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His Star - His Queen [Chapter 10 - Hunted / A Heart of Darkness and Shadow]

You were never His anyways...

Summary: You and Astarion are reunited at long last! Now all you have to do is reach the house with the mirror!

...What do you mean you're being hunted?

[This chapter is LONG. Just shy of 16,000 words. No one expects you to read it all in one sitting. Please, remember to drink water, hug a loved one, walk your pets, eat and live in between. Don't linger on the toilet for too long. Remember to take breaks. Ascendant, Spawn Astarion nor myself, are going anywhere <3 ]

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Warnings/Advisories: -Creepy/Obsessive Yandere TO THE MAX -Horror/Thriller vibes -Death -Action! -Blood

Spoilers below -Scarification/Torture

A/N: It's finally here. At long last. Sorry if I missed any warnings, I'll try and update/edit as I go from here on. I did the last of the editing while I was on vacation, before bed for 2-3 hours at a time. So if the editing quality drops near the end I do apologize. All I want is to create a story worth your time and patience.

Also, I'm not doing special edits like this for each chapter. But maybe special ones.

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

You abruptly jolt awake, a sudden lurch propelling you upwards as your hands scrape against a coarse, rough surface. The world around you quakes and rumbles, disorienting you as you struggle to find your bearings. As you struggle to sit up, you feel yourself slipping against the cold, hard surface beneath you.

Gradually, your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and you realize your surroundings are completely unfamiliar. You notice the faint aroma of damp earth, giving you the impression that you're possibly underground. Beyond some cluttered shelves and scattered furniture items, the room appears strangely bare, devoid of any personal touches or signs of life.

Underneath you lies a cold, hard stone slab you seem to have been placed upon. A table stands against the sturdy slate wall, with an assortment of enigmatic tools scattered haphazardly across its surface. Your attention is drawn to the sight of a man's back, hunched over the table. Next to you on the table, a rusty, worn, but serviceable knife. Its edges not the sharpest, but better than nothing.

The weight of the small weapon feels good as your hand silently grasps it. Your light feet swing over the edge of the slab to find the cold, damp floor. Whoever this is, wherever you are, you will find answers. Last time you fell unconscious against your will, the Ascendant appeared to investigate. If he hasn't yet, then he's up to something... or he, somehow, can't find you.

Or...

Grumbling to himself, the man continues to sift through the tools before him, brushing some aside and tossing others.

The ground trembled again, mimicking the powerful roar of thunder that usually accompanies a lightning strike. The intensity of the shake is so strong that you have to cling to the stone slab to regain your stability. Determined, you creep quietly behind the man, small knife clutched and ready in your hand...

Emitting a luminous glow that pierces through the dim torchlight, a brilliant light emanates from your foot, casting vibrant hues across the room. The intense illumination catches the man off guard, causing him to swiftly pivot in surprise. As you follow the source of the light, your gaze descends to your right ankle, and a sudden realization dawns upon you - the captivating radiance originates from the shackle securely fastened around your ankle.

"It's never done that before." You mutter out loud, surprised by this yourself.

Frustration evident, the man flings his arms open wide, expressing his exasperation. "Done what? What is that thing? I've been trying to pry it off your foot since they brought you here!" He exclaims, shaking a small saw of some kind before he chucks it angrily to the floor and grips at the blonde hair behind his pointed ears. His dark skin and red eyes are reminiscent of other drow you've met.

Suddenly, the door behind you bursts open. A dwarf enters first, waving in a small cluster of other, taller people. Including one familiar high elf with curly white hair. "All in, block the door!" He calls out, quick to join another in grabbing a shelf off the wall, bottles and books falling to the floor as they move it in front of the door. "Where the hells is Jester and the others?" Astarion demands, turning to the dwarf.

Grunting, he hefts his mace onto his shoulder and grimaces. "Separated, I'm afraid. It matters little to us right now. We can't do anything for them with that monster on our arses."

"Durgan, you can't be suggesting—"

"I'm suggesting we live, then see about Glacius, Aric and them." Says the dwarven man, Durgan, firmly to one of the others, but he turns to face you. Regarding you a moment before tipping his head, seemingly in a nod of respect. "Elowen says you've a stout heart, and the lass has always had a good head on her shoulders." Taking a look at the poor excuse for a knife in your hand. "Now's the time to prove her right, aye?" And with that, he walks past you, toward the drow. Shouting for the others to grab from the nearby supply of lanterns.

Your gaze remains fixated on the dwarf as he traverses the surroundings until a pair of arms swiftly envelops you in their frigid, familiar embrace. "Finally..." He sighs in relief, only tightening his grasp, desperately yearning to sense the warmth of your presence pressed against his sturdy body, concealed by his armor.

Already you can tell the difference. That unmistakable scent of rosemary mingling with the invigorating notes of bergamot and a hint of brandy. No ominous or frigid undertone. The cold of his arms through the sleeves of his armor and his cheek against your head are a welcome contrast to the warmth of his imposter's embrace.

It's him. Not Godking Ancunín, Vampire Ascendant. But your loveable rogue, Astarion, with his right here with you at long last, mischievous smile, quick wit and all. Your heart races as you eagerly return his embrace, the cold metal of his chestplate pressing against your cheek.

You could soak in your Star until the sun turned black...

But all too soon, that commanding, burly voice calls out to Aster, the group he came in with all huddled by a corner of the room. Two of them clutch lanterns, their feeble glow casting eerie shadows on the worn stone walls. They faintly remind you of the lantern you took with you into the shadow-curse... at least until you let the pixie out. "We've got to move," Durgan declares, his voice filled with urgency, as he presses his palm against a large brick of slate. As if responding to his touch, the slate emanates a gentle blue shimmer and a concealed door slides open noiselessly, unveiling a pathway leading down into a foreboding tunnel.

"Keep the queen close, Aster," Durgan advises, his words laced with a sense of responsibility. Without hesitation, he takes the first step into the darkness, closely followed by a tiefling man with fiery red skin and a lantern clasped tightly in his grasp as the group descends into the secret tunnel.

"I'm not a queen," you argue vehemently, frustration evident in your voice as you throw your hands up in exasperation. Astarion catches one of your hands, his touch gentle yet firm, as he tugs you along. The door behind you, the same one they hastily ran through mere moments ago, rattles violently, its unsettling sound reverberating through the air.

"Let's move it, people!" urges the drow, his call reverberating in the expansive, damp space. His arm slices through the musty air, urging everyone forward into the tunnel. You quickly scan the group, counting heads. Five, excluding yourself, Astarion, the dwarf, and the drow. The sound of shuffling feet fills the air as the group begins to move, the faint scent of damp earth lingering.

One of them, a human with a bow and arrow, stays close, guarding your back.

As he looked around, his eyes were sharp and observant, capturing every nuance of his surroundings. The drow disappears into the tunnel as soon as he spots you and Astarion approaching.

A chilling darkness swallows the room the moment you both step across the threshold, emanating a tangible, icy hunger while permeating the atmosphere with an ominous presence.

With a trembling hand, the human mutters, "Oh gods, not again..." as he notches an arrow, pulling it back tautly.

Transfixed, you cannot tear your gaze away as the man is seized and his body violently jerked backward, accompanied by a bone-chilling shriek that reverberates through the air. It is as if the encroaching shadows themselves have become ravenous beasts, swallowing him whole, leaving nothing behind but a haunting echo of terror. The sound of his bow clattering to the ground echoes loudly in the eerie silence that follows.

"Tav, move!" Astarion shouts beside you, tugging at your arm. Your eyes quickly dart between the rusty knife clenched in your hand and the abandoned bow, weighing your options.

Suppressing your surprise and horror, you watch as the man desperately claws himself back from the depths of the darkness. His blooded hands dig furiously into the void, his wide, blown-out eyes reflecting sheer terror. You can almost hear the darkness itself, a sinister laughter echoing through the depths. It takes pleasure in toying with its prey, as scraps of the man's armor are mercilessly torn from his body by an unseen force, each rip accompanied by a sickening sound. The metallic scent of blood lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of decay.

The weight of the man's quiver slips off his shoulder, crashing to the ground with a hollow thud. With a final, haunting cry, his voice thick with agony, he is violently yanked back into the merciless abyss.

"What are you...?!" Your Star yells, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Aster!" Durgan calls next as they watch you dart towards the spot where the man once stood. Swiftly discarding the knife, you crouch down, your fingers tightly gripping the bow and quiver, these weapons more familiar and effective to you.

In the dimly lit room, the faint glow of your shackle emits a feeble radiance. Even now, the menacing shadows seem to possess sharp teeth and poised claws, ready to snatch their next hapless victim.

Yet, they do not threaten you.

Not with bodily harm.

You're not sure how you know this. Feel this.

An icy hand firmly grips your shoulder, pulling you back with urgency and guiding you down the dimly lit tunnel. The metallic smell of blood and decay lingers in the musty air of the room as you leave it behind. Astarion's voice cuts through the chaos, "escape now, gawk at the nightmarish shadow monster later!" he hisses, scowling at you as he pushes you along.

You both pass Durgan, his calloused palm pressing firmly against an unmarked spot on the tunnel wall. The rough texture of the stone contrasts with his weathered skin. As he seals the way back, the sound of shifting stone grinding against stone echoes through the narrow passage.

A faint smell of damp earth lingers. "It won't hold him back forever. We must hurry," he orders, his voice filled with determination. With a confident nod, Durgan strides forward, taking the lead once more, the tiefling following closely behind.

Raising your eyebrow with a querying expression, you ask, "Him?" With a smooth, practiced motion, you sling the bow over your right shoulder, feeling the weight of the wood settle comfortably against your back.

With a grimace, Astarion takes on answering you. "It's him." He spits the words with a venomous hiss, as if they're tainted with a bitterness that seems to linger on his tongue, like he's just bitten into something so vile, it sours every word he speaks.

