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Chapter Text

Zoraya Naelgrath had spent most of her life chasing after Astarion Ancunin.

Quite literally at first, scampering after his nimble form as he ran through the gardens of the Ancunin estate on his way to slay imaginary villains or unearth long-forgotten treasure chests. Panting for air as she followed him up the great plum trees, never quite able to catch up with him. Her arms too short to reach the uppermost branches, where he sat with his legs crossed leisurely, grinning down at her until she either spat out an insult or broke into tears.

Astarion had always loved being ahead of her.

Later, after she finally had her own growth spurt and trees and treasures had lost a lot of their appeal, it became a different kind of chase. One that seemed to take place entirely in their minds. They’d sit in his parents’ living room, bowls full of expensive imported sweets on the large coffee table between them, and Zoraya would stare at that sly smile of his, trying to determine if he was cheating her at cards.

“But, Zoya,” he’d say in that tone that made her name sound like something out of a storybook. Like a magic spell, capable of evaporating any suspicions she might have, simply by virtue of flowing from his lips. “Would I ever lie to you?”

It was about then, when she was 12 and he was 15, that the frenzied beating of her heart began to interfere with her ability to tell his lies from the truth whenever he looked at her like that. But they were still close; as close as the prodigal son of House Ancunin and the insignificant girl they had taken in as their ward could possibly be.

It wasn’t until he turned 16 and received his first expulsion from school for some sort of jest, involving the head principal and a whole lot of honey somewhere entirely undesirable, that Zoraya felt Astarion drift away from her. As long as she could remember, it had always just been the two of them, but now, he’d suddenly bring new friends to the estate. Tall boys with haircuts that looked like they could have withstood a full-blown thunderstorm and girls with large chests and not a whole lot of fabric to cover them.

Zoraya told herself it wasn’t a big deal. That all she had to do was grow up a little, wait for her own stick-straight hips to bend into that hourglass shape all those girls seemed to have, for her own eyelashes to turn dark and curly — and then Astarion would surely introduce her to his new friends.

Oh, to be 13 and optimistic about the world.

By the time she was 14, Astarion hardly spoke to her anymore. He was always off with his new friends, sneaking wine into the stables whenever his parents were out at a banquet or some other function. Zoraya spent those nights with her nose glued to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his silver curls amidst the dancing, laughing crowd. That was how she was able to spot the fire that curled up from one of the haystacks — likely the result of a discarded pipe or cigarette — and alert the Watch before the entire stable could burn to the ground.

Still, Astarion’s mother was furious about the whole thing. Quelenna Ancunin hadn’t worked so hard to elevate her family into the ranks of Baldur’s Gate nobility only to have her son ruin the legacy with his youthful transgressions. So she hired even more tutors than before and set even more rules, expressly forbidding his friends from ever coming to the estate again.

Which meant that Zoraya had to stay up even later than before. Making sure she not only saw Astarion climb out of his bedroom window and disappear into the night, but also how he returned in the early morning hours. Hair tousled and wine stains all over his shirt, disheveled and drunk enough to make out his swaying even at a distance, but safe. Somehow, miraculously unharmed despite the many dangers that might befall a young nobleman on his way to secret midnight gatherings.

She knew at that point that it was pointless, of course. The sweet boy who had once been her best friend in the whole entire world had turned into the kind of man who caused traffic accidents by running a hand through his hair and smiling a little too much. His round, pudgy face had narrowed and sharpened, his voice had lowered, and he walked with the confident strides of someone who knew they could have anything and anyone they wanted.

Which no longer included her.

Now, Zoraya had to chase after him just to catch a glimpse of the back of his head, the set of his shoulders. Often across a large distance, through corridors and half-closed doors and the hedges behind the gym, where he and his friends would hang out after school. Because despite the fact that they lived in the same estate, he no longer seemed to acknowledge her existence, let alone the friendship they’d once shared.

At some point along the windy road of adolescence, he had become cool, and she hadn’t. There was no greater divide than that.

So Zoraya did the sensible thing: She took those silly feelings of hers and smothered them to death.

There.

Done.

She had, after all, more than enough on her plate. She had to study hard to get into law school because she didn’t have parents that could donate a piano to sway the admission's committee. She had to keep up with her afternoon job to save up money, so she could afford to live on the campus of whatever university would accept her. Plenty to worry about, really, without losing her mind over some boy.

Even if he was painfully beautiful with his golden eyes and silver hair, his snide mouth and dramatic gestures.

Even if he was the one who had first taught her how to tie her shoes and how to sneak past the maids to snatch another piece of pie after dinner.

Even if he had carried her all the way home that one time when she had twisted her ankle and couldn’t walk anymore, telling her everything was going to be fine while she cried and wailed.

Even if he was Astarion Ancunin.

That was, of course, all ancient history now.

Zoraya was a grown woman, way past the age of childhood crushes and broken hearts. She was a lawyer. Valedictorian of Baldur’s Gate Law School, a fully accredited member of the bar. After years of working her ass off and making sacrifices left and right, she was finally a mere finger’s breadth away from accomplishing everything she’d ever dreamed of.

Which was why she knew exactly what she had to do when Astarion’s father, Aquilan Ancunin, invited her for afternoon tea, only to spring the most outrageously ridiculous request on her.

“No,” she said without hesitation. “That is completely out of the question.”

“Zoraya, please.” Aquilan sighed and fidgeted with the half-eaten tartelette on his plate. “At least … think about it, won’t you?”

“I don’t need to think about it,” she explained, keeping her shoulders perfectly square, her face neutral. Every legal professional needed a lawyer face. An impregnable wall between her and the rest of the world.

Especially if the rest of the world currently stared at her with those same golden eyes that had once upon a time occupied her every waking thought.

“You know what he’s like,” Aquilan said. “He’s not a bad person. He just fell in with the wrong crowd and got a little lost.”

Zoraya nearly snorted at that. Lost. What an understatement for a magistrate who showed up to his own hearings with lipstick and hickeys all over his neck, only to interrupt his witnesses, urging them to “Hurry the hells up” because he had a migraine and also a date later that evening. The only magistrate to ever smuggle a bottle of wine into the courtroom, claiming it was a healing potion prescribed from his cleric. Not even mentioning that one time he had been caught receiving a blowjob from a culprit in his chambers during intermission — an event so groundbreakingly scandalous, it had provoked an entire restructuring of culprit handling protocols, just to ensure verdicts could not be influenced that way.

Astarion Ancunin was the shame of every legal professional in all of Baldur’s Gate. The drunkard, the fool, the manwhore — the list went on and on. Zoraya tried her best to keep her connections to the Ancunin family a secret, specifically so people wouldn’t pester her with questions about the man she had spent her adult life trying to forget.

“I’m sorry, Lord Ancunin. I truly am, but—”

“All he needs is a little push in the right direction,” Aquilan insisted, smoothing the richly embroidered tablecloth with his delicate fingers. He was tall for an elf, just like his son, but somehow never seemed to know what to do with his lanky body, which resulted in a whole myriad of nervous ticks. “I’m sure if he had someone by his side who helped him out a little …”

“Astarion needs much more than just a little help,” Zoraya snapped. “Just last week he dozed off in the middle of a culprit’s confession. I mean, can you imagine? People are still debating whether the confession is actually valid without the respective magistrate being awake to hear it!”

Aquilan winced and bowed his head, his long, blond hair falling into his face. “Yes, perhaps you’re right,” he murmured. “Perhaps things have escalated a little further than I was aware.”

He took a sip of tea, looking so miserable that for a moment, Zoraya almost regretted her bluntness.

But then he lowered the cup back onto its saucer and said something entirely unfair. “That’s why he needs you, Zoraya. I know he’d never admit it, but you’ve always been a good influence on him. I’m sure you could help him find his way again.”

Zoraya clutched her teaspoon so tightly, it shook in her grasp. “You have no idea what it is you are asking of me,” she hissed through gritted teeth

Aquilan regarded her wordlessly, his golden eyes making it that much harder to tell him what a spectacularly terrible idea this was.

First of all, it had been years since Astarion Ancunin had ever listened to anything she said. Even longer since he had last deigned to speak to her. He had deemed her unworthy of his attention and discarded her, just as easily as last season’s doublet. And that was fine, so long as she managed to stay out of his orbit. Avoided any and all contact with him that went beyond the obligatory holiday dinner at the estate, to which she showed up strategically early, so she could snatch a seat far away from the bar, which was where he was sure to sit. Being in the same room with him and the whole extended Ancunin clan was just on the verge of what she could tolerate.

Not because she still had feelings for him — no, that would be utterly ridiculous. It was because of the memories it inevitably dredged up. Memories of a pitiful girl who used to spend hours lamenting at her diary about how much she missed her best friend. Theorizing what she could have possibly done wrong for him to turn his back on her like that, until she finally cried herself to sleep.

Zoraya was done being that girl.

But of course, that wasn’t something she could say out loud, least of all to Aquilan. He had only ever been good to her. Much more so than her actual father, who generally liked to pretend neither his shameful affair with a Gur woman, nor the resulting bastard child existed. Voron Naelgrath would have cast her off to an orphanage if it hadn’t been for the Ancunin’s offer to take in their chamberlain’s daughter as their ward. Aquilan insisted it had been his wife’s idea — a gesture of kindness, he claimed — but Zoraya had trouble believing that Quelenna Ancunin had ever made a single decision in her life out of sheer kindness.

Regardless, she owed the Ancunins everything. They were the ones who had housed and clothed and fed her, allowed her to join their son’s tutoring sessions and attend the same schools. Laying the foundation for a life infinitely better than any bastard child of a chamberlain had any right to hope for.

The fact that she had fallen in love with their son was all Zoraya’s fault.

So she swallowed the feelings of that sad, little girl and straightened herself. Touched a hand to the back of her head, making sure her long, brown hair was still safely tied up in the tight knot she considered part of her lawyer uniform. White blouse, black trousers, hair back. A look so entirely unremarkable, all anyone could say about it was that it was professional. That part was important. A woman like Zoraya — half Gur, half elf, full outsider — had to make sure she didn’t stand out if she wanted any chance of building a legal career for herself.

People like her didn’t get hundreds of chances to get their act together.

“It would be a step back in my career,” she argued, holding on to cold, hard facts with everything she had. “I already spent three miserable years as another lawyer’s underpaid assistant. I passed the bar, I have all the qualifications. Now is the time to move on to building my own practice, not make myself someone else’s overqualified secretary again.”

“But Astarion is a magistrate!” Aquilan said, the pride in his voice not at all diminished by the fact that he knew the position had been bought — and not exactly cheaply. He was not the kind of father whose affection was hindered by silly, little details like that. “Surely, we can come up with some sort of higher position for you. Something to express your expertise, your standing. You wouldn’t be an assistant, per se, more of a … counselor. Or advisor. Tell you what, you think of a title you’d like to have and we’ll make it so! Plus, the magistrate’s office would open new doors for you. Help you make connections that could come in useful when you start your own practice, don’t you think?”

Zoraya pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to suppress a groan.

Aquilan, sensing her crumbling defenses, brought down the finishing blow. “Please, Zoraya. You’re the only one I can ask.”

Her hands flew to her face, admitting defeat before she was quite able to. She sighed deeply, then drew herself up and said, “Fine.”

Aquilan broke into an overjoyed smile.

“Six months, tops,” she warned, holding up a hand to rein in his excitement. “And the payment better be on par with what you pay your own lawyers.”

“Oh, Zoraya, that is wonderful!” He jumped up from his chair and hurried around the table to pull her into a hug. “I knew I could count on you!”

Sure, Zoraya thought as she closed her arms around his slim shoulders, unable to reject an embrace from the man who was, by all accounts, the closest approximation of a father she had. Of course, he knew.

When it came to Astarion, she was predictable like that.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this, Zo?” Elliott asked.

Zoraya was thankful for the hairpin in between her lips, allowing her to limit her answer to a noncommittal grunt. She could see the crease on his forehead as he studied her over the edge of his newspaper, but kept her attention on the little hand mirror she had propped up against a milk bottle. Twisting her dark brown, hip-length hair into tight braids to twirl around each other and secure with an ungodly number of hairpins at the back of her head — her default hairstyle ever since that one professor for Introduction to Legal Philosophy had knocked her final presentation down a full grade for, what he called, “unprofessional attire”.

“I thought you were getting ready to start your own practice,” Elliott said after a while. “Stand on your own feet after doing that lawyer guy’s dirty work for so long.”

He didn’t sound suspicious, merely concerned for her. Which only added to the guilty pang in her chest when she pushed the final hairpin into place and turned to face him with her lawyer smile.

“It’s actually a really great opportunity for me,” she explained. “A stepping stone, so to speak. Working with a magistrate, I get to make all sorts of new contacts in the higher courts, get my name out there way more than I ever could as a simple attorney’s assistant. It’ll make it infinitely easier to start my own practice.”

“Well … if you really think it’s the right call …”

“One hundred percent.”

She pushed his newspaper onto the table and leaned over for a quick kiss, mentally exhaling at the feel of his smile against her lips.

Elliott was a master jeweler, incredibly skilled with his hands, but so very trusting with his mind. Sometimes she marveled how easy it was to steer someone whose job did not consist of spinning facts into a carefully crafted narrative, leading their audience to a desired endpoint. It wasn’t like she relished the idea of twisting the truth like that. But the two of them had only been going out for a few months. Gods, she hadn’t even met his parents yet. Way too early to even think about dropping the whole By the way, there is this guy I used to be crazy in love with, but I swear, it’s fine now bomb on him.

She would, of course, tell him.

Just not today.

Because today was her first day at her new job with Magistrate Ancunin and that was already nerve-racking enough on its own.

