across your skin.

And then you sit there. Together on a pair of overly fancy golden and velvet seats. Watching everyone else have some semblance of fun without you. A few guests cast their gaze up toward the two of you. The Ascendant and you find a sort of comfortable silence, observing the goings on of this festival together. You take note that his thumb finds interest with your ring finger, tracing it with his own digits. "Perhaps we can treat ourselves to this foolishness tomorrow, if you'd like," he suggests, his words laced with thoughtfulness, though he avoids meeting your eyes.

You struggle in vain to free your foot, feeling the frustration building with each futile attempt. Chained to the throne through invisible magic. "Behave yourself or we won't go at all." The Ascendant scolds quietly, indicating he saw your fruitless attempt to escape. You release a reluctant groan and recline in your seat, your free hand restlessly twiddling in your lap.

With little else to do, you try to study the variety of faces in the crowded throne room. Maybe you'll ask the Ascendant for a book if he's going to confine you to this stupid, overdone chair. The bustling crowd fades into the background as your heart races upon seeing those familiar crimson eyes. Do you dare trust yourself? Are you already teetering on the edge of madness, consumed by desperation? Would you even want him to see you like this? After what happened last night...?

The more you observe, the more you find yourself accepting the penetrating gaze of those eyes and the man behind them.

Gods above... Your Astarion...

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

A/N: We're probably jumping back to him next chapter, guys. It's actually been a kinda long time In-Story since we've seen him and Aric.

Once again, I thank everyone for their support and enjoyment of this little adventure of ours and I can't wait to share the rest with you. It's mindblowing to me and I'm still not over it.

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random-introverted-blog · 7 months

Text

His Star - His Queen [Chapter 9 - Think Twice]

Impero tibi

Summary: You're scheming away. But so is the Ascendant. Are you sure you can get out of the palace before his plans come to fruition? Can you outscheme a godking? What will you do when you're free? Can you leave things as they are? How ambitious are you?

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Warnings/Advisories: Sneaky sneak, eavesdropping, creepy dialogue, creepy vampire godking man. Graphic depictions of violence, blood, abuse of power by persons of authority, police(?) brutality, manipulative behavior

A/N: Can I just say that I love each and every reader? I love your comments, I love your kudos/likes, I love seeing you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. I love your patience and support.

I love you guys/guys/pals. Thanks for being here and thanks for being you.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

If you had to be honest with yourself, there was a slight uneasiness that had begun to creep in. Something about waking up by yourself for the first time in a tenday may have that effect. Or was it having breakfast alone? Maybe it was that Malacai was also nowhere to be found, and a new steward watched over your shadow, tracking your every movement. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise, because this steward was much easier to evade and lose in your quick strides through the palace corridors.

But having to seek out Astarion actively was the final straw that broke your nerves. You'd never let that be known, though. No. Too much was riding on your ability to remain convincingly composed outwardly. All you needed was to ask him about the promise he made to you last night about letting you leave the palace.

You finally discovered him in his grand study, hidden deep amidst towering shelves and cluttered tables of books. Ballar faithfully stood by his side, while Malacai supported a small stack of tomes. Astarion, engrossed in a volume, flipped through its pages with an air of intensity. The atmosphere was thick with the musty scent of aged paper.

Realizing they hadn't noticed you, you quickly sought refuge behind the nearest shelf, straining your ears to catch their conversation. "...and the location merely needs to be of sufficient size," Astarion mumbled, his attention absorbed by the text in front of him. "The necessary energies will be supplied as per our agreement."

With caution, Malacai was the first to respond, his words carefully chosen as he asked, "and you're certain we cannot utilize—"

"Yes." Astarion cuts him off, his voice sharp and clipped, the sound echoing in the dimly lit room. Abruptly, he slams the worn book shut with his one hand, the heavy thud reverberating through the air. A sense of tension lingers, as if the room itself holds its breath. "The sacrament is much less demanding than the ceremony," he explained, his words laced with emphasis. "Performing the ceremony on a vampire is already daunting, but on a mortal? It will require an immense amount of dark magic to ensure its success." A low, rumbling growl that simmered beneath his tone marked his insistence. "And a success, it must be."

Ballar simply cleared his throat. "Theoretically, the success of the sacrament will ensure, if not aid, that the ceremony does not overwhelm—"

Astarion suddenly interrupts again, his fingers grazing the spines of the books as he blindly adds the worn tome in his hand to the ever-growing pile in Malacai's arms. The sound of rustling pages fills the air as he swiftly selects another book from the shelf. "The ceremony can only take place after the wedding and coronation. But the fulfillment of my bargain with the god and goddess, however, is nearly upon us," he asserts. His eyes dart across the shelves, searching for the next tome. "Ballar, fetch the vessel from the vault and bring it, along with the tomes, to my chambers. I will not be disturbed." With a flick of his wrist, he plucks one last book from the shelf, its tattered cover landing with a soft thud atop the towering heap, causing it to sway precariously in Malacai's arms.