"No," you say sharply, the word slipping from your tongue with an unexpected swiftness. Even more surprising isn't just how suddenly you speak, but the razor-sharp tone that suddenly slices through your voice, as if they've been dipped in ice before they cut through the air. It's that startling sharpness in your tone that echoes a little too fiercely, swirling around your group like a chilly breeze.

"That's utterly ridiculous. I mean, why all the theatrics when he could just show up and stab us all into mince meat?" you assert, the words laced with incredulity. Your words reverberate, echoing off the walls. As you speak, you secure the quiver tightly against your back, feeling its weight press against your spine. A sense of regret washes over you as you lament the impracticality of the dress you were forced to wear, yearning for the comfort and functionality of a sensible pair of pants and a sturdy belt.

"It's to send a message, lass." Durgan replies, not looking back, his boots crunching on the cave dirt path ahead. "We've liberated his precious new queen, and he's none too pleased about it." Though his tone is serious, it carries a hint of pride. Whether it's because they've gotten you away from the Ascendant or that they've angered him, you couldn't say for sure.

"Apologies for the interruption," the drow interjects, his voice cutting through the air. "However, I'm eager to revisit my previous inquiry. May I inquire about the purpose of the peculiar band encircling your ankle?"

"I'm also curious." Astarion adds, his gaze shifting downwards to the shackle that now emits a gentler, subdued radiance.

Gods, how do you explain something you don't quite understand yourself? In all honesty, you've never asked the Ascendant or Malacai the purpose of it. You just assumed. "Honestly, I've never questioned its purpose to the Ascendant or Malacai. It was simply there when I first awoke," you say, your voice echoing softly in the dimly lit tunnel. The gentle drip of water from stalactites creates a rhythmic melody to your words. "All I know is that it compels me to remain seated on the throne and during meals."

You pause a moment, feeling the gentle pressure of it with each step you take. "It's not difficult to surmise that it allows him to track my movements, but I believe it also... somehow alerts him if I am injured or unconscious." Your words escape slowly, stealing a glance at your right ankle, which emits a soft glow, casting ethereal shadows upon the rugged walls of the tunnel.

A deep, rumbling grunt escapes from Durgan's throat. "That sodding idiot, Spellsong..." He quickly deduces with a small shake of his head.

"I did try to warn her..." you say with a wry smile, your shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

With a throat-clearing sound, the drow gets everyone's attention. "The research myself and my student have conducted over the past month may prove useful then," he says, his voice steady and composed. If Ancunín can track his runaway bride with that bracelet, then we need to deal with it before we reach our destination," he continues, his eyes focused and unwavering. The weight of anticipation hangs almost tangible, as everyone waits for his next words. "Our checkpoint along the way may have what I need," he concludes, his curiosity evident, yet devoid of any trace of concern.

"Very well. Only because it's on the way, Zylinn." Agrees the dwarf.

Beside you, Astarion's arm lightly grazes yours, a subtle gesture that manages to capture your attention. "It shouldn't be much longer now, darling." He maintains a steady gaze ahead and speaks in hushed tones, assuring you. "Once we reach their hideaway, we can slip away and back to the portal that will take us home."

As if the act could shatter your resolve, his piercing gaze subtly scans your body before locking onto your eyes. "I am acquainted with powerful people," he asserts, his voice carrying a hint of arrogance. "They most certainly possess the means to rid you of that insignificant trinket on your foot." Astarion's response answers the unspoken question in your eyes. "This will all be over soon." His icy hand brushes yours as you walk, catching you off guard initially. It's a stark contrast to the warmth you've grown accustomed to from the Ascendants, and you can't help but despise how accustomed you've become to his touch.

Not-Gale's words still linger in your ears about your plans to escape. What prevents him from coming after you again? If he is that shadow, then he's already silently trailing right behind you.

Could you really abandon these people, leaving them behind without a second thought?

It's not like you're devoid of problems in your own world, either.

Haven't you endured enough in the clutches of a monster parading around wearing the face of your lover?

Right now, there are no answers to any of these questions. Your sole focus has to be reaching safety...

"Oh, how fortuitous! It is you, my noble prince, arriving to save me!"

You tease, playfully grabbing onto his arm and giving him an adorable look with big, innocent doe eyes.

Astarion rolls his sharp, scarlet eyes, their mischievous sparkle betraying the faux annoyance he portrays. With his mesmerizing smile, he quietly laughs at your antics, a gentle hum escaping from his lips. "Charming, alluring, and hauntingly beautiful I am," his voice dances in the air with a hint of whimsy, "But a noble prince? Alas, that is not my crown to wear."

Once again, you are captivated by the intense hue of his eyes, shimmering like smoldering embers in the dimly lit space. The warmth that radiates from him, like a tangible presence, is a characteristic often associated with the Ascendant, but your Astarion embodies it in a way that is uniquely his own, beyond physical.

With a sudden surge of impulse, you slip your hand into his, feeling the texture of his cool, slender fingers interlacing with yours and eliciting a startled response as his gaze abruptly shifts downward. "I just... need to feel you," you whisper, your voice quivering with unexpected nervousness. In that moment, you question your actions, wondering if you are behaving like a child, craving attention, or if you are overstepping a boundary with him.

Instead, he gives you an even softer smile that melts away your worries, like warm sunlight breaking through dark clouds of your fear. His eyes, filled with understanding and comfort, twinkle like gentle stars in the night sky. The soft murmur of his voice reaches your ears, "I am here, my sweet," he whispers, his words wrapping around you like a soothing embrace. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Surveying the group with your inquisitive gaze, you notice the complete lack of acknowledgement towards you and Astarion, intensifying your curiosity. A stark contrast to the constant scrutiny you usually endure. Gods, you're so tired of your every move being watched and noted. "So, what have you been occupying yourself with lately?" you inquire, yearning to hear the voice of the real Astarion, to feel his presence, and lose yourself in the distinct presence that defines him alone.

"Well, after winning the tournament, I met with the Ascendant to have one wish granted. According to the resistance, it was to know the location of the previous queen's dust." He recalls, a weary sigh escaping his lips.

"And after carefully dispelling the tracking charm on the locket he gave to find it, we had begun to leave the city for her burial site. But then Elowen and you sent notice you were preparing to abscond from the palace..." His voice trails off, revealing his frustration at the belated revelation of the shackle on your foot.

His eyes meet yours momentarily. "Had we known of the collar around your foot sooner, I would have insisted on staying behind to meet you." His gaze conveying his regret for not having known earlier, a blend of emotions flickering across his face.

"I didn't tell you during the Festival of Gratitude because I... wasn't sure how to explain it. Back then, my understanding of the damn thing was minimal, with nobody bothering to offer any clarification, and as I delved deeper, it became increasingly difficult to put into words through the sending stone in just twenty-five words." You respond admittedly not fond of his accusatory tone. But you can hardly blame him for his feelings. You did leave him in the dark.

But you're going to change that. As best you can, starting now. "This morning, I sought out the Ascendant to secure his permission to leave.

"His permission..." Astarion sneers, his voice dripping with disdain, as his cold hand tightens around yours.

If the situation was less dire, a faint flicker of amusement might have crossed your chest, eliciting a small smile. As you pause to compose yourself, the air carries a subtle scent of anticipation. "He's planning something he called the sacrament," you say, your voice measured and deliberate, ensuring that every word is heard and comprehended. "And another called the ceremony." Once more, you pause, pondering your words and ensuring that you have overlooked nothing.

"The sacrament is happening soon," you continue, the weight of the impending event pressing against your temples. "But the ceremony... that will take place after the wedding and coronation." As your words echo through the tunnel, a heavy silence descends, filling the space with an air of unease.

"But for the sacrament," you explain, your voice taking on a hushed tone, "he needs this gem called the heart. A vessel of some kind to harness the power of a god."

As your eyes move towards the ground, you can't help but admire how the shimmering light from your shackle paints the rocky walls with beautiful hues. "And something called a Glyphblade," you add, the name rolling off your tongue like a whispered secret.

"He made a deal with the Sharrans, and they brought him a scroll. While the mother superior," you say, your voice growing softer still, "she is bringing the Sharran Glyphblade." The anxiety in the words lingers, casting a shadow over your thoughts and leaving an unsettling feeling in your core. A stillness settles over the room, broken only by the rhythmic thud of your own heartbeat reverberating in your ears, underscoring the significance of the situation for those who hear you speak.

"Then he nearly has all he needs to perform that godsforsaken thing." Zylinn, the drow, says abruptly from up ahead, his voice echoing through the dimly lit cavern. As he glances back over his shoulder, his piercing eyes lock with yours, filled with a mixture of concern and determination. The damp air hangs heavy with the scent of earth and mildew, while the distant sound of dripping water echoes in the silence. "All the more reason to get you as far away as possible," he adds, his words dripping with a deathly seriousness, before turning his gaze forward once more.

"You know what it is?" you inquire, your words threaded with an undertone of nervousness as the last echo of his voice dissolves into the charged air

Zylinn's shoulders stiffen under the dim glow of the lantern, his tension palpable. "Regrettably, yes... The Sacrament of Unanima. The kind of magic that has the power to touch one's very soul should never be treated as a mere plaything, even by a self-proclaimed godking," he says, his words accompanied by a sharp spitting sound, echoing the irritation in his voice.

Soul magic?

"Aster, a moment," Durgan's voice calls out, his voice reverberating off the tunnel walls. Astarion, his hand slipping from yours, nods gently before quickening his pace to catch up with the dwarf. You watch him for a moment as you walk along. Unbeknownst to you, a soft smile graces your lips, a rare moment of joy amidst the torment you have just endured. Being this close to him feels comforting after the hell you've just endured.

Of course, you still have to find a way to escape this place. And there's the looming presence of the Absolute and the wriggling tadpoles back home that you'll have to face. But for now, if you can shut your eyes tonight beside your vampire spawn, allow yourself to be enveloped in the chilling embrace of his arms around you, feel the coolness of his touch against your skin...

How can it be that in this brief span of time, the very thought of a world without him is an insufferable weight upon your heart?