By the time she reached city hall, her heart was beating so fast, she immediately ducked into the bathroom and changed her sweat-stained blouse for one of the three replacements she had stuffed into her bag when heading out to spend the night at Elliott’s house. One for this exact scenario, one for spilling lunch all over herself and one for any Astarion-related emergencies she couldn’t anticipate quite yet, but very much knew were looming somewhere on the horizon.

If there was one thing Zoraya truly believed in, it was preparation. Whether in court or real life — being well-prepared was like already having won at home and merely showing up to collect your trophies.

Usually, it helped her keep a level head, knowing she had accounted for all eventualities. But with Astarion, she knew, there was no such thing. No way of anticipating how exactly it would feel, standing in front of him, his attention focused on her and only her for the first time in nearly 20 years.

You’ve got this, she told herself as she splashed a handful of cold water in her face. This is just a job. A job like any other.

“First day?” A woman in a smartly tailored dress joined her, her sympathetic smile suggesting she’d managed to catch a glimpse of the utter fear that was currently twisting Zoraya’s insides into a series of interconnected pretzel shapes.

“Er, yes,” Zoraya said, busying herself with drying her hands. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“Who’re you working for?” the woman chirped.

“Magistrate Ancunin.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, what?” Zoraya turned toward her, arms crossing in front of her chest defensively.

“Nothing. It’s just …” The woman chuckled and gestured to the top of Zoraya’s white blouse. “You better pop open a few of those buttons, or he’ll have you out of here before lunchtime. Good luck, sweetie!”

She skipped out of the bathroom, leaving Zoraya with her mouth open and heat pouring out of her every pore. Wonderful. She hadn’t even met him yet and already, she was a mess.

No.

This was fine.

She was fine.

Fine-fine-fine. She repeated the word in her head, recited it to the rhythm of her heels clicking against the grand staircase as she made her way up to the second floor. She was just a little nervous. Understandably so, meeting her new employer and former childhood friend all in one go. But she could deal with this. She was a grown woman, after all. She was in a loving relationship with a wonderful man and thus, completely over any and all childhood crushes.

By the time she reached his office, she held her head high and hardly even glanced at the golden sign next to the door, proudly proclaiming the owner of these rooms to be Astarion Ancunin, Magistrate of Baldur’s Gate.

Because she was fine.

And perhaps she really was, right until the moment she opened the door and … there he sat. Feet up on his desk and head thrown back with his eyes closed, silver curls pushed back by the wet towel he pressed to his forehead.

“Not yet!” he proclaimed, somehow managing to sound regal and cranky at the same time. “Court shall be in session just as soon as I can evict whatever creatures are currently using the inside of my skull as a practice ground for their heavy infantry.”

That was all it took. Two sentences and Zoraya’s fingernails dug into the leather straps of her bag, memories flooding her brain.

8-year-old Astarion beaming at her when she’d fixed a small hole in his favorite stuffed animal, a white bunny called Sir Hopperson. So overflowing with gratitude, he’d let her play with Sir Hopperson for a full ten minutes, hovering next to her with his pocket watch in hand.

12-year-old Astarion complaining how his new school uniform swallowed up his waist, so they took needle and thread to it, altering it to his wishes until he twirled through the room happily, admiring himself in the mirror.

Teenage Astarion the day after one of his first parties. Lying on his back in the grass, both hands flung over his face in such a dramatic effort to block out the sunlight, Zoraya couldn’t resist the temptation to tickle him with a blade of grass. Giggling to herself at his squirming until he suddenly jumped to his feet and stormed off, yelling “Gods, you’re such a child, Zoya!” over his shoulder.

She could still hear the words perfectly clear in her head, even after all these years. They were right here, floating in the sea of memories. This invisible divide between them that had grown with each year, each averted gaze and silent sigh.

At this point, it felt so vast, Zoraya wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to hear her when she said, “Good morning, Astarion.”

His eyes flew open and his body straightened, the wet towel landing on the floor carelessly as he rose from his chair. “Oh, what a good morning it is indeed.”

The sound of his voice alone, so close to her, not muffled through classroom chattering or the pattering of boots in the hallway, sent an almost physical jolt through her.

Astarion rounded the desk leisurely and leaned against it, his chest pushed out in a way that seemed too practiced to be casual.

“Zoraya Naelgrath in the flesh,” he drawled. “They told me you were coming, of course, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it for myself. Come here, darling. Let me have a proper look at you.”

Zoraya willed herself to maintain eye contact as she approached the desk. Up close, Astarion was even more beautiful than in those fleeting glances she had stolen around law school and the courthouse. He had always been attractive, but as a boy, he used to have an almost angelic presence, full of soft cheeks and sweet smiles. At some point during his teenage years, that had sharpened. Like a steel blade being honed to perfection.

The kind of beauty that was scary for what it could get people to do for him.

She stopped two steps away from him, trying to take comfort in the fact that in her high heels she was a few inches taller than him. If Astarion was bothered — as most men tended to be — he didn’t let it show. He remained in his comfortable slouch, golden eyes raking over her body as if he intended to draw her from memory as soon as she left.

Possibly naked.

“I see those front teeth of yours did eventually decide to burry the hatchet and make friends with each other,” he said.

Zoraya’s tongue automatically flicked to the spot in question, feeling for a gap that had closed before she’d even started high school, and Astarion broke into a self-satisfied smirk that made her want to slap him in the face with a glove.

Or the sole of her shoe since she hadn’t actually brought any gloves.

“Well,” she spat, hands flying to her hips in an effort to maintain composure. “I see you still haven’t figured out how much alcohol your body can take without turning itself inside out.”

“Not a single day without testing your limits in these offices, as I am sure you’ll find out shortly,” he said. “That is, if you can convince me to hire you.”

“Convince you?” Zoraya snorted. “We both know you haven’t been able to keep an assistant for longer than six weeks since your appointment as magistrate.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t a great many contenders for the position,” Astarion said importantly. “The applications come in daily, my dear. Sometimes in written form, sometimes more … mouth-to-mouth, so to speak. I believe you’ll have to put in quite the effort to distinguish yourself from your competition. We can start your evaluation right now, if you’d like.”

“And what were you thinking of, exactly?”

He leaned back further, the grin curling around his lips. “Why don’t you go down on your knees for me, darling. It’ll be so much easier to explain that way.”

She studied him with raised eyebrows, momentarily wondering what had ever possessed her to develop any feelings whatsoever for this utter waste of oxygen.

“Does that really work on anyone?”

“Oh, all of them,” he assured her. “Some don’t even wait for me to ask; they simply … go for it, in a manner of speaking. Which you are of course also welcome to do. I am nothing if not indulgent with my employees.”

Zoraya shook her head in exasperation, gritting her teeth to keep herself from kicking him in the shin, the way she’d done as a kid. “You want me to prove my worth? Fine. How about this.”

She took one more step forward, holding her chin up high to really leverage the height difference. “The very fact that you cannot seem to distinguish between your colleagues and your affairs is half the reason why High Judge Nerennos is dead-set on ousting you from office. In order to do so, he needs an absolute majority, meaning, at least five of the other High Judges backing him up. Do you know how many he already has on his side?”

Astarion wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, Nerennos is nothing but a grumpy, old pencil pusher. He’d never—”

“Four!” Zoraya interrupted sharply. “All he needs is one more vote on his side and your ass is out of here before you can chug your anti-hangover potion! Now, personally, I really don’t give a shit either way, but your father came asking me for help and you know I could never deny him after everything he’s done for me. So how about we stop playing games and get to work?”

She could see the irritation on his face, the sharp downward tug of his mouth. As a boy, he had thrown up his arms in situations like these and run off crying — or howling, whenever he couldn’t quite conjure up tears. Apparently, he had done some maturing in that regard at least, for he contended himself with a dramatic exhale and a roll of his eyes.

“You’ve always been such a pessimist,” he huffed, drawing himself up from his slouch. “But fine. For the sake of my headache, we shall consider your interview a success.”

“That’s fantastic, seeing as how I’ve already signed the paperwork with your father.”

Zoraya regretted the words almost immediately. Astarion froze halfway around the desk, his shoulders stiffening as they had always done when either one of his parents — usually his mother — had lectured him on what it meant to be an Ancunin. One of the few non-human noble families in Baldur’s Gate.

It hadn’t been easy for him, she knew. Being a free-spirited, fun-loving child born into a family so enamored with discipline and diligence and, above all, excellence. Having to crane your neck to even see the sky-high standards being set for you, only to inevitably fall short, no matter how hard you tried. Another child might have caved under the pressure, lost themselves in the chase for perfection, but not Astarion.

Astarion had taken everything that made him him and turned it up to the extreme. Made himself a caricature of himself, unapologetically loud and garish and scandalous all around. Which might have been fine for a teenage boy, struggling to find his way in life, but a 38-year-old magistrate? A position meant to command respect, even reverence?

“Astarion …” Zoraya’s hand reached out to touch him, seemingly without consulting with her brain first.

Before she could pull it back, he turned around, smiling mirthlessly.

“How very fortuitous that my dear family has once again arranged for everything,” he said. “That way, at least we can be sure things will resolve themselves, as befitting for someone of my station, right?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Better get to it then. Work your magic and save me from certain doom, so my father may once again pat you on the head and call you a good girl." He plopped into his chair and made a flippant gesture in the air. “Your desk is out there. Don’t let anyone in without an appointment. Try your hardest to avoid making appointments.”

“Uhm, alright.” Zoraya eyed him as he rifled through the random assortment of papers on his desk. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Oh, I’m sure my parents will make certain any truly important information is relayed directly to you, my dear,” he said without looking up. “Now, if you could apply your considerable intellect to the parsing of social cues, you are dismissed.”

She hurried out of his office, feeling way smaller than a 5’9" woman in 3-inch heels had any right to.

Chapter Text

Zoraya had always believed that you could tell a great deal about a person by how they kept their desk. This one had the frantic messiness of way too many people occupying it for way too short a time, never really managing to develop their own organizational system and thus only adding to an every-growing mountain of chaos. There were invitations to court hearings — albeit not nearly as many as she would have expected a young magistrate to receive — lengthy correspondences with a large chunk of Baldur’s Gate nobility, and a grand total of seven tear-stained love letters, penned by at least three different individuals, if the handwriting was anything to go by.

Those went into the trash can immediately. It wasn’t like Astarion’s ego needed any further boosting, or these poor individuals any further heartbreak.

By the time Zoraya caught her first glimpse of the scuffed surface underneath all the papers, it was already past midday. Twelve forty-three, in fact, which she confirmed with a panicked look at her pocket watch. Then she looked back at the letter she had just opened. Cursed under her breath and started banging at Astarion’s door.

“Astarion!” she called. And then, because there was no immediate response, “I’m coming in, Astarion!”

She found him with his head on the desk and an empty goblet next to him. His skin was even paler than usual, a sickly grayish white, nearly indistinguishable from the silver doublet he wore, and there were dark circles under his eyes she hadn’t noticed before.

“I believe the correct form of address is Lord Magistrate,” he drawled, grinning in a way that really had no right being this attractive, seeing as how he lay there like a used handkerchief.

One of his most annoying characteristics, come to think of it. His ability to make pretty much anything look hot, even something like Puking your guts out before lunchtime.

“Astarion.” Zoraya breathed in through her nose, trying to convince herself that, no, kicking the desk just to see him jump in the air like a startled cat was not at all a professional thing to do. “I was there when you first managed to hit the chamber pot on your own. I am not going to call you Lord Anything, at least not when it’s just the two of us. Now get up and make yourself presentable. You have a meeting with the other magistrates in just over an hour. Your previous assistant must have … misplaced the invitation.”

“Ah, no matter. Those old men can do without me,” he said, turning his head to the side as if that resolved the issue. “All they talk about is lanceboard and classical music and whatever else is dreadful and boring enough to capture their small, little minds.”

Zoraya stared at him. “You mean to ignore their summons?”

“Trust me, sweetheart, they do not need me there. Now, be a dear and pour me some wine, will you? Something red and full-bodied if it’s not too much trouble.” He lifted the empty goblet in her direction, waving it expectantly.

Zoraya took it and then proceeded to slam it onto the windowsill.

“You are not having any more wine!” she declared. “We are going to get some food in you and make you presentable for your meeting with the other magistrates, where you will be pleasant and sober!”

He grumbled something she couldn’t quite make out, not that it mattered. Zoraya was already digging through his liquor cabinet, looking for anything non-alcoholic. She found a glass full of what had to be melted ice cubes and placed it next to Astarion’s sullen face.

“Drink this until I’m back,” she said, then rushed out of the office before he could start arguing.

She didn’t know the area around city hall too well, so she went for her default post-alcohol meal: noodle soup. The kind from a grimy, little shop with the paint crumbling off the flimsy wooden walls and the customer service scowling before you’d even opened your mouth.

“Excuse me,” Zoraya said, perusing the beat-up menu. “How spicy is the spicy broth?”

The gith woman gave her a scathing look. “If you have to ask, you are clearly not prepared to deal with it.”

“Stop scaring away customers, Lae’zel!” someone yelled from out of the miniscule kitchen in the back.

The gith rolled her eyes and Zoraya smiled. “Actually, that sounds perfect. I’ll have two of those, please.”

This is most definitely not what you should be doing, after spending an entire decade of your life on getting a law degree, she thought to herself as she climbed up the stairs of city hall, balancing two piping hot soup bowls on her arm.

Not that she’d ever complained when her previous boss, defense attorney Gregory Hawthorne, had sent her on lunch runs. She’d simply nodded and smiled and scuttled off — and then gone back if he needed extra salt or napkins. Just one of the many humiliating things you had to do as an attorney’s assistant. Vying for people’s approval, clawing and scraping for your one chance to build something for yourself.