Reverently, Ballar bows his back, his body curving gracefully like a bending branch in a perfect display of deference. "As you wish, master. And what of the final specimens we've procured for the ceremony? Would you still like to examine them yourself?" He murmurs, his voice filled with respect. He dares not lift his eyes, his gaze fixated on the ground.

"Of course, you old twit." Astarion scoffs, his voice barely audible as he mutters beneath his breath. His words, laced with frustration, echo softly against the towering shelves and high ceilings of the study. "The contract drafted up for the ceremony is quite clear in its specifications, and I will not settle for anything less than perfection when the time finally comes. It requires three and a half, and while I have two, I still need the others and the final few of the three-thousand five hundred."

As you observe the Ascendant's gaze shifting towards the shelf behind which you're hiding, a surge of urgency propels you to action. Focusing on moving swiftly and soundlessly, you take cautious steps, your shoes barely making a whisper against the floor. Only when you finally reach safety, do you allow yourself a moment to pause and reflect, the echoes of what you just overheard lingering in your mind.

A sacrament and a ceremony, as they called it. Far as you could understand, and it was hard to discern their purpose. Dark magic is an essential component for both, requiring a significant amount. And The Sacrament is fast approaching, whereas the Ceremony is still some time away.

For now, you can let the ceremony slip from your mind and postpone your discussion with the Ascendant about leaving the palace a bit longer. Whatever this sacrament is about, it fills you with a sinking, ominous feeling, like an anchor pulling you down into murky waters. Something is not quite right.

Perhaps this mysterious "vessel" can shed some light on the situation. They said it was in the vault, right? Can you creep down there before Ballar retrieves it? "Lady Ancunín!" the servant called out, her voice echoing through the grand hall.

Your body tenses, ready to sprint away, until the sound of the voice brings relief and familiarity. "Elowen!" You sigh in relief, a smile spreading across your face as you turn to face her. "I thought you were Crimlilly," you mutter under your breath, eyes scanning the room for any sign of her.

"Criella." The tiefling murmurs the correction, her voice carrying a soft undertone. Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she catches the faint flicker of distaste you struggle to conceal for the other tiefling.

As she closes the distance, you nonchalantly shrug your shoulders. "She's another one of Astarion's ever loyal steward spawn to watch my every move. What can I say?" Muttering quietly, a hint of annoyance in your voice.

As if summoned, you hear a voice down the hall, causing Elowen's attention to snap over her shoulder abruptly. "Lady Ancunín, please! Enough of this!" the steward makes her urgent plea of the steward, laden with desperation. In that fleeting moment, a twinge of remorse washes over you. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

In a rush, you swiftly motion over your shoulder, prompting Elowen to follow, and you both dart away in the opposite direction from Crimsy's reach. "Come on, there's something I need to see," you whisper urgently. Your footsteps reverberate through the labyrinthine palace halls as you navigate through the maze-like corridors, making quick decisions at every turn.

Elowen effortlessly matches your stride, her steps light and sure. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers permeates the air as you traverse the palace, though you've gotten so used to it by now that it almost slips your notice entirely. Her familiarity with the layout is evident in the way she confidently navigates the twists and turns. A result of her training under Malacai. And for a tenday, you were confined to one wing while she had the freedom to explore. It was during this time that she developed a mental map of the place, surpassing your own.

As you walk, the silence is broken only by the faint murmur of distant voices and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. With few servants in sight, Elowen leans in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "What's this about? Did you find Ancunín to ask his permission to leave?" Her words hang in the air, a mix of curiosity and concern.

"I did find him, but..." you say, barely audible above the soft shuffle of your shared footsteps. Frustration laces your words, evident in the way your eyebrows furrow. "Look, I overheard snippets of conversation, snippets that left me restless. I need to see for myself." A sense of impatience tinged with curiosity emanates from your words. Your eyes dart around, searching for a hint to the location of where to turn next. "Do you have any idea where the vault is?"

Upon hearing the question, Elowen grasps your arm, pulling you away from your admittedly aimless wandering and steers you towards the right direction. "We passed it once with Malacai," she mutters. "It's usually concealed by powerful magic. Why, what did you hear?" Now, she takes charge, leading the way with certainty.

"Something they called a sacrament."

"They?"

"Malacai, Ballar and Astarion." You both pause your conversation as you pass two servants dusting a suit of armor. As you exchange a pleasant smile, they acknowledge you with a respectful "mi'lady," their voice filled with deference.

What a surprise, you still hold a deep, unyielding hatred towards it.

Elowen guides you into a secluded corner, far removed from the opulent glow of the chandeliers that have adorned your path thus far. Here, a narrow spiral staircase beckons, descending into an unexplored part of the palace. The air grows colder, sending shivers down your spine, and a sense of unwelcoming fills the darkness. The sound of your footsteps echoes against the crates that lay scattered about, their contents unknown, atop cracked cobblestone floors. Finally, when you both are certain of your solitude, Elowen turns to you and asks, "What lies within the vault, then?"