You can tell him you love him now. Those three little words you should've spoken before the shadows of this nightmare sunk its claws into you...

Suddenly, your foot drags behind you, heavier now than your left, causing each step to feel like an arduous battle against an immovable force. It clings to the rocky floor beneath you, resisting your every move like an iron ball firmly anchored. Oblivious to your struggle, the others march ahead, their focus solely on pushing forward.

As you glance down at your foot, a somber sight greets you - the once vibrant glow of the shackle has faded, replaced by a muted shade of crimson.

Each successive step becomes more strenuous, as if the ground itself is resisting your progress. And you're fiercely fighting to keep it from firmly attaching itself to the ground, desperately exerting every ounce of strength into the struggle.

But it does.

And your heart sinks.

There's only a moment to panic before soft whispers that you can barely hear, but can feel graze your neck like the icy breath of death itself. Your head jerks sharply, eyes darting over your shoulder.

You're stunned when you see the way back is now engulfed in impenetrable darkness, inching closer like a silent predator teasing its prey with the final strike. It hangs in the air like a ravenous miasma, emanating a hunger that threatens to consume you whole.

You know it without a doubt now.

Him.

It beckons you. Though the whispering chorus is not coherent to your ears, you can feel it in your chest, a tingling sensation traversing through your limbs like an electric current. It courses through your veins, reaching your hands and feet, and finally settling into the very tips of your fingers and toes. Invisible and intangible, it calls to you, promising safety with an outstretched hand.

But not freedom.

The choice is to take its hand or be taken by it.

Summoning all your strength and determination, you fiercely contort your body, wresting control of your foot from the tight grip of the shackle. As you do, the metallic shackle glimmers with an intense brilliance, casting a luminous glow in the dimly lit tunnel. With a surge of adrenaline, you unleash a resounding cry; the echoes reverberating off the cold, damp walls. "Run!" you command, your voice filled with urgency and defiance. Swiftly pivoting on your heel, you embark on a mad dash down the tunnel, the rhythmic pounding of your footsteps blending with the symphony of your pounding heart.

Just ahead of you, Durgan and Astarion come into view, their faces now turned towards you. In that split second, a chilling instinct prompts you to swiftly duck, narrowly avoiding a tendril of darkness that whizzes past your shoulder, snatching an elven woman.

Her startled yelp reverberates through the air, her fingernails desperately clawing at a narrow crevice along the rough rock wall. A worn pack slips from her shoulder, hanging precariously around her arm. "Oh gods, please...! Please!" The plea in her terrified, trembling voice is heart-wrenching. Tears stream down her face as she continues to plead with the gods for mercy.

Despite her efforts, her fingers eventually lose their grip on the wall and the unfathomable shadows violently pull her in and a shriek that nearly curdles your blood pierces your eardrums. The distinct stench of decaying flesh begins to taint the air. Before you can fully process the horror that just unfolded, a hand grips your shoulder, snapping you back to reality. "What did I say about gawking, darling?" He growls as he drags you along, forcing you into a frantic sprint.

The two of you catch up to the others. Durgan is struggling to stay ahead of everyone, but amazingly, he manages. Zylinn is panting heavily and the other three unnamed members of your entourage, their faces glistening with sweat, pushed forward.

Finally, you reach the end of the tunnel and Durgan's calloused hand firmly presses against the side of the exit, sealing it shut with a resounding thud.

As you take a moment to catch your breath, a fleeting sense of relief washes over you. But as you slowly turn around, the relief quickly dissipates. Before you lies an expansive, ancient chamber, its walls weathered by time. At the far end, an immense gate looms, its iron surface marred by rust, reminiscent of the entrance to Baldur's Gate. Its jagged teeth are firmly embedded in the worn stone floor. The room itself is bathed in an ethereal blue glow, casting haunting shadows that dance along the walls.

Durgan growls loudly in frustration as the sealed wall violently shakes and cracks behind you. "Of all the sodding days to close the gate!" He shouts, his voice echoing through the vast space as he throws his arms up in exasperation, his dark, thick beard bristling as he tugs on it.

Racing against the clock, your eyes dart around the room, taking in the decaying surroundings. On your right, a wide hole in the dilapidated stone wall hosts a gaping hole, wide enough to accommodate two average-sized individuals, or perhaps smaller. Wherever it leads, you can only guess. Meanwhile, to your left, a staircase lies in ruins, shattered in the middle, creating a substantial gap that renders it utterly useless. As you gaze further, you notice the upper floor atop the stairs, and a room that seems to be the gatehouse.

"Who has the satchel with the scrolls?" Durgan barks, looking back at the other three remaining members of your group. Astarion stays close to you and Zylinn close to both of you.

"Kinley had it but..." the human woman replied, her voice trembling slightly as she fought to regain her composure.

Despite the immense pressure and his dwindling options, Durgan stubbornly scans each face in the room.

If you can sprint and leap the gap, perhaps...

"Durgan! Aster!" a voice you haven't heard before echoes through the distance.

As you lift your eyes, you immediately spot the source - a short gnome donned in sleek black armor, a black cowl draped over his head. He stands confidently atop the shattered staircase. The air is filled with the sound of hurried footsteps as a dragonborn couple, led by the imposing male silver dragonborn, swiftly enters the gatehouse. The gnome's voice carries a playful bite, scoffing at you, "You were meant to rescue the damsel, not become one yourselves!" his voice echoes in the chamber.

"The gate, Jester!" Durgan's urgent cry echoes through the air, the crumbling wall serving as a foreboding backdrop. "Now!"

"Glacius is working on it. Hang on." The gnome you now know is Jester answers back as the smaller, female dragonborn hurries back and forth from the gatehouse.

Just as expected, the gate, as if on cue, lets out a piercing groan, its rusty hinges protesting against the force needed to pry its teeth free from the ground.

It barely manages to budge an inch before it abruptly plummets back into the stone

"Away from the wall!" You command, the urgency in your voice evident. With a swift motion, you slide the smooth bow off your shoulder, feeling the cool wood against your skin. Your fingers wrap around the smooth shaft of an arrow, feeling its weight and balance in your hand. Astarion, ever vigilant, positions himself by your side, his daggers glinting in the dim light. He swiftly pulls them from his belt with a dramatic flair, the sharp clinking of metal against leather resonating in your ears.

Durgan reaches for his mace and shield, leading the others to the symphony of clinking armor and thudding footsteps as you all sprint for the gate. You hurried away from the tunnel wall, eager to put as much distance between you and its crumbling remains.

As the stone fragment breaks away and crashes down, darkness swiftly engulfs the area like a surging tide. It weaves a veil of impenetrable shadow that blocks any retreat, leaving only the distant echo of the collapse reverberating in the stillness.

Emerging from the black fog, faceless silhouettes resembling both walking corpses and armored knights appear, their movements shambling and stoic.

Astarion positions himself with the grace of a panther, every muscle coiled like a spring and his gaze sharp, glinting with the promise of challenge. The whisper of his boots, shifting across the earth, a delicate symphony to accompany the drumming of your own heart and a siren's call to your senses.

In one fluid motion, you summon an arrow from the quiver's embrace, cradling it into place and feeling the whisper of promised power sing through the bowstring beneath your eager fingertips. With every breath, you ready yourself to align with the unseen winds. You draw back; the world narrowing to a point as you find your mark, poised to release an arrow that yearns to dance to the mastery of your command.

"For Faèrun!" Durgan cries, charging toward the shadows.

Inspired, the other resistance fighters charge with him. Spells and swords at the ready. Already, they carve a swath through the faceless silhouette, each one bursting with shadow magic upon defeat.

Astarion is quick to react as a few stragglers get through and advance on you, digging his daggers into any who get too close. His footwork smooth like waves on water, those perfect white curls of his hair remain in place as a testament to his incredible form.

All while you aim and loose one arrow after another, almost reveling in the strain of your muscles as you pull the bowstring taut. Despite the dire circumstances, you've sorely missed this. Not just the thrill of combat, or the joy of making your body work.

Gods, you could lose yourself just watching Astarion's artistry at work.

You've missed fighting beside him...

Durgan's voice rings out, shouting "Left flank!" as he expertly dodges a warhammer, narrowly avoiding a potential blow.

Without hesitation, you skillfully nock another arrow to the whispering string, the world around you narrowing to the simple stretch and pull of your bowstring. The count of arrows released to the wind escapes you now, lost in the dance of flight and purpose. A quiet sense of pride kindles inside you, a flame that will not be quenched, as you ready yet another arrow to kiss the wind.

With deadly precision, one of your arrows finds its mark, piercing the black chest of your target. The shadowy silhouette shimmers ominously but refuses to burst like its predecessors.

Stumbling backward, it is promptly pounced upon by Astarion, his movements as fluid as air. Swift blow after swift blow, his daggers find their mark, relentlessly assaulting the shadowy figure until it finally succumbs, dissolving into inky black nothingness. Leaving behind a lingering scent of decay and darkness as the battle unfolds with a symphony of clashing steel, and the occasional grunt of exertion.

You catch his piercing vermillion eye, the color burning like a flame in darkness, the tip of his fang teasingly peeking out from his roguish grin.

He's missed this as much as you have.

You can't even remember all the different aches for him you've carried. From the gentle brush of his lips to that thrill of his fangs grazing your skin. Every tender moment that his shadow can only hope to whisper in your dreams...

But as another wave of shadowy figures emerges, their ominous forms jolt you out of your reverie followed by the piercing screams of your comrade being forcefully dragged into the encompassing abyss. Amidst the chaos, Durgan desperately calls out to him, but he too is besieged from all directions, unable to extend a helping hand. Helplessly, you bear witness to the pitiful soul's futile struggle, as he desperately claws at the coarse, grimy sandstone floor, yearning to break free from the clutches of the inky black tendril dragging him towards his end.

No sooner has he vanished, a serpentine tendril swiftly lunges out, With lightning speed, it snatches the other two companions, leaving only you, Astarion, Durgan, and the seemingly inept drow lingering behind you. What even is he...?