At least Astarion hadn’t outright demanded she’d bring him lunch. Although that might have something to do with the energy it was currently costing him to keep the contents of his stomach away from his immaculate hardwood floors.

“Stay away with that!” he exclaimed as soon as he caught a whiff of the rich meaty broth. “I couldn’t possibly get down a single bite!”

“Yes, you will,” Zoraya said calmly and sat down on the edge of the desk. “Spicy or extra spicy?”

His golden eyes darted from her face to the steaming bowls reluctantly. “Do you really have to ask?”

“Extra spicy it is.” She smiled despite herself as she placed the bowl in front of him.

Some things never change.

She took the chopsticks out of their wrapper and began working on her own portion. It struck her briefly that she should probably go back to her own desk instead of having an impromptu lunch date with her boss on her very first day — but then, it was Astarion. Better make sure he didn’t fall asleep with his face in the bowl.

His first bites were hesitant, almost exclusively broth. But then at some point he managed to draw himself up straight and started going at the soup with both spoon and chopsticks. Eating as quickly as his flawless table manners allowed. The color crept back into his paper-white cheeks, his eyes regained their golden gleam and Zoraya couldn’t help but look at him over the rim of her bowl, warmth spreading in her belly that wasn’t just due to the hot meal.

“Did you forget to eat again?”

“What are you, my governess?” he snorted over his intent spooning.

“No,” Zoraya said haughtily. “As a matter of fact, my official job title is still somewhat up in the air. But that can wait until after we get you ready for your meeting.”

“I have to admit, this is an astonishingly decent soup.” Astarion paused with the spoon in the air just long enough to flash her one of his smirks. “We should make this a tradition, you know. Having lunch together with you perched so enticingly on my desk.”

Zoraya nearly spat out her soup, just barely managing to swallow before it could spray out of her and all over the table. Astarion grinned and let his gaze drop pointedly toward her folded legs — not that there was particularly much to see. She’d picked those trousers specifically because they were neither too tight nor too loose, just entirely unassuming. An invisibility uniform of sorts. If you were already part of an ethnic group not usually associated with the legal profession, you tended to rely on strategies like these to at least try and blend in.

Astarion, however, did not look at her as if she was invisible at all.

“I … really don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said, fighting the urge to jump off the desk and hide her legs somewhere far away from those golden eyes. She cleared her throat and glanced at his nearly-empty bowl. “If you’re done eating, you should get going.”

“Oh, won’t you stop thinking about work for just a minute or two?”

“I am literally at work right now,” she reminded him dryly. “Besides, I meant to ask you. I’ve only just started organizing your mail and updating your calendar, but it seems there are a great many … social calls. Not a whole lot of invitations to court, to preside over hearings and such.”

“Oh, yes. The truly important decisions are always made outside of the courtroom, darling. Balls and banquets, that sort of thing.”

Zoraya frowned and made a mental note to check this statement for bullshit. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get a glimpse into the schedules of the other magistrates, do a little compare and contrast.

“You do have a hearing three days from now,” she said. “I’ll do my own research, so we can compare notes beforehand. Work out a strategy.”

“No need,” he said with an absent gesture of his hand. “These people really only care that you are there, you know. The rest is all bla bla and awful beverages and stuffy air.”

“You’re a magistrate, Astarion. Your job is literally deciding whether or not people go to prison.”

“Yes, but at the end of the day, what does it really matter? People commit crimes every day, regardless of what we do.”

“It is our job to do something about it.” Zoraya had set down her spoon, her voice feeling increasingly icy in her throat.

“Which is why I will most certainly make an appearance,” Astarion said with the air of a man making a grand sacrifice for the greater good. “I will hit the little hammer and everything, don’t you worry.”

“It’s called a gavel!”

He grinned, clearly delighted with her anger. “You are coming with me to court, aren’t you? To take notes and such? That reminds me, I forgot to show you your work uniform.”

“My … what now?”

Zoraya followed with narrowed eyes as Astarion got up and started rifling through one of the cabinets. There were certainly clothing standards for court hearings — the typical dark colors, boring cuts, don’t be too pretty but also make an effort thing — but apart from the robes of a judge or magistrate, she had never heard of a specific uniform.

Astarion returned with a smile, holding up the tiniest, laciest piece of garment she had ever seen outside of a brothel.

“You are joking,” she said. “And it is not at all funny.”

“Why, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he huffed. “Every single one of your predecessors has worn this!”

“I thought the idea was for me to be different from my predecessors.”

“I can arrange for a different color. Red perhaps? You have always looked lovely in red, sweetheart.”

Zoraya banged her bowl against the desk and jumped to her feet, her patience snapping in two like an overused quill.

“I’m going to say this only once, Astarion, so you better use those pointy elf ears and listen. I will neither wear your skimpy outfits, nor will I have you call me any of those ridiculous pet names! I am not your darling and I am not your dear and most definitely not your sweetheart!”

She let out a sharp breath, trying to regain her composure. “Look, I know this is awkward, what with us having a sort of … past connection. The gods know I’d prefer working for someone I haven’t seen tearing off his pants to jump into the water fountain, but here we are!”

“In my defense, it was an awfully hot summer,” Astarion said, his smile softening a little. “And I believe you followed in tow not too long afterward.”

He remembers.

There was something warm and fuzzy in her chest and Zoraya swallowed hard in an attempt to banish it to another existential plane.

“Regardless,” she said. “Those days are over. We are both working professionals. And if I am to call you Lord Magistrate in public, the least you can do for me is use my actual name.”

He discarded the lacy abomination onto the floor and rounded the desk, one hand braced against the wooden edge. His face coming so close, she could make out the little beauty mark under his eye, the faint lines around his mouth that had not been there the last time she had seen him this close.

“Zoya,” he said, sending a shiver up her spine and straight into her brain.

Nobody else had ever called her that. Zoya. It wasn’t even a proper nickname — not by Gur naming standards, anyway. It was something he had invented as a little boy and it had just sort of stuck. A word that belonged only to him. That he had used to mark a part of her and partition it away, keep it all for himself.

And as impossible as that should be, somehow it was still there, even after all these years.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asked.

Yes.

No.

Her heart was beating so fast, she could barely think straight. There had been a time in her life when she would have given anything, including her entire collection of fountain pens, to hear him say it one more time.

Zoya, I’m bored.

Or, Come on, Zoya, let’s go hide father’s reading glasses!

Or, possibly her favorite of them all, You’ll be fine, Zoya. I promise. We are almost home.

But those days were long past. They’d come and gone and now 20 years had passed and they were both completely different people. She had moved on. She was stronger now, stronger than crying over some boy. In fact, she’d never cried over a single one of her boyfriends.

That was how far she had moved away from that sad, little girl.

So when she answered, she didn’t tremble or blush or any of that nonsense. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “I think Miss Naelgrath would be more appropriate.”

“Not married then, I take it?” he said, his smile not wavering in the slightest.

“No. But I have a boyfriend,” she added, wincing at how desperate it sounded, shooting out of her.

“Oh, you do?” His manicured eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Must be quite the remarkable lad, melting the heart of the legendary Ice Queen of the Eastern Library.”

Zoraya shrugged and took out her pocket watch. “If that’s all the inappropriate personal questions you have for today, you better hurry up and get to your meeting.”

“Certainly,” Astarion purred. “We wouldn’t want the committee of miserable old sods to pass away before I make it there, now, would we?”

Zoraya took her bowl, leaving his very much on purpose — she wasn’t going to establish an expectation that she would take care of his dishes. She was almost at the door when he called after her.

“Oh, Miss Naelgrath?”

He was leaning against his desk again in that stupidly attractive pose, smiling as if there was a joke only he was privy to.

“I really am glad to see you again,” he said.

She slammed the door shut and slumped with her forehead against her new desk, groaning into the pile of loose papers still waiting to be sorted.

She was over him.

Of course she was.

But hells, was he still a piece of work.

When Astarion returned from his meeting, he was in surprisingly high spirits. With him was a stocky, well-dressed man with a rather extravagant mustache twirling underneath his nose.

“Councilor Maynard is my last meeting for the day,” Astarion informed her as he was passing her desk. “You may go home whenever you are done with … that.” He gestured at the folders full of misplaced letters and wine-stained court protocols that had taken her all day to assemble as if it was some sort of game she used to pass the time while he was out. 

“Certainly,” Zoraya said, biting back a comment on what she thought of legal professionals who ended their workday at four o’clock on a Firstday.

She nodded at the councilor, but he didn’t seem to notice; his eyes never made it higher than her breasts.

The door clicked close behind them and Zoraya returned to her papers. Now that everything was more or less organized, she could start working on a strategy to drag Astarion’s professional reputation out of the gutter. Appearance should be one of the simpler intervention areas. All she had to do was keep a stock of fresh shirts for him to change into whenever he helped himself to his wine a little too liberally, maybe leave out a couple fashion magazines that proclaimed that neckties were this season’s hottest accessory.

His verdicts were trickier. She could try to influence him with the research she’d assemble for him, but chances were, he’d base his decision on different factors altogether. Whether a navy overcoat could still be worn over black breeches or whether that was some sort of fashion faux pas requiring at least five years in prison as atonement. Probably easier to counterbalance his obvious elitism with some pro bono cases. Show the world that Magistrate Ancunin was generous enough to work for the good of the underprivileged here and there. If she picked the right cases, involving upstanding and, above all, reasonably well-dressed citizens, he might never know he was working for free.

Zoraya was so engrossed in her work that she nearly didn’t catch the noise at first. It was faint, almost imperceptible over the scratching of her fountain pen and the clicking of her heel against the hardwood floors.

“Mhmmm …”

She turned around and stared at the door for a moment, then back at her court listings. Rubbed her eyes and shook her head. Definitely time for another cup of coffee. She reached for her bag, counting out the coins she’d waste on the atrocious coffee they served in the break room.

And then she heard it again and any need for caffeine evaporated.

“Mhm … L-Lord Magistrate …”

Coins clattered onto the desk as she pushed back her chair and pressed her ear against the door, too shocked to even think about what she was doing.

“I really don’t know if I can … that is to say, what the other councilors would – oh, gods!”

The sudden rise in volume had her jerking away from the door before she leaned in again, heart in her throat.

This couldn’t be what she thought it was, right? There had got to be a perfectly professional explanation for what she thought she was hearing. Perhaps the councilor was simply losing a particularly dramatic lanceboard match. Or he had stubbed his toe and was presently hopping on one foot, clutching at the injury and …

Astarion chuckled. A low, husky chuckle that destroyed any hopes of finding either hopping or board games behind those doors.

“Surely, it is conceivable that you would have had a change of heart on the matter,” he purred. “It happens all the time.”

“Certainly, but … aaahhh …”

“Then I suggest you make it so.”

Oh, shit.

Zoraya begged herself to move away from the door, but her body would not budge. It was the sound of his voice, hoarse and smooth all at once, dripping with everything she had spent so many teenage nights dreaming about. The culmination of so many shameful fantasies, it had her nerve endings buzzing with anticipation, her every cell on edge, ready.

“Do we have an understanding, councilor?” Astarion asked sweetly.

Unintelligible muttering and groaning, followed by another knee-melting chuckle.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to repeat that for me. Do we have an understanding?”

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Lord Magistrate.”

A moan spilled over the doorstep, brittle and choked, and Zoraya felt liquid heat shoot down her core. Her teeth tore into her bottom lip and her eyes snapped shut, images flying through her mind at full speed. Astarion shoving her onto the desk, papers scratching against her face. Those long, pale fingers of his drawing along the curve of her back, until they came to rest at her hips, holding her in place as he yanked down her trousers. So eager to have her, yet surprisingly gentle as soon as he drew the first moan from her lips.

Zoya, he’d say in that low, raspy voice. His mouth close to her ear as he leaned over her, one hand finding hers, fingers threading. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.

Me too, she’d say. Her back arching for him, her butt up high in the air so as to push herself into each delicious thrust. Gods, me too.

The muffled groans from behind the door mixed with those in her imagination, drawing a picture so vivid, she couldn’t help but drown in it. Letting herself fall into the fantasy, letting it consume her with the pent-up desire of two fucking decades, just this once, never again, really only today and—

“See you tomorrow, Zoraya!” a chipper voice called from what felt like a whole different planet.

Zoraya opened her eyes with a gasp, a great intake of breath as if she’d just emerged from a deep sea diving expedition. By the time she was able to return the other magistrate assistant’s wave, the woman was already halfway down the stairs, probably mentally rehearsing the gossip she’d spread about Zoraya’s eavesdropping.

Which was really on the lower end of her list of concerns.

Because here she sat at her desk in a very public office, cheeks flushed hot and her underwear utterly drenched, all while her boss exchanged sex for favors ten feet away from her.

Well, she thought, staring straight ahead of herself. Clutching the pendant she wore underneath her blouse, a gift from her mother. Fuck.

Her hands shook as she collected the coins and packed up her things. The need for caffeine might have vanished into thin air, but so had her ability to get anything done.

And … well, something else, too.

She hurried out of the building as quickly as her wobbly knees would allow, not even daring to meet the janitor’s eyes. Rather than going home, however, she made a detour to the Upper City. To a small jeweler’s shop, where Elliott was just getting started wiping down the display cases for the day. He smiled when he saw her behind the front window — a smile that quickly disappeared when he noticed the expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” Zoraya said, not wanting to drag things out unnecessarily. “But I think we need to break up.”

She saw the hurt on his face, the disappointment darkening his features, but knew it was better this way. Kinder. Better she cut things off right now than a few weeks from now when she accidentally sighed the wrong name in his arms or did anything else to hurt this man in a way he absolutely did not deserve.