Navigating the cluttered corridors is considerably easy despite the dress you find yourself trapped in. Those tailors and whatnot can't come fast enough... for once. Despite distractions, you remain fully engaged in the task. "Astarion asked Ballar to bring him something he called the vessel. I'm hoping if I find it, it might help explain at least some of what this sacrament is."

"Allow me to be of assistance then!" A familiar voice echoed through the air, bouncing off the walls and filling the space around you.

In front of you, a figure materializes in a radiant blue light, casting an ethereal glow. His skin glistens with a metallic silver sheen, and his eyes emit a captivating blue luminescence. Struggling to place him, you barely recognize the familiar smile. "Gale?" you cautiously inquire, your gaze filled with apprehension.

"Dekarios, the god of ambition," his voice resonates with a hint of superiority, filling the space. "To address me by my mortal name requires a degree of familiarity with one another we have yet to attain." Well, he certainly overcomplicates his sentences like the Gale you know. "Right this way then." With a grand gesture, he beckons you to follow, his hand cutting through the air. You blink once or twice as Dekarios defies gravity, his body effortlessly levitating above the ground. His legs, rendered obsolete, remain motionless as he glides across the floor with an air of nonchalance, his robes billowing behind him. Can't he just use his damn legs?

"To where?" You ask, your eyes warily studying the strange 'god'. Elowen stands beside you, her posture mirroring your unease. With hesitant steps, the two of you cautiously trail behind him, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls.

"You wish to see The Heart, do you not?" Replies Dekarios with a playful tone.

Now that just changes the question from 'what is the vessel' to 'what is the heart'.

The sound of footsteps reverberates through the frigid corridors, echoing ominously. Ballar and Malacai's voices can be heard in the distance, faint but unmistakable. Elowen's eyes meet yours, reflecting her fear and determination as she tries her damndest not to panic. You can almost taste the metallic tang of anxiety lingering in the air. The flickering torchlight casts eerie shadows on the walls, heightening the tension. Time is of the essence; reaching the vault seems impossible, knowing that those two are also making their way there as well. "Stall them, no matter what it takes."

When she hears your order, her eyes widen, and she instinctively looks down the corridor. "You can't be serious?" she said, her tone incredulous at what you're asking of her.

"Honestly, I wish I was," you whisper, your voice barely touching the damp walls, mingling with the faint sound of distant footsteps echoing through the corridors like the ticking of an old clock. "But if they catch me snooping around down here..." You trail off, leaving the unanswered question to linger in the shadows.

Elowen, with her keen perception, effortlessly catches on with every word you say. Parts of the palace remained off-limits to you, albeit not much of it anymore. The guest quarters, the great hall, dungeons, throne room, unless the Ascendant is with you... and, of course, the service corridors that sprawl underneath the palace. Where you happen to be standing. "Gods, fine, just be sure you find answers." She insists, her voice tinged with a mix of determination and anxiety. Muttering nervous curses under her breath, she vanishes around the corner, retracing your steps back in the direction you came from.

Not-Gale's voice broke the silence, a reminder of his presence. "Shall we continue?" He asked, redirecting your attention to him before he continues to hover away.

Casting a single backward glance, you press on with your self-imposed mission. But you can't resist stealing a glimpse of Gale—Dekarios, you correct yourself. You had assumed only last night that he had passed away in this world, with his human lifespan. What a way to be proven wrong. "Tell me," you ask, curiosity tingling in your voice, "how much do you know about me?"

"Oh, a great deal," he says, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the cold stone walls. "Where you're from, how Astarion found you, your plans to escape..." His words hang in the air, sending a shiver down your spine, spoken so casually like his accusation at the end of his sentence wouldn't make your hair stand on end.

But then a soft chuckle escapes his lips, breaking the tension. "You need not fret, Tav," he reassures, his voice dripping with amusement. "I am rather curious where your ambitions will lead," he admits, his tone almost conspiratorial. The sound of distant footsteps echoes in the distance, creating a sense of urgency. How long could Elowen really delay them? Could she give you enough time? "So much so, in fact, that I am willing to offer you this assistance freely," he offers generously, folding his arms behind his back. "Now, come along. The Heart isn't much farther," he urges, his voice fading slightly as he rounds a corner to your right.

As you continue to trail behind his shadow, you can't help but let your curiosity unleash a torrent of questions. "What do you mean you 'want to see where my ambitions lead'? It's whatever gets me out of here."

"Yes, and then what?" Not-Gale asks, his voice filled with a hint of intrigue. You furrow your eyebrows, ready to ask him to elaborate before he does so anyway. "That is what fascinates me," he continued, his voice low and mesmerizing. Not-Gale's eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint as he spoke and glanced over his shoulder at you. His finger wagging in the air, as if tracing invisible threads. "Astarion's reach stretches far and wide, like an endless expanse of starlit sky. But can you escape beyond it before he snatches you back?" The question hung in the air, unanswered. The distant sound of footsteps echoed from the stone corridors behind you, a reminder of the ever-present danger creeping closer to you.