The scent of decay wafts through the atmosphere as you cast a glance over your shoulder. Catching sight of the drow whose hands, shimmering with an orange, arcane glow, clasp the gate's rusted ironwork. Pieces of the now-softened metal drip like wax, hissing as they meet the cold stone below.

Here...

Whispers dance from the hidden corners, beckoning you into the waiting arms of darkness. Through the shroud of fog, a shape takes form—a silhouette that strides with an easy, unhurried grace, known and yet veiled by the curtain of shadows.

Come...

Astarion appears beside you quicker than a specter, his stance poised and prepared, and his vampiric fangs unsheathed like daggers. From the ebony gloom, the Ascendant emerges a mere breath from Durgan. An embodiment of the abyss, his figure is swathed in darkness so pure it devours the light, a silhouette carved of void and malice. His eyes emit a fiery red glow, and his hair curls with an eerie elegance. "Fun and games are over, pet," he purrs, his voice a chilling whisper that carries the promise of cruelty.

Though it might seem like his voice, a nefarious presence hides—a presence both ghastly and alien to your senses. Twin whispers trail his words, one lingering a hair's breadth behind, and another hastily weaving in front.

It stirs memories of that peculiar intellect devourer you encountered amidst the twisting corridors of the nautiloid. "Dinner will get cold if you linger much longer, and what a waste that would be... wouldn't it, my darling queen?" The Ascendant's unnatural voice speaks calmly, but it only sends shivers down your spine, his hand extending slowly toward you. A serenity that belies the icy dread snaking through you, his hand inching ever closer—an offering or a threat, you cannot tell.

Astarion, with a disgusted sneer, scoffs. "Gods, what a wretched little creep," he mutters, his voice dripping with repulsion. "At least I had far more enticing ways of inviting you to dinner," he adds, his words laced with a blend of amusement and contempt.

"You never invited me out to dinner..." you quip back with a playful glint lighting your gaze. The friendly jest weaving effortlessly like a dance between you.

"Maybe not in the traditional sense...!" your vampire spawn huffs, throwing a playful scowl in your direction as his lips curl in a feigned offense. Pretending to be wounded by your teasing.

As you roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curl up into a subtle smile, revealing your genuine amusement at his absurdity.

You quickly survey the narrow opening in the crumbling wall. The gap appears just wide enough for you and Astarion to slip through, leveraging your nimble agility. However, it would mean leaving Durgan and Zylinn behind and hope that there'd be time for them to follow in after you.

There has to be a way... if you have the time to figure it out.

"I thought you capable of better obedience than this, my treasure." The Ascendant interrupts your thoughts, disappointment evident in the way he sighs.

As if mirroring your initial palace experience, the shadows creep towards him, merging in a hypnotic dance of darkness. Their ethereal movement envelops him, shrouding his figure in an impenetrable cloak.

A gentle whirling sound fills the air, as if whispers of the night converge with the shadows. Suddenly, the shadows explode in a burst of motion, transforming into a mist that hangs in the air like a delicate veil. And within this mist, emerges a taller and more imposing version of his former self, still concealed in the enigmatic embrace of his shadowy cloak.

But this time, as you gaze upon it from the front, a chilling sight awaits you. Rows upon rows of teeth gleam ominously, each one razor-sharp and menacing. Its wings, like swirling vortexes, move with an eerie grace, whispering a haunting melody through the air.

Its fingers extend into sharp, menacing claws like twisted talons. With lightning speed, it swipes at Durgan, catching him completely by surprise. A gut-wrenching cry escapes his lips as his body is propelled violently across the floor, crashing and rolling with a series of bone-jarring grunts as Durgan's body collides with the unforgiving surface.

"This way!" You urgently shout to Astarion. With a firm grip on his arm, you feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. The sound of your hurried footsteps reverberates through the vast chamber, while the scent of a winter frost fills and wafts around you..

With lightning speed, he catches on quick, his agile movements allowing you to let go and trust him to sprint alongside you. As you pause to retrieve Durgan, Astarion's firm grip grabs you, his fingers digging into your arm, forcefully pulling you away towards the gap in the wall.

You can feel the rush of wind as the Behemoth's massive claw narrowly misses both of you. "Astarion!" you exclaim, your voice filled with indignation, as you realize he wants you to abandon him to his fate.

A sudden crack of lightning pierces the air, striking the creature square in the chest, emanating a blinding flash from the direction of the gatehouse. The creature appears unfazed by the impact, but its annoyance is palpable.

It swiftly redirects its attention towards the source of the spell, its eyes blazing with fury. In an instant, two out of three scorching rays streak through the air, accompanied by the distinct smell of singed ozone. The first ray strikes true with a searing impact, while the third finds its mark with a satisfying sizzle. However, the second ray veers off course, leaving you uncertain of its whereabouts.

As you and Astarion draw close to the break in the wall, a slender beam of emerald light slashes through the air, biting into the ancient sandstone wall above.

The deafening crash rings in your ears and the impact shatters the wall, causing fragments of debris to cascade down in a chaotic freefall.

He launches himself at you with fierce determination, hurling you both to safety just as a shower of stones threatens to come crashing down and block your escape.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the sturdy wooden beams that brace the ceiling, a surprising yet fleeting distraction from the danger that you two narrowly missed.

However, you're still a long way from being out of danger.

The breathtaking love of your life gently eases himself away from you, his movements as graceful as a shadow. "Are you alright, darling?" he asks, his voice brimming with a caring warmth that contradicts the usual chill of his touch.

Concern paints his features as his pale, icy hand delicately guides your face, turning it this way and that as his eyes, like shimmering pools of scarlet sky, survey you carefully. Ensuring you're unharmed from head to toe.

A giggle escapes you, surprising even yourself and catching his concerned look off guard. Lifting his hand, you press a grateful kiss to his fingertips, grinning broadly. "I am now... Better than ever, in fact." You tell him, the truth of it ringing in your heart.

Yours might not be the image of pristine elegance; your hair tousled, your dress torn... But he treats you as if you're the morning's first light, his palm cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing under the moon. His gaze momentarily lingering on your smile before meeting your eyes once more...

The earth shudders violently under your bodies, its quaking so fierce it feels as though the ground itself wishes to swallow you whole. If you hadn't been pressed against the ground, the force would have surely swept you off your feet. "We're not in the clear yet until we get back home. Let's go," Astarion urges with a determined glint in his eyes. His hand wraps around yours, tugging you upward, your trusty bow in your other hand.

You can't help but wrinkle your brow in skepticism as you hoist your weapon over your shoulder, a whisper of doubt escaping your lips. "It's never that straightforward..."

He casts you a glance filled with unwavering confidence, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't fret, my Star, we've made it this far..." Astarion says, a comforting note in his voice as he takes your hand, guiding you along the path paved with cool, ancient stones. Overhead, wooden beams crisscross against a backdrop of shadow, sparking a flicker of curiosity within you.

What is this place? Another tunnel? How many does the resistance have? Are you beneath Baldur's Gate? "Illyndra and Aeron will know how to take that bracelet off, and then we return to our world and deal with the tadpoles, the brain, Orin..." He trails off, his gaze drifting downward for a moment before locking onto yours. "Quite the list, honestly. Aha!" His laugh, light and fluttering, dances through the air accompanied by a smile so effortless it could charm the stars. That very grin that never fails to send a delightful shiver down your spine.

You sweep your gaze across the path that lies before you. Above, unwavering beams hold the ceiling strong, lined with makeshift levies holding chunks of rock awaiting the builders' hands. Yet, beneath your feet, a patchwork of rickety wooden planks whispers of uncertainty.

Through the slender gaps, you watch as the eager water plays tag with the light, its laughter a thundering serenade—a reminder of the depths that lurk just a misstep away. But a part of you can't help but feel a rush of relief, knowing that should the ground betray you, the river's embrace awaits to cushion the fall.

Barely a moment after you both start treading through the shadowy passageway, a shiver races down your spine.

The air turns frosty, making the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and your skin prickles with goosebumps. Whispers of your breath dance before your eyes, swirling like specters in the dim torchlight. "Astarion?" escapes your lips, your words quivering just like your chattering teeth.

Even in your captivity, the last month—or was it more?—spent in the deceptive embrace of an ornate prison, your sharpness, your keen edge of mind, remains unclouded.

It's more than a mere chill; it's bone-deep and malevolent, a spectral cold that seeks to worm its way into your very soul.

A quiver in your words must unsettle him, for his gaze whips around to meet yours with a sudden attention, his eyes wide with a touch of alarm. He takes in your trembling silhouette, swathed in the whispers of your own foggy breath. "He's already following us," Astarion concludes, his voice heavy with a grim certainty. The rhythm of his steps quickens, as if to outrun the unseen spectre lingering just beyond the veil of darkness.

Before you can hurry alongside him, a strange weight clings to your foot, as if it's ensnared by an unseen force, holding you back. It's as though your foot has forgotten it belongs to you, a traitorous part of you that refuses to cooperate.

Casting a hurried look downwards, you see your right foot bathed and ensnared once more in a crimson hue.

You look over your shoulder, admittedly a little startled, to see the shadows blocking the way you came. Creeping slowly along behind you, as if waiting for you to be fully separated.

Should you cross paths with that idiot halfling again, you'll clasp your hands around her throat until her eyes pop juicy red, akin to overripe grapes under the sun. Perhaps there was a sliver of a chance this plan might have succeeded, yet with her baffling refusal to listen and inadvertently alerting the Ascendant, she sealed its fate with certainty.

Nothing will save you from that gilded cage of a palace. Not this time...

But you can still ensure one thing.

Gripping your will tight, dragging your foot along the ground, caring not for your admittedly favorite shoes as you feel the rough ground beneath your foot, grinding against the dirt. Un-shouldering your bow, you're sure you can hear the shadows snickering in hushed tones around you, a mocking harmony barely audible. Astarion, oblivious or indifferent, remains focused on moving forward.

You spy with your little eye the perfect target, a slender thread of rope clutching a massive stone aloft, dangling like a strange fruit from the cavern's mouth.