Because no matter how hard she’d tried, Zoraya Naelgrath was not at all over Astarion Ancunin.

Chapter Text

Astarion had to admit he was having a streak of bad luck. As if he hadn’t already had enough on his plate, what which those dreadful High Judges trying to oust him from office, now he also had her to contend with.

Zoraya Naelgrath.

Top of her class ever since she’d been old enough to attend them, always seated front and center, fountain pen in hand, eyes plastered to the blackboard as if she expected the damned thing to spit out candy. Ruler of the Eastern Library simply by virtue of being there so much, you couldn’t help but think of it as her territory, valedictorian of Baldur’s Gate Law School and the textbook ideal of a good lawyer.

The kind that did pro bono cases not because she had to but because she believed in helping useless wretches. The kind that marched through court in her immaculate white blouses with mechanically efficient steps, not sparing a second for a smile, a break, a look out the window — not even when Judge Sykes had another marital dispute that inevitably ended with his wife dropping his lunch and stomping it into the ground.

Zoraya Naelgrath who could make her peers burst into tears during mock trials and recite entire law books word-by-word from memory, but who couldn’t have spelled the word fun if the fate of the entire world depended on it.

She was, in a word, an inconvenience.

Under normal circumstances, Astarion would have reined her in with some good old-fashioned seduction. Not to flatter himself, but so far, he had made a habit of having every single one of his assistants spread out on his desk by the end of their first workday. Nails scraping along the wood and legs twitching in the air as he made certain they would do everything he could ever ask of them. No greater motivator than sex or money — and why would he spend one if the other was in infinite supply?

Besides, he loved the way they looked at him afterward. Those large, hazy eyes following him around, much like a litter of needy little kittens. He loved how easily they dropped to their knees for him, obeying even the most obscene commands with rapt eagerness. Once, he had made it a point to pull out at the last second, spilling himself all over the miserable girl, and then told her to return to her desk. She had sat out there all day long, cum dripping down her face and hair, trickling into her low-cut dress. Which was incredibly amusing, but also sort of disgusting, so naturally, he had to fire her.

It was one of the fundamental truths of life: People would do just about anything for those they desired. And Astarion just so happened to be very, very desirable.

Normally, he would have had her wrapped around his finger with a few empty compliments, a couple fleeting touches, perhaps one of his more smoldering looks. But the problem was — again — this was Zoraya Naelgrath.

And even someone as depraved as Astarion had his reservations about seducing a woman who used to sneak into his room whenever she had nightmares as a child, wordlessly climbing into his bed and snuggling up to him as if he was an oversized teddy bear.

The girl who used to spearhead imaginary treasure hunts with him, fighting off equally imaginary villains, only to burst into tears when they accidentally got locked in the wine cellars, where he had to console her until they were finally discovered by one of the maids.

Hells, no. Not even Astarion could bring himself to make a move on someone like that. Which meant that — much to his dismay — he was stuck with her. For now, at least.

“Let’s go,” she said, holding out his overcoat expectantly.

Astarion glanced over the edge of the smutty romance novel he was reading. “Go where, exactly?”

“To court.” She stared at him for several seconds until her slightly overgrown eyebrows shot up in exasperation. “For your hearing? The one I’ve left you three memos for?”

“Oh, I’m sure someone else can fill in for me, darling.” He returned his attention to the rather colorful descriptions of a delicate, little elf lady being tied up by her half-orc lover. A man of his standing needed inspiration, after all.

“Excuse me?”

Ugh, she had that tone again. So searingly angry, he knew without having to look that the majority of her tall, lanky body was trembling with it. Like a lunatic on the street, waving about a cucumber, shouting how he wasn’t afraid to use it.

With a sigh, Astarion marked his spot on the page with his index finger. “It’s just one of those boring little civil cases, isn’t it? Some insignificant bastard stole another insignificant bastard’s horse or boot or wife and absolutely nobody cares, but somehow, half a dozen people with enough university diplomas to cover half the walls of the courthouse have to sit together in a stuffy room, pretending otherwise.”

It was quiet for a few blessed moments. The half-orc added a gag to his lover’s predicament — a terribly overrated move, in Astarion’s expert opinion. Hearing them plead and beg was half the fun. But he would have to take some notes on the half-orc’s tying technique, try out a few of those knots.

He was about to reach for his notebook to do just that when his arm was seized by a bronze-skinned hand in dire need of a manicure.

“You, Astarion Ancunin, took a gods damned oath to the citizens of Baldur’s Gate and – you know what, I am not discussing this with you!” Zoraya yanked up his arm, simultaneously kicking the chair out from underneath him. His novel toppled to the floor, the page with the tying technique lost in the flurry of papers.

“Argh!” Astarion protested. “What in the sweet hells do you think you are doing? Hey, careful with the coat; that’s real silk in the lining!”

“You are getting your ass down to court right this instance!” she declared, shoving him toward the door like an obstinate packhorse. “You can either walk or be dragged through the mud by your ankles — the choice is entirely yours!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll go! Just let go of my coat!”

The courthouse of Baldur’s Gate was a prime example why certain buildings should come with those little guard posts at the entrance. Have a set of well-built men with large scowls and unconcealed weaponry check people’s documents before letting them pass, thus ensuring peace and order.

As things stood currently, the stairs in front of the courthouse were a conglomerate of the city’s ugliest and noisiest that could have rivaled any circus from here to Rashemen. There were lawyers on their 10-minute lunch break, yes, but they found themselves vastly outnumbered by the mass of civilians who had nothing better to do than clog up public places with their mundane faces and equally mundane prattling.

And the smell! What was it with commoners and their inability to put on a fresh set of clothes in the morning?

Unfortunately, Zoraya was dragging him up the stairs with relentless determination. Keeping up a steady rhythm of “Excuse me” and “Coming through” as she elbowed her way through the crowd as if this was an entirely reasonable thing to expect for a legal professional on their way to a hearing.

“Excuse me!” she repeated, a little louder when a group of individuals right in front of the large double doors was too busy with their screaming match to hear her. “Excuse me, Sir, but Magistrate Ancunin is required in his chambers in ten minutes!”

The man is question — who deserved the term Sir as much as his rags deserved to be described as a shirt — shuffled out of the way with little more than a grumble. Still, Astarion ducked away from the man’s gaze automatically.

“Shh!” he hissed under his breath. “Don’t go yelling out my name like that!”

“What? Got a spurned lover at court, or what?” Zoraya scoffed, quickening her steps now that the doors were finally in sight.

“No! I mean, yes, several in fact. But that’s beside the point. It’s just that …”

Splat.

The missile came out of nowhere, as it always did. Some sort of soft fruit or vegetable, a tomato perhaps, judging by the red juice dripping down his cheek and into the collar of his overcoat.

A snorting fit of laughter somewhere in the crowd. “Serves you right, you posh bastard!”

Astarion stood stunned, frozen in place. It wasn’t the hit, per se — there really wasn’t a whole lot of damage you could do with an overripe tomato. It was the humiliation of it.

The sheer and utter humiliation.

“What the …” Zoraya whirled, trying to make out where either the voice or the tomato had come from. Impossible in a crowd this dense, but, hells, she was nothing if not determined. “Who was that?” she yelled. “Show yourself! Show yourself at once, or I’ll—”

“Come.” Astarion grabbed her wrist and suddenly he was the one pulling her toward the door. “There’s no point. Let’s just go.”

“What do you mean, come?” she snapped. “You’ve been attacked! People can’t just go around attacking magistrates in public and get away with it!”

“Zoraya!”

Only now did her eyes dart to his face. He did not care to imagine what it was she saw there, besides the tomato juice dripping down his chin.

In any case, it quenched her heroism to a level where she contended herself with yelling, “Armed assault is a criminal offense punishable by up to 20 years in prison!” before following him into the building.

Astarion would have loved to make a quip about her rather liberal interpretation of what qualified as a dangerous weapon, but not now. Now, he simply ducked into the nearest bathroom, trying his best to wash off what had just happened.

Zoraya did not complain when he returned a short while later, his face scrubbed clean, but his overcoat probably ruined for good. She did not even rush him along although at that point, they were well and truly late for his hearing. She just stood there, clutching her old, beaten-up purse, and looked at him with something so much like pity, it turned his stomach inside out.

“Astarion,” she said, quietly, so no one else could hear them. “You’re going to have to tell me what that was about.”

“Well,” he huffed, scrunching up his nose with as much dignified irritation as he could muster. “They don’t particularly like me around here.”

“Around here?” she repeated. “You mean at the court where you are supposed to serve?”

He shrugged. “Commoners never had much sense of decorum, did they?”

“I don’t know,” she said, rather pointedly, her brown eyes narrowing. “Don’t we?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” He waved his hand toward the mob stationed outside the doors. “Them. People who have nothing better to do than spend their days hanging around some staircase, hurling their kitchen trash at hard-working citizens just so they get to feel important for thirty miserable seconds. Really, there should be guards out there. Throwing every single one of those vagrants into the type of prison cell where they’d wish they had a rotten tomato to sink their filthy teeth into!”

He felt her staring at him for quite a while. The large gears clearly churning in that head of hers, but not a single one of her conclusions making it to the surface. It was rather unsettling.

So unsettling, in fact, that it was Astarion who turned on his heel and said, “Come on now. We are late for my hearing.”

Astarion hated hearings. What a gigantic waste of time and brain power to force well-educated noblemen like him to spend hours listening to the prattling of small, petty individuals and their tragic attempts at wielding the English language to express whatever it was that they blamed for their miserable existences.

Today’s ensemble was particularly depressing. A respected dye merchant — one whose wares Astarion’s tailor had praised on several occasions — having to go through all this trouble just to get financial reparations from some dimwitted coachman who had deposited his vehicle right in front of the delivery entrance, causing the ruin of several crates worth of perishable dye ingredients.

Then again, the coachman in question had been a gnome, so what else could you expect? Like, from a purely anatomical standpoint, how much brain could fit inside of those tiny, little skulls to power their thoughts?

Astarion wrinkled his nose as he surveyed the creature fidgeting in its seat. Gnomes had always creeped him out a little, with their stumpy legs and weirdly small hands, that purplish undertone to their skin. Like something meant to reside underground, scuttling about with sewer rats and hairy-legged spiders. He remembered feeling vaguely guilty about those feelings when he’d been younger. But the older he got, the more he realized he was not the only one who felt that way. There were even academic texts on the topic. His friends at law school had shared a few of them around after one of them had been found next to a gnome after a particularly wild night — an incident that had earned them the nickname fairy fucker for the remainder of their studies.

Astarion couldn’t remember exactly what arguments the scholars behind those texts had brought forward, but suffice it to say, there was an ongoing dispute on whether or not gnomes truly qualified as a humanoid race. Their capacity for critical reasoning, abstract thinking, perhaps even higher-order emotions.

Now, personally, Astarion thought that last one might be taking it a tad bit too far. Which really went to show how generous he was, how worldly and open-minded. Here he was, after all, listening to the creature as he would for any other citizen — even though their nasal little voice was grating on his nerves like nails against a blackboard.

They really ought to be grateful for that.

Astarion mentally exhaled when the prosecutor, an ancient tiefling lady whose large, spirally horns were by far her most interesting personality trait, ceased her questioning and allowed the creature to return to its seat in the docks.

“And now for our first and only witness …”

Astarion stifled a yawn and let his gaze drift toward the crowd. He was not at all surprised to find Zoraya in the first row. She sat with her notebook balanced on her lap, fountain pen scribbling away, and even with her eyes trained on the page, Astarion had a very good idea of what was going through her head right now.

Oh, the poor, underprivileged coachman! Being framed by the rich merchant who had deliberately failed to put up a No parking sign, just so he could rob unsuspecting citizens of their hard-earned coin! In her mind, she was probably making up a wife and 17 hungry children for the gnome. A leaky roof at home, one tattered blanket they all shared and an absolutely wonderful personality behind that slightly constipated grimace on his face.

It irked Astarion a little. That even someone as smart and accomplished as Zoraya couldn’t see that she herself was the best proof for the flaws in her own logic. If a woman like her — a bastard child with no connections, no funds, no support system whatsoever — could make herself valedictorian of Baldur’s Gate Law School and personal assistant to a magistrate, then what in the hells was wrong with those other miserable sods who kept wringing their hands and doing absolutely nothing else to improve their situation?

Her eyes met his, brows shooting up in disapproval. She gave a pointed look from him to the rotund dwarf currently occupying the witness stand and he could practically hear her silent Pay attention, gods dammit!

Astarion made a point of leaning back leisurely. Taking his time to sip from his water without breaking eye contact with her. In response, her mouth twitched in that way it had done ever since she’d been a girl, and she actually lifted her fountain pen off the page to gesture at the witness, who was currently describing his account of the events. A task that seemed to stretch his mental faculties to the very edge of their abilities, forcing him to punctuate every other word with an Uhm or Er.

Astarion reached underneath the bench — the official title for his seat — and was delighted to find a tin box full of candy. A gift from a fling or an admirer, most likely. He took his time choosing a piece, pulling off the wrapper and then biting into it with a crunch that carried all the way to the last row of seats.

Silence descended upon the courtroom. The witness stood with his mouth open, the remnants of his intellect apparently used up by that last triumphant Uhm. The prosecutor shook her head in either exasperation or denial, the defense attorney pretended to double-check something in his notes, but Astarion’s gaze was set solely on Zoraya. Watching the little tremble in her hand as she clutched her fountain pen so hard as if she was planning to thrust out her arm and throw it at him like a miniature spear.

Which, really, would have been a vast improvement to the entertainment value of the overall proceedings.