"Can you be certain of where you choose to hide?" The space seemed to grow colder, as if a gust of wind had swept through, carrying a chilling uncertainty with it. "And what of the resistance? Will you join their valiant efforts to bring an end to his tyrannical reign as godking?" His voice grew firmer, resolute. The weight of responsibility settled upon your shoulders, a heavy burden that threatened to crush your spirit. The taste of anxiety lingered on your tongue, mixed with the bitter tang of betrayal.

How could you solve another world's problems when the ones in your own threaten you still? The Absolute, the tadpoles, your friends' dilemmas and the Bhaal temple. "Your Astarion is desperate to retrieve you, to bring you back to your world. But can either of you be sure that my Astarion, the Ascendant, won't simply take you again?" A shiver ran down your spine, as if a cold hand had grazed the back of your neck. The room felt smaller, suffocating, as the walls seemed to close in around you.

"I am curious indeed as I watch and wait to see what moves you make on this intricate lanceboard. And as I observe, I can't help but consider the calculated moves your husband-to-be is making, the ones he has already made, ensuring that you remain exactly where you are." Not-Gale concluded, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. As your gaze fell to your feet, you couldn't help but wonder what fate had in store, both for you and for the world beyond these walls.

If the Ascendant has his way, he'll be the one deciding for you.

At the end of his long-winded response, his choice of words incites your focused mind and eyes to dig daggers into his back. "You know what he's planning? What the sacrament is?" With a hiss of frustration to your words, not ready to launch into how much he knows about your Astarion.

But he shows not even a shred of interest in your anger. "Indeed. He is keen to prevent a repeat of history, so to speak. You are very... dear to him. In ways I have not witnessed in him before." His words dance on the edge of his lips, as if he is lost in thought, before he regains his focus and directs his attention back to you. "But I have said enough. If you wish to unravel his intentions, you must rely on your own cunning." His words hang in the air, pregnant with possibility. Suddenly, he stops abruptly and pivots towards you. "We have arrived," he declares, extending his hand towards you, beckoning you to take it.

Uncertainty gives you pause as you take in your surroundings with a closer eye. The walls, bare and devoid of any doors, stand naked except for the occasional wooden post that supports the ceiling above. "The vault itself remains hidden nearby," Not-Gale nonchalantly explains, his voice carrying a calmness that only adds to your confusion. "We cannot enter through the door without the favor of Godking Astarion. And if we were to bypass his security using my divine power, he would be alerted to our intrusion. However, by reducing the distance of our teleportation, we can lengthen his response time, giving us ample opportunity to locate the heart for your visual observations."

As you try to make sense of his words, you can't help but feel a sense of unease creeping up your spine. The casualness with which Not-Gale carries themselves adds an extra layer of apprehension to this world.

He's so... lifeless. Mechanical.

How terribly did your alternate self fail your friends? Gale. Astarion... What next? Wyll turned on Karlach? Shadowheart killed Lae'zel...?

Shaking your head clear, you cautiously place your hand in the cool, unnaturally firm grip of Not-Gale. In a sudden burst of blue sparks and a sharp snap of his fingers, the world around you transforms. The air crackles with an electric energy, and the scent of which fills your nostrils. As your vision adjusts, you take in the ethereal blue glow emanating from Not-Gale's piercing eyes, and he holds your gaze until you tear your gaze away to survey wherever in the hells you are.

True to his word, you find yourselves in an expansive space that feels like a colossal treasure trove. Endless rows of shelves and display cases greet you. As far as the eye can see, rows upon rows of shelves and display cases stretch out, filled to the brim with an astonishing assortment of items. Glimmering weapons, gleaming armor, and ancient tomes beckoning your attention and... is that a set of tableware?

Not-Gale gracefully extended his arm, tracing a wide circle in the air with his fingertips, conjuring a swirling current of magic. The faint whisper of mystic energy lingered in the air. He gracefully turned, defying gravity as he floated above the ground, his legs unused. With a gentle drift, he began to move away, a faint whisper of enchantment trailing in his wake. His voice resonated with confidence, "Ah yes, right here then." Gesturing with a purposeful elegance towards a small case resting on a nearby table as he folded his arms behind his back once more. A picture of composed authority.

With a hint of uncertainty, you cautiously shifted your gaze between him and the glass display case before you carefully approach it. In it, you... you're not sure what you're looking at.

Resting on a red velvet cushion, molded to its shape, is a long, white gem. Like a rainbow, the colors gracefully glided along the surface, creating a wavelike motion. And it pulsed. The gem actually rhythmically pulsed... beat... like a heart. "This can't..."

"Indeed, it is." Not-Gale confirmed casually, his voice lifted with a hint of satisfaction. "This one," Not-Gale continued, his gaze fixed on the object in front of him, "is pure and the last known of its kind to be loose in mortal hands." His fingers delicately brushed the glass surface of the case. He paused, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It was not easy to obtain," he admitted, his tone tinged with a touch of pride, "less so when the others began their own investigations into our intentions." Not-Gale's eyes narrowed as he appeared to recall the challenges he had faced.