With a swift dance of fingers, you draw out an arrow, one of the scarce few remaining in your quiver. A deep breath steadies your hand, you draw the string taut, take aim and release. The arrow, true to your silent command, cleaves the air and severs the twine with a whisper.

Down plummets the stone, colliding with thunderous might against one of the ceiling beams.

Jolted by the deafening crash, Astarion quickly spins around to face you. "Tav, stop!" he cries out, his eyes darting across the chaos unfolding.

Just as he realizes what's happening, a massive chunk of rock hurtles down, colliding with a scaffolding tile. You watch, heart in your throat, as the platform buckles. But with quick reflexes, Astarion manages to seize the lip of the floor as it gives way, hanging on for dear life.

A chilling gust skims across your skin, causing your hair to flutter and your skin to tingle, as the shadows stretch their arms wide to envelop you in their cold embrace.

The absence of light that follows is absolute, save for the brilliant glow emanating from the bracelet adorning your right ankle, the sole beacon in a sea of starless midnight.

You turn, heart pounding, to find the shadow-shrouded Ascendant materializing from the void as though woven from the night itself.

This time, the shadows peel back, clinging to him as if loath to let him go. Unveiling the truth of him—The Vampire Ascendant, your captor... your nightmare. "Tsk-tsk. So very... disobedient, my sweet," he coos, his voice a silken warning that pulls taut the air around you.

He straightens to his full height. Every movement deliberate, predatory, as he towers over you with an expression of amusement and scorn, eyes piercing from above that seem to drink you in, consume you whole. The silver studs on his obsidian leather armor flicker in the dim radiance of your shackle. His obsidian cloak cascades behind him like a waterfall of pure abyss.

"And just look at you!" he chides, the edges of his words sharp yet coated in honeyed venom. He twirls a lock of your hair, his touch featherlight yet unwelcome. "Drenched in filth, the gown I lovingly selected for you, had tailored specially for you—reduced to no more than tarnished, common rags." Lamenting with a tilt of his head, a smile playing on his lips, cruel as the edge of a blade. His disapproval falls around you, a tangible presence, and his eyes linger on you, an unnerving blend of possessive desire, eager to reclaim what he considers his own in this haunting mockery of the Faerûn you know.

"Ta-av," Astarion's breath catches, his voice trembles faintly, just over your shoulder. He's fighting to rise, wrestling for his footing and shield you from the monster that dresses its obsession in the garb of devotion.

A shard of ancient tile fractures beneath his grasp, and for a heart-stopping moment, he dangles perilously. Yet, defiant to the very brink, he clings with a single hand, his determination unwavering.

You steal another look downwards, making certain that should he slip, the water's embrace will break his fall. And if the enchantment he spoke of at the Festival holds true, mirroring the protections of the tadpole, then surely running water is included in that.

One truth rings clearer than any spell or enchantment: a leap of faith into the unknown is a far kinder destiny than the dark designs the Ascendant harbors for him. "I'm sorry, my Star," you murmur, your voice a soft breeze that he might not even hear.

Within moments, the disbelief paints a vivid picture across his gaze, just a breath before his grip falters. Your heart leaps into your throat as, right before you, your spawn plunges into the depths.

Straining your hearing, you pivot towards the Ascendant, biting back a scowl at the distant sound of what you pray is Astarion plunging into the forgiving embrace of the waters.

The bow you once gripped, a token of your fleeting freedom, is seized with an insidious gentleness from your grasp by unseen forces. The quiver follows, dispatched unceremoniously, its clinking demise a chorus to your fading defiance, its contents scattering with a reckless symphony upon the cold ground.

His gaze burns into you, smoldering with a dark intensity. Within the depths of those darkly glinting eyes, is a mingled twisted pride with disappointment at your earnest attempts for freedom. To him, your resistance is a game, a challenge to be adored and extinguished.

Oh, how he cherishes you, even as he schools you with an obsessive, possessive love—a love that will exact its price from you in whispered, intimate consequences.

With every honeyed promise, the reality blurs, and the terrifying truth takes root: you are perilously close to cherishing the very chains he binds you with. And the silent tears that threaten to spill—the ones you dare not show—are proof of the battle within, a heart both resisting and yielding to his insidious embrace.

He pulls you close, enfolding you in an unexpected gentle embrace. A shiver grazes across your delicate skin, his arms tighten around you as if you were the only fragile soul in all Toril. The crimson gleam in his eyes precedes the darkness curling protectively, hungrily, as though it were a living thing.

There's an unsettling tenderness in his touch, possessive and chilling, as though he would never allow the world to steal you away from the cocoon of obsession he's spun. That you belong to him—and only him—in this twisted fantasy of affection.

As the veil of shadows recedes, there you are, standing somewhere in the bloody palace you'd only just slipped from.

A scream simmers on the cusp of your lips, the desire to raze the walls of this opulent cage with nothing but the strength of your will, pulsates through your veins. To incinerate its every crevice with fury searing enough to challenge the infernal heat of Karlach's own fiery heart.

He yields as you thrust yourself from his embrace, your senses drinking in the eerie calm of the lavish bedchamber bathed in silvered whispers of moonbeam. "...And?" The Ascendant's voice slithers, a seductive murmur that curls around you from behind. His tone drapes possessively over your shoulders, an intangible caress. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Your snarl is sharp as you pivot to face him, defiance etched in every line of your being. "Fuck. You. If you think I'll ever stop trying to pry myself out of your grasp, you truly know nothing of me." you spit out with venom enough to fell a wyrm.

Sighing deeply and with a languid, almost taunting cadence, he approaches. Each step measured to instill uncertainty as if to tempt you to back away or run. But you are steadfast, your hands clenched in silent defiance, even as he tenderly traces the line of your jaw.

Never could you have fathomed that Astarion's touch would repulse you, his warmth an unwelcome blaze. And yet, repulsion is your reality. "Oh, my pretty consort. My little spitfire." His murmurs are velvet, so softly you might have imagined the caress of his thumb on your blemished cheek. "You will be exquisite as my queen, my bride eternal." He coos tenderly, as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

"Then do it." You challenge, not daring to pull away from his touch just yet. "Drag me to the altar, shove the crown on my head, turn me already, right here." Oh, the delicious fantasy of driving your dagger deep into his back, unraveling him slowly, bit by bit—it dances through your mind like a siren's song. But you know provoking his ire will only backfire.

Yet the allure remains strong, calling to the very core of you. To bestow the gift of your urge upon one who truly merits such a fate.

A faint, disturbing chuckle escapes his throat, as a disturbing grin twitches at his mouth. "No, my pet. I've woven such intricate designs for you. And when the moment ripens, when our pulses in perfect harmony, I'll reveal to you a world of shadowed luxuries and forbidden delights, the kind that this realm reserves for its most formidable sovereigns." There’s an ominous tenor to his promise that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end, a warning that his words are just the surface of something deeper, something darkly intimate.

Out of nowhere, a whirlpool of shadows appears and from it, Ballar springs, his spine curving in a swift, respectful bow. "Your Almighty Majesty, your esteemed visitor crossed the threshold not a heartbeat before you and Lady Ancunín graced these halls with your return," he blurts, breathless with urgency.

The Ascendant's gaze sharpens, a flicker of intrigue as his hands come to rest at his sides, easy and poised. "Has she indeed? So soon?" he murmurs, pivoting smoothly on his heel to meet the eyes of the tall Elven man.

Ballar rose to his full height, his posture going rigid with formality. "She sends her deepest regrets for the shield of caution she's wrapped herself in, yet she stands by her need for such prudence."

"That can be addressed at a later time. Retrieve the heart and meet us in the Eventide Gardens." Commands the Ascendant to Ballar, who melts away shrouded in a swirling maelstrom of night. His eyes then burn into your soul with a chilling delight. "I had fancied the notion of luring you into the soothing warmth of a bath, but such luxuries must be postponed," The chilling twist of his grin pierces through you, a sensation more unnerving than any prior moment shared with him—and that truly speaks volumes.

The Ascendant drifts toward the dresser. Your ring is absent, but that scroll case sits there, looming with an air of foreboding. Intriguingly, he plucks a pair of gloves that lie nearby and deftly secretes a tiny phial into the belt around his armor. "Come along, my sweet," he beckons with a devil's allure, "our tale of power and awe awaits us to carve its telling into the ageless constellations."

Your brow creases into a frown. His ardor strikes a dissonant chord, more alarming than reassuring. Perhaps this is the rite then—the sacrament. Zylinn painted it in strokes of peril, too sinister for your meddling.

Yet, when has that ever stopped you?

If the danger is as real and stark as his warnings suggested, it cries out for intervention and it is in your hands to prevent it. Magic that can touch one's soul? Such things are uncommon whispers in the dark—the lore of soul cages and magic jars are known, but this... this speaks of a peril unfamiliar. And it must not be allowed to unfurl.

Shadowing his every move, your mind whirls like a tempest, you can't help but mentally sift through all the possibilities that come to mind for the items he has gathered. Robbed of your trusty bow and quiver, you feel a pang of frustration as you lament the fact that he stripped you of your bow and arrows.

With each passing moment, the gravity of the task at hand weighs heavily upon you. The surroundings seem to blur as you immerse yourself in the task set before you, and you know that without a weapon, your ability to put a stop to this will be severely limited. But there is no time to dwell on it. You'll have to improvise as you go.

In your mind's eye, you picture Astarion, and a hopeful whisper in your heart insists he's unharmed. He has to be safe; he just has to. The idea that his journey could be snuffed out so unceremoniously, so abruptly... it's unthinkable. Astarion, who's faced down shadows scarier than most could dream, who's outwitted fate time and again. Maybe not by the most moral of methods. No, he's a survivor, and survivors find a way through, always.

He said he wouldn't leave you alone... His heart, tarnished though it may be by shadows of the past, nevertheless holds a small, gentle glow, like the embers of a long-forgotten fire. Ever since he laid his soul bare that night in the shadows of Moonrise, confessing his deepest emotions, you haven't once doubted the sincerity that glows in his eyes, his affection for you.