Impossible, her glare screamed. You’re impossible.

Astarion smiled and shifted his weight comfortably, popping another piece of candy into his mouth.

The prosecutor cleared her throat. “Thank you, Sir Halfstack. No further questions.”

The dwarf shuffled back to his seat. Expectant eyes settled on Astarion, which he took as his cue to move this sad show along to its next act.

“The presiding magistrate shall now retreat into his chambers in order to reach a verdict!” He slammed the little hammer against its pad — his favorite part of the whole thing, truth be told — rose with his magistrate robes swooshing around him dramatically, then immediately sat back down again.

“The presiding magistrate has reached a verdict!”

Oh, he could practically feel Zoraya’s groan as she squeezed her eyes shut and threw back her head. Not how he usually provoked this particular reaction in women, to be sure, but he was nothing if not open to try out new things.

Besides, he’d nearly forgotten how much fun it was to rile her up.

“After much deliberation and thinking and so on and so forth,” he began, twirling the little hammer as he spoke, “is is the belief of this court that the accused is in fact guilty of wrongfully depositing his coach on another citizen’s property.”

The gnome made a choked-up noise that was quickly swallowed by the agitated muttering of the crowd. Zoraya’s face scrunched up in shock, her free hand flying to her chest, clutching at the pendant she wore underneath her fully buttoned blouse. Some sort of Gur trinket if he remembered correctly.

“Now, ideally, the property owner would have put up signs,” Astarion allowed, effortlessly drowning out the audience. “Nonetheless, the High Court’s ruling in Fynnasla v. Stonehelm states that the operator of any animal-drawn vehicle is required to take special caution not to interfere with any commercial operations. Seeing as how the aggrieved party was expecting a delivery, which ended up spoilt on the streets due to the obstruction, the Court of Baldur’s Gate sentences the accused to financial reparations equal to the incurred loss, plus an additional fine of 250 gold coins. Those payments are to be made within six months.”

The enraged murmuring graduated to full-on shouting and cursing. Most of it was probably directed at him — not that he cared. He was too busy enjoying the delicious realization spread over Zoraya’s face, line by furious line. The knowledge of what he’d done. That he hadn’t just sentenced some poor sod because he could, but had actually built an airtight justification for it, using the most tangentially relevant piece of precedent out there.

If he could freeze that look of hers, he’d have it framed and hung up in his office, right next to his diploma.

“This is this court’s final verdict,” he said. “Thank you all for … whatever it is you are doing here. The court is adjourned!”

He slammed the hammer onto the pad, then twice more, for the fun of it, and left with billowing robes as all hell broke loose in the courtroom.

Astarion had never much liked the traditional attire that came with his position. A heap of fabric in a dreary shade of black that did absolutely nothing for his figure, so oversized that it appeared to swallow him up like some sort of large jellyfish.

But, hells, did it make for a suitably dramatic exit.

Astarion was just buttoning up the cream silk shirt he wore underneath his doublet when Zoraya stormed into his chambers.

“That is not what Fynnasla v. Stonehelm is about and you know it!” she yelled.

“Oh, darling.” Astarion turned toward her with a smile. “If you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask. Or do you perhaps have a thing for the robes?” He glanced toward where they hung in the austere little wardrobe. “I can put them back on, if you please. Trust me, you’re not the only one nurturing this sort of fantasy.”

“Shut. Up!”

“Alright. We can get straight to it. No talking required.” He strode up to her, pointedly undoing those last few buttons. Exposing the milky white skin of his chest and abdomen that looked so very good covered in lipstick and teeth marks.

It wasn’t like he was planning on doing anything with her — truth be told, he imagined kissing her would feel somewhat like kissing a book titled The Foundations of Criminal Law – Definitive Edition. But he quite enjoyed watching her squirm backward until her back hit the door.

At which point she hissed, “Put on some clothes, gods dammit!” and hurried out of his chambers, slamming the door shut behind herself.

Clearly, Astarion was not the only one with a knack for dramatic exits.

“Why?” she asked from the other side of the door. “Tell me why. You know that man doesn’t have the money.”

“Oh, Zoraya, my dear.” Astarion sighed. “The truth of the matter is, nobody is going to miss one lousy coachman. What will be missed, however, is a successful dye merchant who actually contributes to society. Pays taxes, attracts people with his wares.” He closed the final button and slipped into his doublet, smoothing the rich, burgundy fabric over his arms. “By protecting him, I am protecting the city. It might be a tough decision to make, but who else if not a magistrate to carry that burden?”

“Yeah, I’m sure you of all people know all about burdens.”

The venom in her voice hit him somewhere unexpected, a sharp, little sting that tore at his patience. He had been extremely patient with her. Letting her drag him out here when he knew nothing good could come of it. Letting her lecture him as if she was somehow better than him, just because she’d always had better grades, tutors and teachers lining up to sing her praises, go on and on about how disciplined she was, how well-mannered, how ambitious, just so incredibly easy — why can’t anything be easy with you, Astarion?

He reached for his overcoat and froze at the sight of the red blotches all along the ivory collar. The tomato pulp had dried on the silk, red juices sinking deep into the fabric. A beautiful piece of craftsmanship, now fit for little else than the trash heap.

“How dare you,” he whispered, fingers clenching around the ruined fabric.

Then he stormed out of his chambers, leaving the coat right where it was, and repeated in a thundering snarl, “How dare you!”

Zoraya’s eyes went wide, not quite comprehending. She just stood there, all prim and proper and so obnoxiously tall — it had him bristling with anger. Astarion did not get angry a whole lot, least of all in public. That just wasn’t something an Ancunin did. Except for today, apparently.

“Magistrate Ancunin?” A chipper voice in his back. “A word, if you please?”

“Not now!”

“But … I was hoping …”

“I said, not — now!” He turned around, ready to unleash a whole decade of legal training onto whatever miserable soul dared speak to him now.

And then stopped dead in his tracks when he recognized Yeshana Orbryn. Fountain pen in hand, red lips quirked up in that fake smile generations of journalists had cultivated to perfection. The kind of smile that seemed like a little inside joke amongst themselves. A silent Let’s pretend we’re just having a casual chat, while I’ll do my damnedest to find something I can twist into a noose to hang you with.

Astarion took a deep breath through his nose, trying to stifle his anger. “I’m afraid right now is not the ideal time.”

“Oh, just a few questions,” Yeshana said brightly, using that other journalist skill of completely ignoring what he’d just said and continuing with her own narrative. “Would you care to summarize today’s ruling for our readers?”

“It was a straightforward case of an illegally parked coach. I fail to see how such a mundane case would be of interest to anyone other than the involved parties.”

“Well,” Yeshana chirped, “It has been suggested that there is a particular sort of … pattern to your rulings, Lord Magistrate. That your verdicts tend to favor certain groups of people, while treating others with unnecessary harshness. How would you respond to such allegations?”

“That they’re completely unfounded, naturally! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must —”

“Unfounded how, exactly?” Yeshana persisted, placing herself in his way with a well-aimed step. “Since your appointment as magistrate, you have presided over nearly fifty trials where at least one party belonged to an ethnic minority. According to public records, you have ruled against the minority party in …” — she glanced down at her notes, only for her sharp eyes to drill back into him — “An average of 98% of cases. Does that not constitute a pattern, Lord Magistrate?”

Astarion felt his jaw snap shut, outrage flaring up and burning through his veins. Burning through everything he’d been taught to do, conditioned to do, leaving only red-hot destruction in its wake.

“Listen,” he snapped, “It is not my fault that certain groups of people cannot help but behave like absolute and utter—”

“What Magistrate Ancunin is trying to say”, Zoraya interrupted, stepping up next to him, “is that his first and foremost goal as magistrate is to ensure the fair and unbiased treatment of everyone in his courtroom, regardless of that person’s race, creed or orientation. It is part of the legal oath, as I am sure you know.”

Yeshana Orbryn looked up at Zoraya in visible irritation as to who this woman was and why she was interfering with her line of attack. “Then how do you explain the statistics of Magistrate Ancunin’s rulings?”

“Statistics are beautiful,” Zoraya said calmly. “They look so clean, so obvious, don’t they? But as with most things, the devil is in the detail. Let’s take today’s ruling as an example. Sure, the convict was a gnome, a race known for its disadvantaged standing in cities such as Baldur’s Gate. But have you considered that the dye merchant was a known worshipper of Cthulhu? A religious group that has suffered discrimination and prosecution for centuries?”

Yeshana seemed just as surprised at this as Astarion. Granted, that piece of information had probably been part of the pre-trial protocols, but he wasn’t really expected to plow through all those pages anyway. Easy to miss a detail like that.

Except, you were Zoraya Naelgrath, of course. The Ice Queen of the Easter Library, wielder of obscure paragraphs, reciter of outlandish precedents. The woman known to correct Professor Maendellyn during his own lecture, making the man so flustered, he started stuttering whenever his gaze drifted her direction for the rest of the semester.

But there was even more than that. More than the vicious sharpness of her mind, rivaled only by that of her tongue. Astarion could see it, clear as day, in the way Yeshana Orbryn, daughter of some minor noble house herself, was backing away from Zoraya, notebook held up almost defensively.

It was in the dark bronze tone of her skin, the shape of her eyes, that long, thick hair she kept tied back so militarily. She might have been a half-blood, but her features had almost nothing of Voron Naelgrath, the thickset, pale-faced high elf the Ancunins employed as chamberlain. No, Zoraya was all her mother. Which was to say, all Gur. A nomadic people known to travel from place to place, offering their services as diviners or soothsayers or whatever other esoteric occupations they could come up with. Never staying long, albeit usually longer than the locals would have preferred.

Zoraya looked like the miserable wretches she so loved to defend. Like an outsider. Someone people didn’t bother throwing vegetables at, but went straight for a stab in the guts in some dark alleyway. And that meant that a woman like Yeshana Orbryn had to tread very carefully around her, so as to avoid getting herself labelled as a bigot.

It gave her power — gods, how had he never realized how much power that gave her?

“Tell me, Miss Orbryn,” she said, still in that icy tone. “How were you going to categorize today’s trial? As a ruling against gnomes or one in favor of a prosecuted religious minority?”

“I … was not aware of that particular detail,” Yeshana, said, trying to maintain her composure as she fiddled with her fountain pen.

A smile curled around Astarion’s lips as he regarded Zoraya, arms crossed in front of her chest, the very picture of lawfulness, justness, diversity. His parents might have placed her in his offices as a way to keep him in check, to control his career as they had everything else. But she was also a powerful weapon. One he intended to use to his advantage, now that he’d realized its potential.

“As I said before,” Zoraya said. “The devil is in the details. Or, perhaps even more applicably, Never trust a statistic you have not fabricated yourself. Not that I’d accuse you of that, of course; I am sure you have simply made an honest mistake. But then, I’d really prefer if next time you really made sure of your facts before accusing a magistrate of Baldur’s Gate in his own court.”

Hells, you could practically hear that slap landing on Yeshana Orbryn’s bright red cheeks. Astarion had to pull himself together not to laugh in her face as she sheathed her fountain pen in surrender.

“C-certainly.” She glanced up at Zoraya quizzically. “And – if you don’t mind my asking – who are you exactly?”

“Zoraya Naelgrath. I’m Magistrate Ancunin’s … well …”

“Advocate,” Astarion said with a bright smile. “Miss Naelgrath is my personal advocate.”

Yeshana cocked her head in irritation. “A magistrate with his own advocate? Why, that is … unusual.”

“I am an exceedingly lucky man.” Astarion wrapped an arm around Zoraya’s waist, pulling her just as close as he was confident she’d let him without smacking him over the head with her purse. “If you’ll excuse us, we have a pressing engagement this afternoon. Good day, Miss Orbryn.”

He steered Zoraya down the corridor and managed to make it just around the corner before she pulled away from his grasp, lips drawn back in a snarl.

“Advocate?” she hissed under her breath.

“Why, I thought you wanted a position above that of a mere assistant.”

“Of course! Anything else would be an embarrassment after three whole years with Hawthorne!”

“Well, in that case, I fail to see the cause of your annoyance, darling.”

Oh, how he relished that tremble in her bottom lip, the white-knuckled grip around her purse. She’d always been like that, even when they had been children. Always so determined to take everything way too seriously, making it so very easy to poke fun at her.

“You cannot simply tell the press about my job title without consulting with me first!” she said. “There’s no telling what she’ll do with that! These journalists are vicious.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Astarion shook his head at her, smiling his most patronizing smile. “But how fortunate I am to have you by my side now! You, my dear, have a gift for talking people down. Let’s add that to your list of tasks, shall we? You will be in charge of media interactions and I will simply hang back and admire that lovely backside of yours.”

He hadn’t meant for the flirtatious line; it had just sort of tumbled out all on its own. Flattery was his specialty, one of the few things he was truly good at, and over the years, he’d honed in on it, shamelessly using it every chance he got. And, as it turned out, not even Zoraya Naelgrath might be totally immune to it. There was a flush of crimson in her ears, a brief fluttering of her eyelids before she was able to pin him down with that death-stare of hers once more.

Interesting. Most interesting indeed.

“You’ll need to keep me more involved in your cases then,” she said. “If I’m supposed to speak to the public on your behalf, I have to know about everything you do.”

“Everything?” he taunted. “I’ll have to tell you about the meetings that end up with one party flat on my desk then? Will you require to know about the exact positioning on each such occasion? Who was on top and who … finished first?”

“You’re a filthy bastard, Lord Magistrate.”

He laughed. “Indeed I am, my love. But now I have you to make sure nobody is ever the wiser, isn’t that right?”

She ground her teeth instead of answering and Astarion almost felt sorry for her.