Not-Gale's brows knitted together, his voice growing colder. "But she," he sneered, "has meddled one too many times in the affairs of her betters." The room grew colder, as if a chill had settled in the atmosphere. "Perhaps if she'd have preferred an alternative, wished for others to come to her aid..." Not-Gale's voice trailed off, filled with a blend of menace and delight. "She would not have targeted my followers."

Amidst his boastful remarks and meandering speech, you momentarily find yourself disoriented, unsure of where to even begin with your questions. But you gather your thoughts, inhale deeply, and raise your gaze to meet his intense stare and he turns his head to lock his eyes with yours ."If this is the vessel. The heart. What's its purpose? What makes it so... disquieting that even the gods refuse to let it linger in mortal hands?"

Smiling gently, Not-Gale tilts his head at you. "When activated, it becomes a vessel, capable of containing the very essence of a deity, a tangible manifestation of their godhood that can be passed on to a lesser being." His gaze shifts momentarily, drawn towards the mesmerizing gem before returning to meet your gaze. "Once she returns to Baldur's Gate with the Shadowcarver, he will waste no time in summoning us to the sacrament. There are few Glyphblades left in existence, only one left of the Sharran variety that I know of. And with the scroll to guide his hand—"

"Watch yourself, wizard."

As you swiftly spun around, eerie shadows retreat from the figure of the pale elf. Each measured step he took towards you both seemed to exude an air of anticipation. "You'll spoil the surprise," he muttered, his voice laced with a dangerous undertone. Each word he spoke seemed to drip with an unsettling sense of dread, making her uneasy.

"Godking Ancunín, are you prepared to commence our discussions?" The silver skinned man questions, paying no mind to his earlier conversation with you or Astarion's simmering anger.

The Ascendant raises his hand, motioning for silence and demanding patience. "Once I have spoken with my betrothed, I will join you in my study." His response is firm, and only then does he shift his attention towards you. "Come here to me," He beckoned with a curl of his finger.

With no other option, you reluctantly comply and cautiously approach. Your eyes lock onto the tall elf, standing proudly, flanked by a dark-haired human - your royal Chamberlain. "Ballar, retrieve the vessel," Astarion commands firmly, his voice carrying a sense of authority. "Malacai, meet us in the Great Hall." He continues, his arm snaking around your waist, pulling you closer. There was something strangely comforting, yet unsettling, about his touch. He's not him. He's not your Astarion...

His eyes emit a soft, eerie red glow and shadows dance and twist around you, just as they have done in the past. The sensation is both familiar and unsettling, as if the very fabric of reality is being manipulated. Like the shadows themselves are mere marionettes, obediently dancing on strings to Astarion's malevolent song and content with the melody. Yet, amidst it all, you can't help but notice the absence of Elowen among the two spawn. It crosses your mind that they may have left her outside. Dekarios had mentioned something about needing Astarion's "favor" to gain entry, after all.

As the shadows recede from around you both, revealing the soft golden light that bathes the throne room, a faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers wafts through the air. Besides the palace guards stationed at their posts along the walls and by the entrances, the throne room is empty. With a lingering gaze, like a hawk surveying its prey, he studies you intently, leaving you uncertain of what emotions lie behind his inscrutable expression. With deliberate grace, he descends the steps of the dais, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath. Silently instructing you to follow, like an obedient puppy.

"My love, you have been quite unruly, haven't you?" Astarion scolds, his voice carrying a strict but tender tone as you stroll down the elegant, immaculate red carpet that leads to the thrones.

"Evading your steward, hardly touching your meal this morning," he continues, his footsteps hushed by the luxurious carpet as you draw near the exit to the throne room, the guards hastily opening the doors for you. His long, pale fingers ticking off each of your transgressions. One, two.

"Eavesdropping, yes, I knew you were in my library earlier," he adds as you step beyond the threshold and into the bustling halls beyond, his words laced with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. You feel a shiver run down your spine as you pass by a row of towering statues, their cold gazes seeming to follow your every move. Three.

"And now here you are, skulking about through areas of the palace that I explicitly forbid you from entering." He concludes, holding up four of his beautiful digits as he turns his head to you. All the goodwill you've painstakingly cultivated, the trust you've diligently earned, reduced to ruins in the span of a single morning.

You come to a sudden halt and pivot to fully face him. As you open your mouth to speak, your mind races to find the right words to salvage the situation. But before you can utter a single syllable, he abruptly interrupts your thoughts by raising his hand once more, signaling for you to be quiet. "Hush, darling," he interjects, and you can almost taste the frustration in Astarion's strict and firm voice. There is no aggression in his tone, just a hint of disappointment.