He vowed he'd save you from the siren call of your own darkness. He's promised to help you retake your freedom. For better or for worse, you trust his word wholeheartedly.

Guided by the Ascendant, you step through an imposing doorway into a wonderland of vibrant flora and manicured shrubberies, all circling a majestic fountain that sings a crystal melody. Enveloped in an abyssal dome where not even a whisper of starlight breaches the darkness, you feel the void of the moonless midnight.

"Did the wonders of my realm charm you upon your arrival, Missy Superior?" he asks, a smooth cadence in his query pulling your focus from the wonders around and pulling you into the throes of the moment unfolding with each heartbeat.

With her eyes lifted in hushed awe and reverence, there stands by the fountain the honored guest, clad in unmistakable armor merging shadow and splendor. The kind of armor that could only belong to a dark justiciar. Etched in steel and kissed by gold, the deep violet scarf wrapped snug around their throat stands out. "Not a trace of moonlight to disturb the flawless obscurity bestowed by Lady Shar," she murmurs, almost to herself. Then, slowly, she pivots gently in your direction. Her gaze descended from the heavens, settling upon you with the weight of dozens of lifetimes.

You're beyond speechless. No, that's not even close. "Do you have it, Shadowheart?" Astarion inquires, his tone sharp and quick as a striking serpent.

Shadowheart greets you with a familiar, gentle nod and a gaze that defies time, her appearance untouched by time's march. Quite literally, not looking a day older than the cleric you left.

For a fleeting moment, you're nearly convinced she's the old companion you cherished, save for the night-shaded locks. "It's safeguarded," she assures you with a serene confidence. "And what news do you bring of the Heart of Darkness?" Her words flow gently. A serene harbor in the midst of your storm-tossed journey.

Astarion's expression remained fixed, his eyes flickering with unspoken thoughts. "The wizard was true to his promise. Ballar," he uttered, the name leaving his lips at the exact moment his fingers clicked like the sound of a lock springing to life.

As if out of thin air, he appears in a whirl of shifting shadows. Clasped in his hands, a jewel enshrouded by pale linen which he extends towards her with outstretched arms.

Shadowheart steps closer to accept it, her eyes narrowing with intrigue as her fingers brush the surface. "Truly? It... pulses like a heart as well?" she questions, wonder tinting her voice.

"Fascination abounds," Astarion breathes out, punctuating the air with a hint of boredom as he strides toward the fountain. He waves his hand carelessly, and a swirl of ebony mist sweeps the fountain away, unveiling a hidden stairway beneath. "Ballar, be on guard," he commands, the air frosting over with the severity of his tone, "We mustn’t suffer any disturbances."

Addressing with utmost respect, Ballar acknowledges, "As you have commanded, so shall it be, my Godking," his tone unwavering in loyalty.

Beckoning you to his side, Astarion abruptly stops and casts a glance back at Shadowheart. "Any chance you can work some of your magic on her, maybe a little prestidigitation to spruce her up? Sure, her gown's seen better days, but wearing the filth and grime of five realms of Faerûn? Intolerable." he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

The cleric shoots a glance that speaks volumes, yet with a resigned exhale that betrays her patience is wearing thin, she acquiesces. As she quietly utters the spell, a cozy, soothing sensation cascades across your skin as the spellbind lifts the dirt from your skin and dress, leaving you feeling fresh and spotless.

Your eyes lock with hers, and in those deep, mossy pools you're ensnared by the depths of her you've never seen in your Shadowheart before. You can't shake off the curiosity bubbling within you, nor the overwhelming urge to embrace her, to confirm she's real. She's familiar, yet... thrillingly foreign, and her eyes—those mirrors to her soul—reflected an eerie new intrigue in the way her eyes hold yours...

"Come now, pet, dawdling is not an option," Astarion's voice slices through the connection, impatience lacing his tone. With a reluctant twist in your chest, you pivot and continue to follow his lead, down spiraling stone steps into the cool shadows below. Shadowheart keeps pace, her presence a silent promise right at your heels.

Strangely, you find yourself stepping into an expansive cavern, its vaulted ceiling embraced by darkness and veiled by a creeping mist that danced upon the unseen floor. The flickering light from the torches positioned along the walls provided the only source of light.

He takes your hand in his—a clasp both gentle and unyielding, pulling you with a resolute force to the heart of this eerie hollow.

Thoughts of rebellion flutter through your mind—fleeing, resisting. Yet, unarmed and having glimpsed the dark reach of his power, you realize resistance may awaken a tempest. To provoke him now would spell ruin. For now, survival lies in the masquerade of compliance.

He pivots toward you, his touch lifts your chin, a claim disguised as a caress and the ghost of a possessive smile playing on his lips. "My pretty consort..." he murmurs, voice dripping with an obsession as pure as it is terrifying. "Tonight, you will glimpse but a sliver of the lengths I will go to keep the past's bitter hands from our future..." Heat from his thumb skims your skin with a gentle fire, while his crimson gaze latches onto yours. Ensnaring you, pulling you deeper into his spell...

Your limbs seize up, each one rebelling against your will like iron in frost. You try to burn him with your fiercest scowl, but it's no use-His smirk, a twisted crescent, is shadowed with a chilling intent that pierces deeper than the coldest night. "On." The word slides off his tongue as his hand retracting gracefully. "Your." With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his hand, his fingers curling inward into a haunting directive. Save for the solitary index finger. Pointed you earthward. "Knees, my pet." Purring the words, they curl around you like tendrils of a dark spell. His voice a velvet darkness, each syllable dripping with a love that is as cruel as it is compelling, drawing you into its depths and urging you to submit.

Desperate to resist, you grasp at the slipping shards of your will, but your body begins to betray you and begins the descent, a puppet ensnared in unseen cords. He waves his hand, and the fog parts like a curtain drawn back to reveal the stage, laying bare a ring of cryptic runes encircling you.

"Call her forth, Shadowheart." Astarion demands with an imperious turn. His ebony cloak ripples with the grace of nightfall, as though the very air around him was bewitched to follow his whims. Circling like a constellation moving through the skies, leaving you at the epicenter of this arcane ritual. Your eyes trace his path as he places a scroll case and then, delicately, a pair of gloves before you-an offering, or perhaps tools as you wait, poised on your knees.

As she drifts into your vision from the right, she circles you like the moon tracing its path in the night sky. Her gaze burns with a luminous violet. Dark vapors ribbon from her fingertips, dancing like spirits in the twilight.

With a voice that seems to weave through the stillness of the night, she says, "O Night's Mistress, Veil of Darkness, hear my call. In the shadow of your wings, I seek refuge. In the silence of your secrets, I find strength." Goosebumps rise on your skin, each syllable soaked in the fervor of her Sharran faith. A faith you know your Shadowheart had broken free from.

Guided by the gentle pull of her own steps, she edges before you, hands lifted to the unseen sky. "Before the shroud of your eternal dusk, I stand, a mere wisp of your vast darkness. From the depths of despair and the cradle of shadows, I call out to you, seeking the honor of your presence."

"You what??" tumbles from your lips, a startled echo. In a flicker, the flame from the torches is snuffed out, giving way to a darkness too dense to be natural.

The silence is almost a living thing, only pierced by Shadowheart's steady tones. "Let the nightfall be the bridge between your realm and ours, and grace us with the visage of your divine essence." A churning mist embraces the chamber, curling like an unseen tempest, barely visible in the all-consuming dark. Quietly, violet flashes of lightning fork through the mist and from the dome above.

"May the darkness manifest and the silence speak your arrival. Shar, I beckon you, not as a demand, but as the ultimate homage to your unfathomable depths. Reveal yourself, not as the light does, but as darkness enveloping all, a testament to your power and mystery." Shadowheart's ritual reaches its crescendo, her hand bearing the wound thrums with dark light, yet she shows no sign of the agony you'd expect.

The room's air thickens, dark fog coalescing at its farthest reach, where Shar, the Lady of Loss herself, materializes from the mist. Enshrouded in a cloak woven from the essence of night itself, she is barely visible, but unmistakably present. Her voice, echoing from the shadows that form her court, "At last, we convene," she declares with regal disdain. "Let us proceed. This child who fancies himself a sovereign has long since exhausted my tolerance."

As Shar's gaze pierces through the murk, she watches Astarion weave a mute path emerges from behind you, on your left. His eyes, alight with a cunning glint, study the shadowy visage before him for a long while, making a show of cocking his head from side to side. "Well now... this is a surprise. The wizard was right then. You truly do not know where the heart is." He mused, bringing his fingers to cradle his chin.

The air around you seems to crackle with Shar's displeasure, a biting cold that might very well frost the blood in your veins, a tempest barely contained and as palpable as the taste of iron during a storm. "Spare me your coy charades, child," she warns, her spectral gaze cutting through the umbral haze. "I have bestowed much upon you, and here you are seeking more. Heed this: my realm's bounty knows no end, but my leniency has its bounds."

"Of course, terribly sorry." murmured Astarion with an air of sarcasm thick enough to touch, his gaze flitting across the dim expanse to where Shadowheart holds her ground on his right, the other side of you, steadfast and resolute. "It just so happens I have become quite acquainted with loss over the last century and a half, as well as Shadowheart. The... sharp lesson you designed with Nocturne, lingers still. Does it not, dear Shadowheart?" His hand, once thoughtfully at his chin, now swung with nonchalance toward her.

"Yes... the same can be said for Dekarios, isn't that right?" Shadowheart responds with a lift of her chin, her head held high in stoic defiance.

In a sudden crescendo, a deafening thud pounds through the cavern's heart, bouncing off its ancient bones. Shar crumbles before us, her knees striking the stone with the weight of the ages. "Indeed," hisses Not-Gale, a cruel edge to Not-Gale's tone, as he looms behind the faltering deity. Arcane tendrils, alight with an eerie glow, lash out from his fingertips around Shar, a magic so intense, a power too monumental for your mind to grasp. It brings a blinding ache between your temples just to witness.