“How about you join me for dinner tonight?” he offered, taking entirely too much pleasure in the little jump she gave.

“Dinner?” she repeated. “I … really don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“A business dinner, of course,” he clarified. “I am taking out Cazador Szarr, a rather influential nobleman, who might prove useful in the development of my career. I know there’s hardly anybody alive who knows the law better than you, Zoraya, but I believe getting acquainted with the more … social aspects of our work might come in handy, too.”

He knew she couldn’t resist, even before she sighed and mumbled her assent. Zoraya Naelgrath had never been capable of passing up an opportunity to get ahead in life. Something to give her an edge over anybody else. Another piece of armor to wear in some sort of battle only she herself seemed to be aware of.

“Wonderful,” Astarion said with a smile, striding toward the doors in much higher spirits than when he’d last approached them. “I’ll see you at eight at the Vermilion then. Oh, and bring that boyfriend of yours, will you? I cannot wait to meet him.”

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not,” Dammon said, not even looking up from the longsword he was inspecting.

He gave it a few more seconds over the screeching grindstone, then hung it on the wall in between a greathammer and an elegantly curved dagger.

“Dammon, please.” Zoraya followed him through the forge at the obligatory six feet safety distance, kneading her hands. “Just this once. I promise I’ll never ask again.”

“Is that so?” Dammon turned to face her. “You mean, this is the only time you’ll ask me to play boyfriend for you, not even a week after you dumped one of my friends?”

Zoraya cringed under the unrelenting stare of his bright blue eyes. Dammon was a master at that particular kind of stare. The You know you fucked up stare. Usually reserved for his more experimental smithing projects that didn’t turn out quite the way he’d hoped, thus resigning themselves to a fate in the flames. But occasionally, he made an exception and used it on particularly deserving people.

The results were devastating.

Zoraya lowered her eyes to the floorboards, where ash and metal chips had accumulated over the course of the day. “It was better that way,” she murmured. “Believe me.”

Dammon sighed and wiped his hands on his soot-stained leather apron. “It’s him, isn’t it? The noble boy?”

She nodded, knowing he’d be able to fill in the blanks. Back during her law school days, she’d spent more than one drunken evening here in the forge, going on and on about how Astarion had picked up a piece of chalk or fetched himself a coach or something stupid like that. Somehow, years of pounding steel had blessed Dammon with enough patience to listen to her incoherent blabbering instead of dousing her with cold water and throwing her out on the street, as she would have deserved.

He was a nice guy. Way too nice for a refugee from Elturel who had defeated all odds set before himself by not only surviving but even flourishing, working his way toward becoming one of the most sought-after weaponsmiths in the city.

Still, he left her dangling for what felt like several minutes before he finally crossed his strong, muscular arms in front of his chest and said, “Fine.”

Zoraya’s head shot up. “Really?”

“One dinner,” he said, holding up his index finger to indicate the singularity of the event. “And I am warning you: If your precious lordling bothers me too much, I will get up and leave you there all by yourself. Clear?”

“You’re the best!” With a squeal, she threw her arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug. “I’ll tell Karlach! I’ll tell her you are the sweetest, most generous man in the entire world and then she’ll turn right around, open her eyes and see that your steel might not be the only thing she wants from you and—”

“I can still change my mind, Zoraya.”

“I’m sure she’d go out with you if you just asked!”

Dammon had an excellent poker face, but she knew him well enough to notice the little quiver around the corner of his mouth. The only indicator for how flustered he got whenever Karlach Cliffgate, one of the palace guards, came by the forge to pick up new weapons. Which happened so often, every single watchtower in the city must be overflowing with excess steel at this point, but somehow, Dammon proved annoyingly slow on the uptake when it came to matters of the heart.

Matters of his heart, anyway.

He just smiled wryly and said, “How about we take it one date at a time, hm?”

“Alright, alright.” Zoraya took a step back, automatically wiping at the soot and grime the embrace had left on her blouse. A fraction of what was splattered all over Dammon. It didn’t usually bother her, but with mere hours to spare before her dinner invitation, she couldn’t help her nose wrinkling at the heavy smell of burned metal and hard labor.

“You are going to change first, right?”

Dammon rolled his eyes and shoved her toward the door. “Get your ass out of here before I forget myself, Naelgrath.”

Zoraya needn’t have worried. That much was obvious from a single look at Dammon when he met her that evening, two blocks away from the Vermilion. He was dressed entirely in black, a simple button-down shirt tucked into a pair of trousers, both spotlessly clean and remarkably well-fitting, accentuating his broad, muscular physique. His hair was tied back and shone underneath the streetlamp in a way that — for once — had nothing to do with sweat or grime.

“Well,” Zoraya said, making a show of looking him up and down. “You sure clean up well.”

“You do know I occasionally leave the forge, don’t you?”

“I suppose the possibility has crossed my mind, but — dear gods, is that a sword-shaped birthmark on your neck?” She leaned in closer to inspect it, grinning uncontrollably at the discovery. “Oh, Dammon, you really don’t have to hide that under your scarf all the time! It’s adorable!”

“One more word and I’m going home.”

“You should show Karlach! She’d love it!”

“Okay, that’s it!”

He turned around and Zoraya had to throw herself at his arm, giggling as she pulled him in the opposite direction.

It helped, having him by her side as they made their way to the Vermilion. More so than Elliott would have, she realized with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Perhaps Dammon was right and she was just a terrible person. Toying with other people’s emotions when she knew in her heart that …

“Oh, Hell’s Teeth,” she and Dammon whispered simultaneously at the sight of Astarion in front of the restaurant.

He was fairly difficult to overlook on a regular basis, simply by virtue of his unfairly good looks, but today …

Well, today he’d chosen to go the extra mile, as it were, and put on a doublet so intricately embroidered with some sort of sparkly golden thread that the light from the streetlamps was reflected all over his body, bathing him in a golden gleam like an aasimar descending from the heavens.

Or like a guy who was way too eager to be in the center of everybody’s attention at any given point in time.

“You have some explaining to do, Zoraya,” Dammon muttered under his breath.

“He doesn’t always …”

“… look like he’s paid the sun itself to act as his personal backdrop?”

“Be. Nice.” Zoraya tugged him by the arm, lifting her free hand to wave at Astarion.

He turned toward them with a smile. “Good evening, Zoraya, darling. So glad you could make it.”

“Sorry we’re late,” she said, trying to suppress the urge to blink at the very literal glow emanating from him.

“Not at all.” Astarion’s eyes darted from her to Dammon. “And this must be your fabled boyfriend. What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, Lord Magistrate,” Dammon said, holding out his hand to shake Astarion’s.

“Oh, no need for the formality. ‘Astarion’ will do, seeing as how we are in such friendly company this evening.”

“Dammon.”

Astarion, at the very least, did not show any overt reaction to the feel of Dammon’s calloused hand against his own, which had probably never done so much as changed his own bedsheets. He regarded his new acquaintance with an unwavering smile, doubtlessly running some kind of mental commentary, but keeping it to himself — for the time being.

“Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to introduce my guest for this evening.” Astarion turned toward a man Zoraya hadn’t even noticed, what with all the sparkling going on. “This, my dear friends,” he said with a flourish, “is Lord Cazador Szarr.”

Lord Szarr was the picture of an elven nobleman, slimly built and elegantly dressed. His features so commonplace, Zoraya could have easily seen him at the Ancunin estate before and promptly forgotten about it. The only part of him that truly stood out was the sickly pale tone of his skin, drawing a sharp contrast to the long, dark hair he wore loosely over his shoulders, as was considered fashionable by most elves.

That and his utter lack of manners.

His greeting consisted of a curt nod, after which he returned to the displeased scowl that seemed to be his default expression. “Thank you, Astarion,” he said in a distinctly nasal voice. “But as much as I relish standing around in the cold, perhaps it is time to go inside now?”

“Certainly!” Astarion reached for the door and held it open for them to enter. “I happen to be positively famished this evening!”

The Vermilion was the kind of restaurant that always made Zoraya feel like everyone was staring at her, waiting for her to drop the saltshaker into her soup or knock over a candle, setting the tablecloth on fire. She ordered the only dish on the menu she was absolutely certain she knew how to pronounce and Dammon had the good sense to follow suit. Astarion took it upon himself to choose the wine for the table, engaging the waiter in a rather lengthy discussion involving words such as tannins and acidity profile, before waving them off and muttering “Amateur” under his breath.

“So, Dammon.” His smile returned as he studied Dammon across the table, his ridiculous doublet marginally more bearable in the dim candlelight inside the restaurant. “Has our dear Zoraya told you the tale of how she saved my life from vicious journalists today?”

“She’s always known how to take care of herself,” Dammon said, improvising rather smoothly. If he hadn’t already had a job, Zoraya would have recommended he’d take this fake-boyfriending business full time.

“She was absolutely phenomenal! Like a warrior of righteousness, brandishing the immeasurable power of her intellect to fight me out of their grasp! But I probably do not need to tell you, Dammon.” Astarion leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “You’d know all about that sharp tongue of hers and what all she can do with it, wouldn’t you?”

Zoraya jumped in her chair, her hand fortunately only halfway to her water glass.

He didn’t.

But of course he did. It was obvious from the unrestrained glee written all over his smug face, the way he cocked his head expectantly, waiting for outrage, threats, anything to keep him entertained.

All Dammon did, however, was smile. Not even deigning to answer, just leaning back in his chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Zoraya could practically hear Astarion seething. He hated being ignored. Hated going through the effort of leaving out bait, only for his target to step around it. Still, he did a decent job of projecting those feelings onto the wine the waiter had brought, sampling it with all sorts of swirls and gestures and little snorts of disapproval.

When he turned his attention back to them, one arm flung over the armrest of his chair, the smile was back on his face. “How did you two lovebirds meet, anyway? Dammon here does not strike me as a law school dropout.”

“Uhm …” Zoraya felt his golden eyes settling on her and her mind going absolutely blank.

“She came into my forge one day, asking for a custom-built dagger,” Dammon said, truthfully. “One that would fit into the binding of one of her books, so she could take it with her wherever she went.”

“Oh, you must be joking!” Astarion laughed. “Not our sweet, law-abiding Zoraya!”

“I would be stupid not to,” Zoraya said. “The neighborhood I used to live in during law school was not exactly safe and I often came home after dark.”

Astarion froze, his brow furrowing as if this was a concern he’d never once had in his entire life. And why would he? He lived in the Upper City, which was quite physically separated from most of the people that would rob a random passerby on the street. He took coaches to and from work, probably saw walking as a recreational activity rather than a means of getting places.

“Well,” Astarion said slowly, swirling his wine as he digested this brand-new piece of information about the world. “Let me set the stage then. We have our humble blacksmith working away in his forge, sweating and pounding and sweating some more, I’d venture — when suddenly, in comes this gorgeous woman in the most impractical heels and asks for a dagger to help protect her virtue against nightly scoundrels. What happens next? Did you invite her to sketch possible dagger designs with you, Dammon? Using the shine of a single candle to huddle together, shoulder to shoulder? Did you offer to walk her home at night, using your mighty smithing hammer to keep her safe?”

“I made the dagger for her,” Dammon said, once again refusing to bite. “It was an interesting project, truth be told. I had to come up with a way to make it foldable without diminishing the piercing impact. We went through a couple prototypes until we landed on something that truly worked for her. And at that point, well …” His eyes flitted over to Zoraya, smiling. “At that point, I didn’t really need to make grand declarations anymore.”

It was true; their friendship had grown as organically as anything Zoraya had ever experienced. She’d always had trouble making friends, especially among the other law students who tended to view their social connections more in terms of who could come in useful once they took over their parents’ practice.

Naturally, Zoraya had always been fairly low on those lists.

“How very fortunate for you,” Astarion grumbled.

Clearly, he had hoped for a more dramatic story. Something involving elaborate flower bouquets and paid bards and whatever he did when he was courting someone.

“Fortunate indeed,” Dammon agreed. “I even got a patent for the foldable dagger design. They sell them all sorts of places now.”

“I thought I’d heard of a weaponsmith named Dammon before,” Lord Szarr said, breaking his silence for the first time since they had sat down. “I know several noblemen who swear by your steel. Although they do say it is not always easy to get in touch with you. That you are a little … picky about who you work for.”

“I’m lucky to be in a position where I receive more requests than I could possibly fulfill,” Dammon explained. “If I can choose between making weapons for the City Watch and for a man who will just hang it over his bed as an accessory, I will prioritize what benefits society as a whole.”

“How very noble of you,” Lord Szarr said, somehow managing to make the word sound like something he had found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“I believe we can all afford to be a little noble every now and then.” Dammon’s voice was low, a hint of warning to it. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Szarr?”

Zoraya dug her elbow into his side as inconspicuously as possible. Thankfully, the waiter returned with their food and the following moments were wholly occupied with his extravagant announcements of each dish and the clattering of expensive porcelain.

Zoraya went straight for the biggest shrimp in her bouillabaisse. The least she ought to get out of this evening was a full stomach at Astarion’s expense. She was just about to relax when Lord Szarr spoke again.

“I believe nobility is an exceedingly complicated concept,” he said, his plate untouched, dark eyes on Dammon. “As most things reveal themselves to be once you regard them with the necessary consideration and care. Which – I understand – a man of your occupation may not be in a position to.”

Oh, shit, Zoraya thought as she saw Dammon’s hand clench into a fist. He was not a violent man, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t seen him throw a whole entire table at some drunk guy who’d made one too many comments about who really was to blame for Elturel’s Descent into Avernus. He wasn’t quite there yet, but Lord Szarr seemed intent on helping things along.

Astarion broke the tense silence by clearing his throat with all the bravado of a third-grade stage actor.