"From the moment I claimed you as mine, I knew that teaching you the joys of obedience and submission would be a delicate dance, an arduous and protracted endeavor. Today, while you're out, I want you to reflect on what you will say to explain yourself. And tonight, over dinner, you will answer to me." As he inclines his head towards you, his gaze scrutinizes your every reaction intently, as if studying every nuance.

Combined with the weight of his words, a chilling silence fills the air, leaving you stunned. The question lingers in your mind - is he truly still willing to let you leave? There must be a catch hidden in the depths of his intentions. A surge of tension tightens your muscles, causing your shoulders to ache with the strain.

Suddenly, like a burst of sunlight breaking through dark clouds, understanding floods your mind. "I'm not taking a small army with me into the city." You declare, your voice steady and unwavering. Your eyes narrow, meeting his gaze head-on. Even as you straighten your posture, standing tall despite his towering presence, a flicker of frustration dances across your skin. For all that Bhaal made of you, he couldn't have given you a set of legs a few inches longer?

"But of course," Astarion agreed, his voice smooth and velvety. He raised his hand in a sweeping gesture. The warm light from the enormous chandelier above danced in his playful, scarlet eyes. "Though I must insist you at least take Malacai and Crilla with you." The soft rustle of fabric from his new black and red jacket, to replace the one you ruined, followed his movement - as if emphasizing his point. "I can't have my precious queen wandering about without protection, and Malacai is your personal steward, after all," he added, his hand lingering in the air as if to underscore his statement.

His piercing crimson eyes, like two smoldering embers, soften, their intensity mellowing into a serene gaze. A gentle smile, like the curling petals of a blooming flower, graces his lips as he delicately cradles your cheek. You feel the warmth of his touch, like a soft breeze caressing your skin, and you feel the softness of his thumb, gliding along your skin, reminding you of silk. "You must return by dusk," he murmurs, his voice a melodic whisper that dances in the air. The scent of his breath, a faint hint of mint and musk, tickles your senses. "To prepare for supper," he continues, his words carrying a gentle urgency. "Malacai will ensure you remain on schedule."

A flicker of something dark passes through his once soft eyes, like storm clouds gathering in a moonless night sky. His smile, once warm and inviting, twists into something unsettling, revealing the sharp edges of his fangs, like hidden daggers. It's a warning, a silent command not to test the boundaries of his patience any further than you already have.

"Should you attempt to avoid your stewards as you have today," he warns, his voice dropping to a low growl, "I will personally collect you and bring you home." In that moment, you feel a shiver run down your spine, a blend of fear and curiosity. The atmosphere crackles with tension, a delicate balance between safety and danger.

Taking your silence as acknowledgement, you both resume your leisurely stroll through the grandiose palace, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. As you turn a corner, your eyes are drawn to the grandeur of the great hall that lies ahead. There, you spot Malacai, his tall figure separating from an intimate embrace with a short, silver-haired half-elf. Her long, braided hair cascades down her back, shimmering in the light.

Your heart skips a beat in anticipation, a rush of excitement coursing through your veins, until their gazes meet yours. "Your Almighty Majesty. Lady Ancunín," she greets with a respectful tone as she addresses you both, her soft voice carrying a hint of reverence. She delicately brushes a stray strand of hair away from her deep green eyes, which radiate warmth and kindness. You notice the roundness of her face and the mismatched shade of her eyes. It dawns on you, a realization that shatters your momentary fantasy - she couldn't possibly be who you thought. If she were somehow still alive, she would be an old woman by now.

"Cirrus. What a surprise." Astarion greets, lifting his arm casually to position it above the waist of his jacket, absentmindedly rubbing his fingers together.

Indeed, what a surprise. You've heard her name before. She's... in charge of summons to the palace or something like that, right? Sending for the tailors, the designers, all of those.

Malacai clears his throat with a hint of awkwardness and clasps his hands together. "Please accept my sincere apologies, your Majesty. I just found out we..." His gaze shifts away, almost sheepishly, "we're expecting."

Wait. A vampire spawn, and a mortal... a dhampir? "That's... wonderful, Malacai. Congratulations. To both of you." You speak with sincerity as a small smile forms on your lips.

"Indeed, such heartfelt congratulations are in order..." Murmurs Astarion faintly, unenthused. He studied the half-elf with a curious, lingering gaze, the slight furrow of the brow, the set of determined shoulders, a hint of resilience sparkling in those half-lidded eyes. Then his attention shifted, sweeping the immediate vicinity with a keen, predatory awareness. "Where's your apprentice, Malacai?"

"Here, your Almighty Majesty!" gasped out the tiefling, her words filled with awe and exhaustion as she suddenly appeared at your side. She doubled over, clutching her chest and struggling to breathe, even though she should couldn't possibly still need to.

"Criella. You're just in time." The dark-haired human greets stoically, as Cirrus and the other steward exchange a silent wave.

The soft brush of a hand on your arm brings your focus back to the Ascendant. "Remember what I said." He reminded, his tone firm. "I will see you at supper."

Elowen. You need to ask after Elowen. She has the sending stone...