"You... you dare," Shar hisses, her darkness roiling around her like a tempest scorned. Yet, it betrays her, refusing to obey her furious demands. They danced away from her grasp, and her shock becomes a tangible thing, a rare, fractured shard of divine disbelief.

A wicked grin spreads across Astarion's face, dark eyes alight with a malevolent crimson glow. "No, no... They heed the call of a new master..." he crowed, satisfaction lacing his tone. The very shadows that once heralded her presence now betray her, binding her in their smoky chains to hold her captive at his feet. "So the three of us came to a mutual understanding and reached a new, more than adequate agreement. Shadowheart, if you would..."

He shifts, granting Shadowheart the space to take the heart from behind her in her belt and move toward Shar. "You wouldn't dare! I made you, you ungrateful, spiteful imbecile of a child! It is I who deemed you, above all others, worth keeping long past your time! Were it not for my steady hand on your life, you would have long succumbed to your own folly!" Shar's protest fell on deaf ears as she squirmed, the shadowy tendrils and magical binds refusing her any mercy.

Shadowheart cradles Shar's shrouded in darkness. "And I will be ever grateful to you. You made me capable of the impossible." Her fingers trace down to Shar's chin, holding it firm. "As you have taught for time eternal, Loss is an inevitability. Nothing lasts. Not your most loyal, neither your chosen. Let go, Shar... Embrace Loss."

With a sudden grace, Shadowheart rears up, casting away the cloth that veils the Heart, the vessel. Her hands, firm and sure, cracks it in the middle.

A maelstrom of iridescent brilliance erupts—a tempest of colors that dance and whirl, the surrounding air drawn into a vortex that threatens more in mind than in reality. Yet, amidst this chaos, only you, Shadowheart, Dekarios and Astarion, remain untouched by its furious serenity. Something unnatural, like the screams of a thousand gods long past and forgotten ring in your ears, beyond your comprehension.

Then, as quick as lightning kisses the earth, the tempest subsides.

Collapsing before Shadowheart, now cast in the flickering glow of newly returned torchlight, a woman with hair as dark as a moonless night, her breath coming in labored gasps and her body a quivering portrait of fatigue and sweat in the flickering light.

"Hmph. That was disappointing." Astarion scoffed with a flicker of disdain, striding over to tower above the fallen figure beside Shadowheart, eyes returned to their typical vermillion, "My ascension was so very exciting, so dramatic and befitting my station, a king, a god! But this...? A goddess's fall from grace?"

With effort, the woman pushed herself upright on trembling hands, her defiant gaze slicing through with dark blue eyes—the only hint that she might have been something otherworldly. "So disappointing." Astarion almost purrs, clearly entertained as he circled her with predatory grace. Shadowheart, on her part, discreetly slipped the now-dimmed gem into a concealed compartment of her belt.

"You will pay for this... every single one of you! Your children, their children, and their children's children!"

"You skipped a generation there." Shadowheart mutters with an audible grin, her arms now snugly crossed.

Astarion pauses just behind the once mighty deity, his gaze wandering upward as if catching his thoughts mid-air. "Oh, I don't know. If it's our children, then their children..." he mused aloud, his fingers tracing invisible threads in the crisp, damp cavern air.

Shadowheart cocks her head. "Right, there's us, then our children. Then their children, that's the third generation..." she ponders, along with an idle shrug of her hand.

Chin in hand, Astarion’s nimble, pale fingers tapped a thoughtful rhythm. "So our children, then their children, supposedly pay. Then the third generation's children pay?" Turning his head to Shadowheart as if she's the one who made the threat.

"Exactly my point, the third generation is skipped entirely." She nods, her own hand now uplifting her chin in mirrored thoughtfulness.

With a whisper of movement, Dekarios unfolds from the shadows just beyond where Astarion stands, "Might we postpone such spirited debates for a moment more suited to conversation?" he suggests, with an impeccable knack for timing that leaves you secretly irritated. This charm that the Ascendant had spun around you lingers stubbornly, far more potent than before. Your fingertips tingle with the slow return of sensation, but they remain defiantly numb, leaving your fingers as rigid as frozen twigs, barely able to twitch.

"Agreed. We're losing time." Astarion concurred with a stern tone. In a swift, calculated motion, he grasps Shars' flowing locks and jerked her head aside with ruthless intent.

Your breath catches as Astarion descends upon her, his fangs gleaming ominously before piercing the delicate flesh of her neck. A silent pact of predator and prey is sealed with a mere whimper as Shar hardly uttered a sound,

When his thirst is quenched, he discards her like a spent candle, allowing her body to collapse onto the cold stone. Her complexion is ashen, the very image of deathly pallor as she crumbles to his boots. A flicker of dissatisfaction crossing his features.

Astarion studies her motionless form and with a disdainful spit aside her still form, he utters, "Disappointing..." His voice is a low growl, a dark echo of sentiments once spoken. "With the shadow weave now predominantly present in the cavern, it is time to claim my due before I have her buried."

He barely avoids grazing Shar's faintly quivering digits as he steps over her with uncaring ease. His boots thudded on the cavern floor until he halted before Shadowheart. With a flourish of dark magic, a sinister blade emerged into her grasp, its leather sheath adorned with ominous green runes that seemed to dance and hiss with sinister life. "The Shadowcarver," she declared formally, "the unique glyphblade necessary for the Unimina. As agreed upon." As she extended the foreboding weapon towards him.

You watch in horror as a smile, slow and sinister, creeps across his lips—a smile that chills your bones, like a ravenous beast sighting its next ghastly meal. He takes the blade and pulls it from its sheath, revealing a make of darkened steel with strange glyphs that softly glow green, shaped into a fine point. Astarion admires it from one side to another in the torchlight. How faint threads of darkness gently feed into the glyphs on the blade, a thin line of green glyph along the cutting edge.

As your gazes lock, Astarion's grin widens into something far more chilling, turning your way. With every deliberate step he takes within the strange ring of runes etched onto the ground, a soft glow pulses from each symbol, as if breathing to the rhythm of his stride. Shadowheart maintains her distance, hugging the perimeter while Dekarios paces, a careful observer just outside it.

Astarion pauses before you for a heartbeat. Then, he gracefully lowers himself before the chest, his hands deftly unfastening the catches with a satisfying click before swinging it open. "This more potent charm appears to have tamed you quite nicely," he purrs, unfurling the scroll within and sweeping his gaze across it. "Like a work of art... you will be one step closer to perfection, my treasure..." His whisper barely reaches you, laced with private delight.

"With this," he utters fiercely as his words harden into a growl, snatching the glove and standing tall, "nothing will pry you from my grasp." A beckoning gesture of his pale hand calls forth the shadows, and they heed, manifesting a tendril of darkness to cradle the scroll in the air, facing you.

There, revealed to you at last, was no text but a sketch. An arrangement of symbols entwined in a circle. A puzzle assembles within your mind, revealing his chilling intention. "It that your needle, Cazador?"

A twinge of complex emotions washes over you, marked by the tautness in his form when your barb strikes home. His eyes flicker, hinting at a suppressed urge to retaliate... but he restrains himself, fixated on donning the glove upon his left hand while drawing a small vial from his belt. "You're acquainted with slumberthorn toxin, are you not? Cazador would've let your screams sing him to sleep," the words barely more than a murmur off his lips and tone soft as a secret, a fleeting semblance of warmth amidst the encroaching cold.

He leans in, a smirk playing across his lips, shadowed and sure. "Oh, the naïve believe a monster only crafts nightmares with needles, clumsy and cruel," his voice a mixture of eerie tenderness and dark amusement. "But an artist can wield the same needle with such precision, such... brilliance, that the lines between horror and beauty blur."

His smirk widens into a chilling grin. "I am the exception—both the monster and the maestro."

Even as enchantment binds you, unable to resist, he orchestrates the very shadows to dangle from the ceiling’s embrace, your wrists lifted as if in offering. A creeping realization settles that the slumberthorn’s venom promises a descent into inescapable slumber—and how unceremonious it would be to crumble to the floor and impede his meticulous intentions.

With your frame secured in the shadow's grasp, Astarion prowls to your rear, liberating the vial’s top. His touch is a ghostly caress along your skin, sliding the worn threads of your dress aside, baring the untouched canvas of your skin. A solitary droplet of icy elixir kisses your shoulder and traces a shivering path down your arm, the smell of fresh, earthy plants tickles your nose. Then, agony a lance of white-hot torment piercing the space between your shoulder blades, wrenching from your lips a cry torn from surprise and agony.

And as the world dims to nothingness, a peculiar ache constricts your heart, something... weaving and unraveling all at once, accompanied by the dismal awareness of blood, your own, warm and trickling, painting your back sanguine.

‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐

"Caladhel can go blow bubbles with a pixie for all I care," the gnome scoffs over his shoulder. "He should be more concerned about evacuating the safehouses before the Noctis flush out the tunnel network."

"Aye, they've already hit several, and our ranks are getting thinner by the day." Aric grumbles, his voice a rumble as they continue their trek downhill, a rusty shovel perched on his shoulder like a knight's lance. The locket glimmered in Jester's grip, while Astarion followed a pace behind, lost in his thoughts despite trying hard to keep his mind focused. The sun's dying light cast a fiery cloak over them as dusk approached.

He couldn't stop thinking about yesterday. How close he came to ending this for you both, only to fall so short.

"No word on Durgan or Zylinn either, right?" Aric asks, the two barely masking their decision to steer clear of the silent and brooding elf.

Honestly, when would you stop playing the idiot, gallant hero? When would you accept that this time you are in need of saving? Initially, he feared the worst. Perhaps the bastard had slithered into your mind, made nice with the tiny beast inside your skull even. Maybe he'd lulled you into believing your place was by his side until the line between captivity and courtship blurred—until you couldn't remember the sweet taste of freedom...