“Why, doesn’t this look scrumptious!” he chirped, piercing a strip of near-raw meat with his fork and inspecting it admiringly. “You can almost forgive the subpar wine choice when they serve a Châteaubriand like this!”

“Please, Astarion.” Lord Szarr gave him a look as one might regard a child that had just knocked over a stack of tin cans at the market. “Do not distract our friend Dammon with your prattle. He looks like he has things he’d like to share with us.”

Zoraya instinctively held her breath, waiting for Astarion’s retort, possibly even one of his overly dramatic outbursts.

None came.

He merely lowered his head in much the same way as a chastised dog might, focusing his entire attention on assembling meat, peas and potatoes to a structurally sound tower on his fork.

Wow.

If Lord Szarr hadn’t been such an indescribable jerk, she might have applauded him.

Dammon, meanwhile, sat stick-straight, the fingers of his large hand curled tightly around his spoon. “I just happen to believe that it is the responsibility of those in charge to do everything in their power to make life better for everyone else.”

“Oh?” Lord Szarr’s thin eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “In that case, Baldur’s Gate must strike you as heaven on earth! A city that welcomes everyone, regardless of where they’re from or how much coin they have to offer! Opportunity for everyone willing to put themselves to work and earn their keep. Just look at yourself! A refugee from Elturel, having dinner with not one, but two noblemen in one of the nicest restaurants in town. Isn’t that all the proof you need?”

“It’s not about that,” Dammon said sharply. “It’s about all the other tieflings who were just as capable and never got a chance.”

“Well, nothing is perfect.” Lord Szarr gestured vaguely, as if casting the topic aside now that he was bored with it. “And what about you, Miss Naelgrath? You’re a bastard, aren’t you? Some sort of half-blood — oh, let me guess …”

Zoraya could feel his gaze flitting over her body, leaving hot tracks of humiliation as he took her in. His eyes were so unnaturally dark, they almost seemed black.

“Cazador,” Astarion said, fidgeting with his napkin in visible discomfort. “There’s no need for any of that. Why don’t we discuss Miss Naelgrath’s—”

“Hush, boy. I’m thinking.” Lord Szarr’s lips curved up into a piercing smile as his palm descended onto the tablecloth triumphantly. “You’re one of those Selûnite vagrants, aren’t you? What are they called again … something like gore, but not quite …”

“Gur,” Zoraya said, her throat so tight, she nearly didn’t get it out. “I am half Gur.”

“See!” He gestured at her as if she had proven some point of his. “I’m going to venture a guess that there is a reason that you specifically made it into the services of a magistrate, rather than curling up in the dirt outside the city gates together with the rest of your clan. You wanted something more, so you went ahead and got it, as is your right. But it doesn’t mean that we need to go out there and offer what you have rightfully earned to everyone else for free.”

Zoraya could feel the anger building inside of her. If they had been in a lecture hall or a courthouse, she would have launched into a full-on rage speech at this point, not stopping until this pasty, little man was cowering and sobbing at her feet. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen a career in law to begin with: the fact that it at least strove to treat everyone as equals. But here in the Vermilion, they were in Cazador Szarr’s territory. One where laws and logic meant nothing against names and coin.

Zoraya had learned to choose her battles. So all she allowed herself to say was, “And what is it you do, Lord Szarr? How does your house earn its standing at the very elite of Baldur’s Gate?”

“Lord Szarr is an acclaimed businessman,” Astarion said overly brightly. There was a pleading edge to his smile, all but begging her to let it go. Apparently, by now even he had realized what a disastrous idea this whole dinner arrangement had been. “A great many goods, from textiles to art, spices and even steel, only find their way into the city thanks to his tireless efforts.”

To be available to those who can afford them, Zoraya thought, biting back the words. It wasn’t the first time she’d been treated like this; law school had practically been one long practice ground for learning how to deal with rich, entitled assholes.

She pried a mussel out of its shell, careful not to splash any soup on the immaculate tablecloth and give the fancy lord any more fodder for his ridiculous beliefs.

Lord Szarr seemed pleased with her silence. He took his time smelling his wine before taking a sip, his meal still untouched.

“In fact, we are looking to further expand the business,” he said. “So far, we’ve largely had to rely on shipping goods by sea, with the roads around Baldur’s Gate being such a breeding ground for all sorts of lowlifes and vagrants. But hopefully, with the help of our dear Astarion here, we’ll soon be in a position to add a land route to that as well. Just imagine, instead of those miserable dirt paths we could have an actual highway road leading up to our great city! Properly maintained and expertly monitored to ensure the safety of anyone and anything traveling there. It would be guaranteed to usher in an unprecedented era of prosperity for all of Baldur’s Gate!”

“Sounds … expensive,” Zoraya said carefully.

“The long-term benefits would far outweigh the initial cost. Which is precisely what Astarion will convince the parliament of. Isn’t that right, Astarion?”

“Absolutely.” Astarion put down his fork and nodded enthusiastically. “We are very close to getting an official motion underway.”

Zoraya blinked as the pieces clicked together in her head. All those balls and banquets in his calendar, all those functions almost exclusively intended for rubbing elbows and brokering deals — hells, even the so-called meetings he took in his office — were they all for Lord Szarr’s highway project? Was this what he did with the time he was supposed to spend preparing for hearings and passing judgment in his city? Using his reputation as a drunkard and slackard to cover up for the strings he was pulling in the background, mingling with the political figures of Baldur’s Gate? And, perhaps even more importantly: What had Lord Szarr offered him in return? What could be so desirable that Astarion had dug himself out of his pit of debauchery and indulgence to actually … get off his ass and work toward something?

Zoraya pressed her napkin to her mouth, trying to hide the smile that had found its way there all on its own. Knowing full well that the flutter of happiness in her chest was terribly misplaced at this dreadful dinner they were having, yet utterly helpless against its sweet, giddy pull.

Because whatever the answers to those questions might be, it meant that he had not given up. That there was still a bit of the Astarion she’d known in him. The bright, cheerful boy who had always been fond of wriggling his way out of chores, sure, but who used to have dreams. Aspirations. Drive. A boy who had hated being stagnant; had always been in motion, scheming up some new adventure for them to go on, a new trick they could play on the maids. Always with that unmistakable gleam in his eyes.

It had been one of the hardest parts of growing apart: watching that gleam dull away. See it swallowed up by alcohol and sex and whatever else happened at those parties she was never invited to. For so many years, Zoraya had thought it lost forever, but here it was. Somehow, miraculously, still intact.

And for one moment, despite this shaping up to be one of the worst dinners she’d ever had, that was enough to have her grin into her napkin like a complete and utter idiot.

Then Dammon’s spoon clattered onto his plate and the smile shattered on her lips.

“You can’t be serious!” he snarled.

His clear, blue eyes were on Lord Szarr, but Zoraya could feel their sting all the same. Felt it right where that stupid flutter had been, just a heartbeat before.

“What about the people who’re currently living where this highway is supposed to be built?” he demanded. “The refugees and nomads! What do you plan to do with them?”

“Oh, I’m sure they won’t mind moving over a pit or two,” Lord Szarr said flippantly. “Meanwhile, you, Dammon, might finally get your hands on some more infernal iron straight from Avernus. I do in fact have a small personal stock and several ideas as to what I would like to have crafted from it. That is, if you would be able to fit it into your busy schedule, of course.”

“I do not think we’ll have the capacity anytime soon,” Dammon hissed.

“Pity.”

Dammon slammed his napkin next to his plate and stood. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid it’s time for me to leave now.”

“Dammon! Wait!” Zoraya ran after him, shame churning all that fresh fish in her stomach.

Shame that she’d brought him here to dinner with a man who had nothing but contempt for him.

Shame that she’d taken that nobleman’s bullshit, just as she’d taken it a thousand times before.

And above all, shame that she’d sat there, thinking about her pointless, stupid, one-sided crush, rather than the lives of the hundreds of people he was going to destroy.

Chapter Text

Zoraya dumped the armful of folders on Astarion’s desk, sending his ink pot dangerously close to the edge.

“The research you requested!”

“And which one of your relatives has been personally harmed by this research for you to treat it like that?” Astarion asked, looking up at her quizzically as he reached out a hand keep the ink from spilling all over the floors.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Zoraya, please.” Astarion leaned back with a sigh. “What is it with that mood of yours today?”

“I get paid to do my job, not to keep you entertained,” she hissed. Her jaw was clenched tight with anger, as it had been for most of the night.

She couldn’t stop thinking of Dammon’s face when she’d caught up with him half a block away from the Vermilion. How it had all been laid bare there, raw and open in a way he’d never once let her see, not in all the years they’d known each other. His time in Avernus. The arduous trek to Baldur’s Gate, the prejudice and discrimination constantly on his heels. Working himself to the bone until he’d finally managed to secure a forge for himself, a group of customers, a future.

Only to have to sit across from some smug nobleman who all but laughed in his face for it.

Dammon hadn’t spoken much afterward, had simply walked her home and hugged her good night. But Zoraya knew. She knew with every fiber of her being what he was too nice to tell her.

“If you don’t need anything else …” She turned on her heel, but Astarion reacted surprisingly quickly.

He was on his feet in an instant, positioning himself in between her and the door.

“Zoraya, darling,” he drawled with that patronizing smile of his. “If this is how you’re going to behave every time I invite you for a nice dinner, I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop spoiling you.”

“Oh, please do!” she snapped. “I’d much rather spend a relaxing evening down in the sewers with my kind of people than listen to another rich bastard go on and on about how he’s really doing everyone a favor by putting more gold into his own overflowing pockets!”

“Come on. No one said anything like that.”

“So I imagined how he was talking about forcefully displacing hundreds of people, so he could build his stupid road?”

“That’s a problem that will be solved when we get there. Honestly, I don’t see why you would be so upset about something that hasn’t even happened yet.” He was losing patience now. Good. Zoraya didn’t want him to be all smiles and charms. Wanted nothing to stand in the way of her and her anger.

“You know, I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, placing her hands on her hips as she glared at him. His obnoxiously beautiful face, the stupidly polished silver buttons going down his royal blue doublet “At least now I know where you got all your ideas about vagrants and commoners from. Tell me, does Lord Szarr have you sit on his lap while he’s spoonfeeding all that stuff to you? Does he wipe your face after and read you some light eugenics literature for dessert?”

“That is abolutely not what is happening between me and Cazador Szarr!”

“And what exactly would that be? Are you — oh, gods, no!” She pressed a hand against her mouth, just in case she’d start throwing up all over his shoes. “Don’t tell me you’re sleeping with him!”

“No, dear,” Astarion said with exasperated slowness, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m letting him sleep with me.”

“And what kinda difference does that make?”

“Nothing you would ever understand, clearly,” he said haughtily.

“Please.” Zoraya laughed. “I’d sincerely like to hear about the mental acrobatics behind that statement, Astarion.”

“It’s about power, of course,” he snapped. “As are most things, when it comes down to it. I am giving him something he wants and in exchange, I have one of the most powerful noblemen of the city on my side. How did you think I’ve been dealing with High Judge Nerennos’ smear campaign thus far? Nothing like having one of Cazador’s many connections suggest — very gently, of course — that voting a particular way might have rather disastrous consequences for certain business enterprises.”

Zoraya snorted. “Well, in that case he’s been doing a piss-poor job holding up his end of the bargain recently.”

“He’s been focused on the highway project, as have I. Once we put that into action, I’ll have my first legislative success under my belt. And thus, be finely positioned to take my spot in the Council of Four.”

“The Council of Four?” she repeated, flabbergasted as to how they’d moved from his dooming expulsion to joining the ranks of Baldur’s Gate’s political leadership in the course of thirty seconds. “Why would they … I mean … How do you even know there’s going to be an opening?”

“Cazador has connections everywhere,” Astarion said with a vague little gesture. “The position will open up some time within the upcoming year. Which is why it is imperative for us to get the highway project started, so he may use its success to recommend me.” He puffed out his chest and regarded her with another smile. “And then, my dear Zoraya, I get to move on to a life where I will never again have to listen to some poor sod wailing about how his lucky rock was stolen from underneath his pillow!”

And do the one thing not even Quelenna Ancunin could ever accomplish.

Zoraya felt the words reverberate through the room, saw them in the self-satisfied smirk blooming over his face. So this was his end game. Leave the law for politics. Use his alliances to morally questionable noblemen to elevate himself into the very position for which his mother had been scheming and negotiating for decades, only to fall short time and time again.

It would be the ultimate slap in her face.

The ultimate Screw you, look at me.

Look what I can do.

Look what I was always capable of doing.

It was petulant and spiteful and childish all around — and quite possibly the better job for Astarion, all things considered. But none of that mattered. None of that was allowed to matter, given what he was willing to do in order to make it there.

“What’s with the thoughtful look, darling?” Astarion asked, his head cocked playfully. “Picturing how marvelous I’m going to look in the Ducal Palace? Seated in one of those — well, they’re not exactly thrones, but they are rather imposing chairs, are they not? Don’t worry. Maybe from time to time, I’ll make a donation to your legal practice, so you can take on a few more pro bono cases.”

“And you think that’ll make up for robbing all those people of their homes?”

“Oh, you think far too highly of me, dear! I could not care less and the same goes for most of those individuals, I am sure. Think about it! You and I, we have houses and belongings we are attached to. But those people, they choose to live out in the dirt. What difference does it make to them which particular pit they’re occupying?”

Zoraya felt her eyes narrowing, her voice lowering to a growl. “Are you really telling me I am incapable of putting myself into the shoes of nomads?”

She saw the exact moment he realized what he’d just said. The Oh, shit downward tug of his mouth, quickly followed by a forced little chuckle.