But you can't risk asking after her. He'd gotten frustrated recently about how close you are to the cattle. Already, he has limited your encounters with the servants you carefully selected, and you have managed to prevent him from doing the same with Elowen by concealing her true significance to you. Already, he's reduced how often you see the servants you handpicked, and you've kept him from doing the same with Elowen by hiding how important she is to you. And by selling how happy you are with her efforts.

You find it repulsive to even pretend that you're fine with servants, but your options aren't exactly plentiful.

With his hand softly resting on your cheek, Astarion tenderly draws your lips to his, melding them together in a fleeting, delicate kiss. He tastes warm, metallic... sweet... an odd blend teases your mouth from his.

Then he simply lets you go and watches you step back toward Malacai and... you should really get her name right. It's not Crimsy. Definitely not Crimlily.

Casting a quick glance over your shoulder, Astarion catches your eye and responds with a reassuring smile. Silently urging you to continue without uttering a single word.

Beyond the palace doors, a carriage awaits, and the once lively courtyard festival now rests in silence, broken only by the occasional chirping of birds.

It could do with more green, you think. The expanse yearns for a touch of verdure, whispers your mind. A magnificent fountain, its waters dancing merrily into the air, standing proud as the heart of an expansive, emerald field. Surrounding this watery spectacle, a stone-cobbled roundabout provides a path for travelers to weave a circle of admiration as they arrive and depart from Ancunín Palace.

To you, it's too reminiscent of a large, empty street in the city in its current state.

Ignoring the confusion of your stewards when you opt to walk instead. Use your leg to explore the city, unlike a certain alternate version of your friend. Also, you're not sure if being in a carriage would help or harm the efforts of meeting with your Astarion and his new... acquaintances.

Thankfully, your dress is not overly fancy and the two vampire spawns somehow remain inconspicuous. Beyond the odd look from time to time, no one seems to realize who you are as you drift from shop to shop, place to place. Your face hasn't gotten around, it seems.

The sun's descent towards the horizon paints the sky with hues of gold, casting elongated shadows. Time is slipping away, and your patience wears thin. Venturing beyond the palace walls traversing the bustling city streets has exposed you to a plethora of unsettling sights that leave you questioning yourself. Your ambitions. The Ascendant has made effective use of the steel watch, instilling a sense of compliance within the denizens of the city. And not a single member of the Flaming Fist has crossed your path, either.

On one hand, the Godking's rule seems unyielding, following an "if it's not broke" approach. Yet, beneath the surface, there lingers a palpable fear, as if the slightest misstep could shatter the illusion of perfection, prompting desperate measures to mend what is deemed broken.

Ahead of you, you witness a petty thief swiftly severing the purse from a noblewoman's grasp. Sloppy work. The hasty act catches her attention instantly, and she lets out a piercing shriek, echoing through the crowded street. The shrill cry reverberates in your ears as it draws the attention of the nearby guards. They pounce on the hapless culprit like hungry vultures descending upon a decaying carcass. The commotion fills the air with a mix of urgency and suspense, as onlookers gasp and mutter in disbelief.

The thief, desperate to escape, darts into an adjacent alley, with the clamor of their pursuit echoing through the narrow walls.

Considering the crime, the small team of guards that pursued the thief appeared disproportionate, to say the least.

If you're going to break your cover, this is a meaningful approach to take.

Paying no mind to the insistent calls from Malacai and... Criella. That's her name. Right? You quicken your pace to catch up with the guards, their voices fading into the distance.

The guards have already tripped the thief on the ground by the time you get there. With a swift motion, the guards deliver at least one powerful kick, the sound of their boots colliding with the thief's body echoing through the air. A pungent mix of sweat and dirt permeates the scene. "What in the hells is going on here?" you intervene, summoning the authoritative presence you have been trained to possess.

One of the men abruptly turns to face you, his eyes piercing through the air, while the remaining members firmly restrain the thief. "You have the audacity to question the authority of the Howling Wolves?" he snarls, his voice laced with a mixture of arrogance and dominance. The burly figure, his beard wild and untamed, proudly puffs out his chest with a sense of authority, the clinking of his chain-mail echoing off the walls of the dark alleyway. "Then you must not be from around here, little lady. Our commands are enforced by the Godking of Faerun himself."

Regardless of whether or not you were the Ascendant's favorite doll, you'd have gladly faced this bastard head-on and twirled your daggers in his ribcage...

Who says you won't, anyway?

"I saw the crime. It does not compare to the punishment. Clap the bastard in irons, but kicking anyone while they're down is a low I will not tolerate."

"Listen here, you—"

"No," Boom's Criella's voice booms, echoing through the corridor as she finally catches up. The sound reverberates off the cold stone walls, commanding attention. "You listen." Her voice carries an air of authority, demanding respect.

From behind, you feel her presence, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The weight of her words settles upon you, like a heavy cloak draped over your shoulders. "Before you stands Godking Ancunín's betrothed," her voice resonates, echoing through the stillness. "The queen-to-be." Her declaration hangs in the air, a proclamation that cannot be ignored.