"Pyrastra and Caladhel are convinced Ancunín is the culprit behind their disappearance," Jester muttered, the wariness in his tone betraying his own hesitations, "yet something doesn't sit right with me. Truth be told, I can't fathom why..." he admits with a puzzled shake of his head.

But the more Astarion turned the memory over in his mind, the clearer the details became. The scarlet shimmer of the bracelet clasped around your foot, the desperate struggle you faced as you attempted to lift it...

Godsdamnit, he could have helped you.

"Where was Caladhel yesterday?" The tiefling man queries with simple curiosity.

Jester, his fingers restlessly playing with a locket that dangled by his side, gave a casual shrug. "He was to rendezvous with them at the city's edge, but when the plan went sideways, he fell back to Haven. But what vexes me to no end is Spellsong and Morning's stupidity. They knew damn well than to act so openly, killing one of his special spawn. Then not listening to the queen is another mess altogether..." His voice faded into a grumble, clearly annoyed.

"Tav." Astarion interjected sharply, clearly at the brink of losing his patience. Jester and Aric stopped to glance at their once quiet comrade, their brows creasing in confusion. "Her name is Tav."

"Right." Jester acknowledged with a quick blink, "not a strange name..."

"Once Elowen lays eyes on Tav, we can hatch a new plan to get her out, Aster." said Aric, and with those words he turned on his heel, leading the way down an earthen path towards the beach.

Astarion's voice climbed a notch, tinged with concern. "Elowen hasn't seen her?"

Jester shakes his head. "Seems like nobody has. You were the last to lay eyes on her."

As they approached the same stretch of sand along the shore, astonishingly little has changed even in this world, where so much time has passed.

Astarion never fancied himself one for nostalgia, yet the ambience of this place tugged at something within him. It was here that he first laid eyes on you, emerging from the nautiloid wreckage—the very picture of intrigue, with Shadowheart trailing close, eyes already alight with admiration.

Even then, the magnetism you exuded was palpable. Others seemed mesmerized in your presence and Astarion noted it keenly.

Shadowheart, the devoted Sharran, so quickly wrapped around your dainty finger from the moment you crossed paths. Her heart, usually so guarded, skipped a beat with every word you uttered, every glance you shared. Meanwhile, Gale's heart thundered like storm drums at the mere sight of you.

He watched, sometimes with mirth, other times with a jealousy that pricked at his chest, as one by one, your little band vie for your a place in your heart.

Lae'zel was drawn irresistibly to your essence, her loyalty unwavering as your shadow. Karlach ever eager to compliment you or go out of her way for you. Wyll almost painfully obviously indulging in his chivalrous, charming prince act. And Halsin...

...godsdamned Halsin...

Perhaps you should have taken Gale's offer to teach you magic that Astarion surely didn't catch the inept man planning for days prior. Or accepted Shadowhearts' invitation at the party over a fine vintage that she, of course, wasn't saving just for the occasion. Perhaps... No. You should have chosen anyone but him.

After all, look where it's led you?

"This is the place," Jester's words cut through the stillness, jerking Astarion back to the present. His eyes catch the soft radiance of the locket clasped in the gnome rogue's grip, its radiance a beacon in the dimming light. The shifting sands below seem untouched by the rhythm of time, barely altered from that day. It's almost as if he can see it—the echo of you, your silhouette emerging from the shoreline, responding to his calls for help.

"Hurry! I've got one of those brain things cornered!" He exclaimed, resisting the urge to smile at how well this little plan of his was falling into place.

You quirked an eyebrow, contemplation flickering across your face. He took in the sight of you: a bow strapped against your back, accompanied by a quiver half-filled with arrows resting on your shoulder. Your leather armor bore the marks of recent skirmishes. Stains of drying crimson adorned your sleeves. You seemed worn out, bruised. Short stature, light build. Easy.

A different caution glinted in the eyes of the half-elf shadowing you, clad in the shimmer of light, clinking chain mail—a cleric by his best guess.

She seemed loyal, but not born of any significant bond. More a debt she seems to feel she owes you. The look she was giving him could almost unnerve him, but to sell the danger, he turned away to face apparent peril, beckoning you both closer with a casual wave. "There, in the grass. You can kill it, can't you? Like you did the others."

From over his shoulder, he observed the casual crossing of your arms, your eyes locking with the clerics. With a pronounced exhale, you relented, "Alright, alright, let me take a look..." and approached the spot in question.

Astarion's eyes trailed after you, the corners of his mouth threatening to betray his amusement, even as his fingers crept surreptitiously to the pommel of his dagger. "There, can you see it?" he prodded, urging you to fixate on the rustling bush. You just needed to look closely for but a moment. Just a moment...

With silent steps, he maneuvered behind you, moving into position... and then that damned boar made a break for it. "You're kidding." You deadpanned. "All that - for a fucking oversized pig with tusks."

Astarion caught the hint of bewilderment in your tone, but you hadn't caught on yet and he was short on time. "Are you daft or just drama-TIC?" In one fluid motion, the blade found its way to your throat, poised yet not pressing against you as he moved to grapple you in his arms.

Tired as you might have been, you had more fight in you than he had given you credit for. You threw your weight back into him, and sent Astarion stumbling, his balance wavering like a tree in the storm. But he reacted swiftly, pulling you down with him. Your hand latched onto his arm reflexively in a futile attempt to free yourself, but there was little you could do to loosen him off you in this position.

And there you were, just as he had planned, his dagger taunting the delicate skin of your precious little throat. The tease of your vein throbbing under your skin. Almost inviting him for a nibble, a taste of what he imagines is your delightful life essence. "Shh. Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours." Astarion hushed, his hunger held tightly in check.

"Rather attached to it, actually." Your reply, strained yet tinged with humor, flashing a lopsided, strained grin that caught him off guard for a fleeting moment.

You were a pretty sight like this, on your back-he'll admit...

Such a beautiful creature you were—in league with a ship's worth of squid.

What a surprise you were, darling...

His gaze snapped upwards, catching the cleric's eye before she could get any ideas. "And you - Keep your distance! No need for this to get messy," he warned.

The cleric glared. Power crackled in her voice, a tempest of divine magic barely contained. Her hands barely resisting the call to cast and intervene. "I need her alive - Stow that blade, or I'll show you just how messy things can get," she growled low and dangerous piquing his interest.

But not enough to care.

"Aha! Promises, promises." Astarion light-heartedly retorted, a rogue's grin spreading across his features. "But I have other business, I'm afraid." and with that, he directed his gaze back to you, your form squirming lightly under his hold.

He adjusted his hold on you, keeping the blade just near your throat enough to remind you who was in control. "Now, I saw you on the ship, didn't I? Nod."

Caught between defiance and prudence, you hesitated, carefully considering your predicament. Ultimately, you answered with a single nod. "Splendid." Astarion praised with a sardonic smile. "And now you're going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me," he demanded, eyes sharpening with the query.

"What in the hells are you talking about? Do I look like a walking seafood platter?" You snapped bitterly through grit teeth.

"Don't play cute, you little - agh!" Suddenly his mind twisted, writhed in his skull. The eyes in his head felt strange. Through them he watches his feet touch the nautiloid floor, the blood in his head thrums, and a gaping void where memories of a life lived should be. He feels confusion, only a name and a headache as what he can call his own.

His senses flooded back like a deluge. "What was that? What's going on?"

The answer came not in words, but in an unexpected shift of the scales as you freed a hand to push against his face, swiftly breaking from his hold to reclaim your freedom. With grace born of necessity, both of you rose, an unsettling dance mirrored by the roll of both your bodies. He held his dagger tight, his gaze locked with yours, searching, questioning.

And in that moment, if Astarion’s undead heart could still beat within his chest...

...It would have skipped twice.

Jester peered over as Aric paused and gazed into the deep pit before him, then gracefully leapt down with a soft thud. What Astarion saw next surprised him.

When Aric bent down, Astarion envisioned Aric unearthing a grand coffin, or an embellished, weighty chest, perhaps even a stately urn. Yet, what Aric tenderly cradled from the earth was an old dark wood box, worn at the edges and smeared with the earthy remnants of its burial.

The tiefling gingerly placed it before Jester, and, with a slight arch of his back, Jester wiped away the dirt from the locks with his bare fingers, the earth clinging to the material of his fingerless gloves. He scrutinized the locket in his palm, flipping it over several times before he held it to the lock and clicked the catch. Upon pressing the hidden catch, the locket's mechanism resisted just as it had before. But the lock that guarded the curious box began to dance with hues of fiery orange and burnished gold and finally unlocking with an audible click.

Aric clambered out of the pit as Astarion, curiosity piqued, sidled up behind Jester. The chest's lid creaked open to reveal a solitary, tightly secured leather pouch, its closure bound with a strip of golden fabric. "What in the nine realms…?" Aric let out, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Astarion quizzically arched an eyebrow. "He simply stuffed her ashes in a sack and buried them without ceremony?" he mused, his tone laced with dry humor. "How utterly twee."

With a sharpness in his tone and a glare directed at the two taller figures, Jester retorted, "Oh, what a shock—the late queen treated as refuse. It's not as if he's ever done such a thing before." He paused, a note of impatience coloring his words. "We must ensure her safe return to Haven."

The mention of the queen by the gnome stirred a flicker of interest in Astarion.

But their musings were abruptly eclipsed as the world around them dimmed, and they found themselves enveloped in a dark emerald gloom.

From within the pouch, tendrils of dark green mist began to coil upwards. A wraith-like figure arose, formless yet distinctly feminine—a specter, perhaps a ghost... And from the silence rose a tentative voice.

"...H-hello...?"

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

A/N: GUYS I'M BACK. I've been writing this almost nonstop since I finished Chapter 9. Finished editing this while on vacation (brought my whole laptop with me, portable monitor included) and after work pressure, vacation packing/planning, active vacation things, a family emergency in the middle of vacation… WE'RE HERE!

HUGE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO WAITED PATIENTLY FOR ME TO FINISH THIS I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT. I'LL FINALLY BE ABLE TO RESPOND TO MY ASKS NOW.

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