You won't lie. Witnessing the guards' momentarily crestfallen expressions fills you with immense delight. Perhaps being the Ascendant's queen has a perk or two.

"My lady..." the guard's voice quivers, his words falter and are abruptly choked, cut short. With swift and graceful movements, you react, your nimble footwork allowing you to sidestep deftly, out of the way. Avoiding the weight of his collapsing body, the sound of his gasping breaths mixes with the thud as he hits the ground. A pungent metallic scent fills the air as your gaze falls upon the arrow, lodged mercilessly in the back of his neck, the cold steel piercing through his chain mail.

Another arrow slices through the air, its trajectory from above unerring as it buries itself into the unsuspecting face of another guard. The nimble thief springs upwards, their movements quick and precise, as they swiftly wrap their arms around the burly guard's chin. The sound of a sickening crack reverberates through the air as the thief coldly snaps the guard's neck.

"Lady Ancu—!" cries out the tiefling behind you. As you swiftly pivot, your eyes capture the horrific sight of a stake piercing through her chest, blood oozing from the wound. Her once vibrant eyes lose their luster, glossing over with a vacant stare. A solitary tear trickles down her red cheek, glistening in the dim light. A raspy whisper escapes her trembling lips, "L...lady..." barely audible amidst the agony, as crimson liquid spills from her mouth, staining her chin. Gradually, she collapses to her knees, her body crumpling into a lifeless heap on her side,

A petite halfling, concealed behind Criella all along, swiftly pulls out the stake from her limp body. "You made it. Good." she remarks, her gaze fixed downwards as she gently pats the spawns pockets. The faint scent of fresh earth lingers, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. "Morning can provide you with all the necessary details." She says without so much as looking up, voice calm but tinged with weariness.

A hint of curiosity dances in your eyes, accompanied by an arch in your eyebrow. "Morning?"

"That'd be yours truly," the thief says behind you. In one swift and smooth motion, they flipped off their cowl, revealing a breathtaking half-elf with shimmering golden hair and striking blue eyes, standing just as short as you. "Aster says you can be trusted," she continues, her words flowing like a gentle breeze, unaware of how your heart skips in excitement.

Aster? They mean Astarion, right? He said that there was magic preventing others from recognizing him. Gods, you need to see him. Feel him. Remember him. Where is he? "He's proven invaluable to our cause thus far. We must guide you to a secure refuge before your Royal Steward catches wind of our presence. Once there, we can move you to where you'll be safest." Her words pour out in a rush. One of her gloved hands brushes off the dirt from her sleek, obsidian-black armor, paying particular attention to the well-worn shoulder-pads.

The halfling rummages through the spawn's pockets, retrieving something unseen. Her lips remain sealed, but her eyes brim with impatience as they lock onto yours. "But for everyone's sake, we can't risk giving you any hint of our destination," she says firmly as she plunges her hand into her robes, withdrawing a potion of some kind, and thrusts it into your hand.

Reading the label, you absentmindedly brush your thumb against it, leaving a faint smudge of ink. The scent of the potion wafts up, a subtle mix of herbs and spices tickling your nose. The label itself shows wear, with frayed edges from years of use, but the text is still legible. A sleep potion?

Your mind flashes back to yesterday. The slumberthorn vine toxin...

Oh no.

"I can't drink this," you say urgently, "blindfold me, deafen me, do whatever it takes, whatever you want - but you cannot put me to sleep."

While Morning takes a moment to ponder your words, the halfling lets out a groan of frustration. "It tastes as sweet as candy, princess, so just suck it down and swallow. I'm sure you're quite proficient."

"You don't get it, if I'm unconscious—"

"No, you don't get it," growls the halfling, her voice laced with a hint of irritation. Her strong, earthy brown gaze locks onto you, her eyes narrowing as she speaks. "You're in no position to make demands, princess."

As she speaks, her voice carries a subtle, mocking tone. She takes a step closer as she hisses, "Drink it or don't. One option is undeniably easier for you than the other."

Morning tries to intervene, raising her hands in a futile attempt to diffuse the tension and saying, "Spellsong, perhaps we should..." but her words trail off, throwing her hands up when her partner shoots her a scorching glare.

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself rolling your eyes this time at this halflings half-headedness.

"Please, it's not a demand, it's a warning," she pleaded desperately.

The halfling's dark chestnut eyes shimmer, as if capturing the essence of the weave, her delicate hands aglow with its energy. A melodic incantation escapes her lips, "Impero tibi!"

And in an instant, an overwhelming drowsiness drags you down into a deep slumber.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

A/N: The temptation to name this chapter Ambitions was great, but that would have entirely ruined the God Gale reveal.

Chapter 10 is already in the works. I'll keep you updated on how that's going on my blog. Thank you to everyone who patiently waits and reads every update to this story! I am BEYOND excited to post the next chapter. Like, might even make a custom t-shirt to celebrate it, I'm not even joking. I am so hyped.

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