“Come now, Zoraya,” he said in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

But at that point, it was too late for him to backpedal. The fury was burning hot underneath her skin, bubbling to the surface in an unstoppable wave of heat and destruction.

“Get your coat!” She flung out her elbows and shoved her way past him through the door.

“E-excuse me?”

“You heard me!” she yelled over her shoulder as she grabbed his calendar, slamming its cover against the desk. “I’m going to clear your schedule for today! You and I, we are going on a field trip!”

“Is it going to be much longer now?” Astarion asked with an exasperated look at the sun beating down on them, no doubt ruining his perfect ivory complexion with unseemly red blotches. “And please, for the love of all that is holy, do not answer with something like, Just behind the next waterfall.”

“Alright,” Zoraya said without slowing her steps. “Then I won’t.”

She led them at a pace that would have had Astarion’s feet in agony even if they had been walking on properly maintained cobblestones. But no, they had left those behind together with the last remnants of civilization when they’d passed Wyrm’s Crossing what felt like hours ago. Now, Astarion was forced to pick his way through humble dirt paths full of deadly tripping hazards and the occasional puddle he had to circumvent, lest he’d ruin his shoes.

“I told you we should have hired a driver,” he said, not for the first time.

“And I told you no city coach would make it out on those roads.”

In hindsight, he should have realized how exceptionally painful this so-called field trip was going to be as soon as Zoraya had swapped her high heels for a pair of flat loafers. But there was no point in turning back by himself now; he’d be guaranteed to lose his way and end up starving in the wilderness. And he’d be damned if he let some filthy vagrant steal his second-best silk coat off his corpse!

Luckily, the tents of the local Gur settlement appeared just a short while later. With it came the familiar smell of cattle and unsupervised campfires, earthy and surprisingly pleasant in his nose. The first heads poked out of the grimy tents, curious eyes settling on the newcomers, and Astarion automatically patted his overcoat to check for his coin purse.

He had been here before, of course. Not to this particular spot, but wherever else they had decided to camp back then. In their childhood, Zoraya had brought him many times. Visiting her mother or simply escaping the confines of the Ancunin estate when Quelenna was hosting a particularly fancy tea party and wanted them out of sight. Astarion had always thought of the Gur camp as a playground of sorts. The type that required a fresh set of clothes as soon as he returned home, but that had its charms, in its own way.

It hit him rather unexpectedly, therefore, how bleak it looked now, through the eyes of an adult. The patched-up tents sagging down the middle, the laundry lines full of roughspun, mud-colored clothing, the slabs of meat left out to dry right there in the sun.

Gods, why would anyone choose to live like this?

“Zoraya! Zoraya is here!”

A group of mud-spattered children came running out of a tent, their bare feet pattering over the dirt. The smallest one threw itself over Zoraya’s arm like one of those trained monkeys they sometimes had at the circus, giggling in delight as it swung back and forth. The others stopped in front of her, their large eyes moving up and down on Astarion as if they had never before seen a man with a proper haircut.

Which was probably not too far from the truth.

“Careful, Daniil!” Zoraya laughed as she peeled the child off herself and set it on its feet. “You’re so strong, you’re going to take off my arm!”

“Zoraya needs her arm,” a girl with some sort of greenery braided into her pigtails remarked. “To hold all her big books and stuff! Zoraya, did you bring me a book?”

“Not this time. I’m sorry, Ira.”

“Zoraya?” The small boy tugged on her pant leg. “Who’s that?” He released his thumb from the inside of his mouth in order to point at Astarion rather unsubtly.

“Oh, Lady of Silver, is that your boyfriend?” a girl shrieked in that particular type of excitement exclusive to girls of a certain age.

“N-no!” Zoraya stammered, uncharacteristically flustered by the question. “Absolutely not! He’s my … my, er …”

Her attempts at verbal communication were interrupted by the opening of a tent flap, followed by a deep, warm voice calling out, “Astarechka, my boy!”

Astarion winced at the sound of that long-forgotten nickname out of the mouth of Zoraya’s mother. Nadya Dvorak had not changed in the slightest. She was still just as tall and lanky in her shapeless, brightly colored dress. Her face just as narrow and sun-kissed, with prominent cheekbones and a smile that seemed to fill up the entire settlement.

“I’m so glad you decided to come and visit.” She took a moment to wipe her hands on her apron before reaching out and pulling him into a hug, warm and familiar as if he’d only been here last week.

Her smell was the same, too. Like burned-down candles and hot, spicy stew and the dried herbs she used for her teas and salves.

“I …” Astarion’s brain stuttered for several seconds until it finally managed to supply him with one of the many polite platitudes noblemen were conditioned to be able to produce under any circumstances. “It is such a pleasure to see you again, Misses Dvorak.”

“Oh, you silly boy, you.” She stepped back with a giggle, her rough hand gliding along the side of his face affectionately. “I am nobody’s Misses and don’t we all know it. Come. I’ll make us tea. And don’t even think about calling me anything other than Nadya in my own home, understood?”

Stepping into her tent was like jumping down a rabbit hole that led directly into his childhood. There were the same faded carpets strewn over the floor, the same clutter of opened books, ink pots and little trinkets, the same heavy warmth fanning out from the fireplace like an invisible blanket. The Gur lifestyle did not allow for a whole lot of actual furniture, but the pile of pillows around the fire was so inviting that Astarion found himself settling into without hesitation.

He stretched out his overworked legs, sighing with relief as he leaned back onto his elbows. He nearly snorted at the sight of Zoraya who sat with her knees hugged into her chest and her shoulders pulled up, making minimal contact with the carpets or pillows as if she expected them to be infected with bed bugs. Which, really, did not seem likely at all; Nadya’s place might be cluttered, but it was always clean.

“Here you are,” Nadya said, breaking the uncomfortable silence as she held out a tray with two steaming mugs of tea.

“Thank you.” Astarion automatically reached for the blue one that used to be his, back in the day. It seemed absurdly small in his hands now.

He took a tentative sip and Zoraya did the same, which resulted in a weirdly synchronized slurping sound. His mother would have glared at him from all the way across the room for such a breach of etiquette, but Nadya didn’t seem to notice.

She sat down on the opposite side of the little stool that functioned as a sort of coffee table in her home, tucking her long legs underneath her body. Her dark eyes traveled over Astarion leisurely, taking in the sight of him until she broke into a mischievous smile. “You sure have grown into a stunning young man, Astarion.”

Zoraya made a noise as if her tea had gone down the wrong pipe and now had to be forced back to the surface before it could settle in her lungs.

“Have I?” Astarion said, lowering his mug for a gesture of feigned modesty. “I wouldn’t know. Zoraya here keeps nagging about my appearance not being professional enough.”

“Yes”, Zoraya coughed. “Because there’s a difference between what you’d wear to a ball and to a court hearing!”

Nadya’s mouth quirked up at the corner, but she didn’t respond to her daughter’s argument. Her attention remained wholly on Astarion.

“How has life been treating you, my boy?” she asked. “Are you happy?”

Nadya had always been a little odd, but this question left him particularly perplexed. More precisely, the fact that this was the first thing she’d ask after not seeing him for twenty years.

Not, What percentile did you graduate in? or, How much longer until you become a High Judge?

No.

None of those things.

She asked if he was happy.

“Ah, I can’t complain,” Astarion said, managing a tight little smile. “I get to put away miserable riffraff for a living and don’t even have to get my hands dirty.”

“Astarion is a magistrate, mother,” Zoraya explained. “A very powerful and highly respected position in the legal system.”

“Look at the two of you! Enough brains to last an entire village, but neither of you can answer a simple question!” Nadya laughed, a deep, raspy sound that Astarion could feel all the way into his stomach. Warm and reassuring, just like the tea.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Zoraya’s fingers tighten around her mug, her composure slipping as it did so often in the presence of Nadya Dvorak. Perhaps they should have looked into exchanging their mothers all those years ago. Astarion would have certainly preferred a free-spirited, loud-mouthed herb witch over his own mother.

“Well,” he said, this time with a genuine smile. “I am happy that we finally made it here and I get to rest my feet and enjoy a lovely cup of tea with you, my dear.”

“Ever the charmer!” Nadya laughed, slapping her thigh in a way Astarion knew, without having to look, had her daughter cringe. “We do live sort of far out, don’t we? I am so sorry about that. The regulations change all the time and it seems like every year we have to settle further and further from the city gates. It makes it difficult for Zoraya’s father to find the time to visit.”

Astarion had to hold on to his mug with both hands to keep it from spilling all over himself. Zoraya’s parents were still … visiting, all those years later? He had always assumed it was a short-lived love affair, the flames of passion only being fanned by the impossibility of the whole thing — the chamberlain of a noble family and a Gur herb witch. Most of the time, Voron Naelgrath acted as if he didn’t even know his own daughter. So why would he come to visit the woman who had carried his bastard child?

Well.

Nadya was an attractive woman. Beautiful in a way that was only deepened by the gray streaking her hair and the laugh lines settling around her mouth and eyes. But she was also … Gur. A single night of passion could be explained away, surely, but a love affair spanning literal decades? It would be unheard of, positively scandalous.

“We are not here to talk about my father,” Zoraya said, her voice sharp enough to cut through even Nadya Dvorak’s smile. She leaned forward, fixing her dark eyes on her mother. “I was hoping you could tell Astarion about those incidents with the City Watch.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to bore poor Astarechka with such—”

“Mother, please!” Zoraya snapped, the very opposite of a plea. “Tell him about that time the soldiers had you move your camp half a mile down the road in all of two hours. Tell him about the well. The chickens. Literally any of it!”

“I told you, you’re making way too much of a fuss over this, Zoraya,” Nadya said, her voice a low warning. “Besides, this is clan business. The clan will deal with it, as it has always done.”

“Sure, by ducking their heads and muttering apologies! No one will ever stand up for you if you can’t even stand up for yourselves!” Zoraya sucked a deep breath into her lungs. “Look. Astarion is in a position where he can influence the way Gurs and other wandering people are treated. But he needs to know what is happening out here, so he can try and do something about it. At least …” She hesitated, her eyes darting to the faded carpet. “At least tell him about Ira.”

Nadya took a long swig from her tea, her brow furrowing as if she’d really prefer something stronger to help her conquer this particular challenge the world had set before her.

“Fine,” she sighed. “I promise, Astarechka, it’s nothing my people haven’t dealt with before. But I’d really rather not have my daughter set herself on fire again to make one of her points, so I will tell you the story. See little Ira out there?”

She pointed through the opening of her tent flap, where the dirt-caked children from before sat around a campfire and played with a bunch of twigs. The girl with the pigtails stood bent over a metal bucket a little ways away from the others, stirring the contents with an expression of great concentration on her round face.

“Sharp as an arrow tip, that one,” Nadya said with a fond smile. “Always tinkering around with things, ever since she was big enough to stand on her own two feet. Always experimenting, as she calls it. She was only 10 years old when she invented a fully automatic hunting contraption. You can simply put it somewhere in the woods and when you come back later, there’s a rabbit in there, neck snapped cleanly in two. No pain, no struggling. We are eating so much better now, all thanks to her, I can tell you that much!”

She laughed and Astarion narrowed his eyes, still studying the children. Okay, perhaps it wasn’t twigs they played with, but fairly evenly-sized wood pieces that they were cutting into shape, using all sorts of tools children should not be allowed to have. Really, didn’t they have any governesses to keep an eye on them? Or at least … well, parents?

“Her newest invention is the firestick.” Nadya produced a box full of small wooden sticks, each one topped with a brownish-reddish crust on one end. “Don’t ask me how, but she found some combination of herbs that will cause these to ignite with but a flick of the wrist. Just like so!” She struck one of the sticks against the side of the box, which was covered in the same crusty substance, and a pretty, little flame emerged from the red-tipped stick.

Astarion watched in amazement as she waved it around before snuffing out the flame.

“Needless to say, these come in very handy if you’re out in the woods and need to light yourself a fire,” Nadya said. “But they could also be interesting for city folk, I reckon. Especially those that do not have any magic to rely on. Ira has tried selling them before, but they won’t let her use the marketplaces down in Wyrm’s Crossing. They say she needs a permit and those are expensive to come by. And Ira, she’s a good kid, but she got a little frustrated with that, so one day, she went and set up a stall of her own. Made a sign for it and everything. She even managed to sell quite a few of her firesticks and people seemed to like them. That was, until the Watch came.”

Nadya paused, her wrinkled hands tugging at her colorful skirts. As if she had to fight her way through the memory, wrestling it under control, so as to put it into words.

“They … again started talking about permits. Even though it was way outside city borders, just a bunch of crates next to a dirt road. They said she wasn’t allowed to do that. That her firesticks must be cursed and had to be confiscated in order to protect the public. They took them all. Kicked over her crates and … well, when she got home that day, Ira was a little banged up. It’s because they know her, you see. They caught her getting supplies for her inventions from the Lower City a few times. Supplies she didn’t always … have the money for.”

“Oh.” Astarion nodded in relief at this perfectly reasonable explanation. “They apprehended a known thief.”

“She is 13!” Zoraya snapped. “By law, she is too young for any kind of physical apprehension! The most they should have done was invite her parents for a hearing!”

“Well, yes, darling,” Astarion allowed with a sigh. “But how is a child to learn without facing consequences for its actions?”

“I remember when you stole that golden ink pot out of Lord Holimion’s office when we were invited for dinner. Remind me, Astarion, what sort of consequences did you face for that?”

“Really, Zoraya, I cannot believe you’d bring up such ancient history just to—”

“Zero!” she hissed in vicious triumph. “All your father did was roll his eyes when he found it in your coat pocket and then ask you to please put it back.”

“That’s because the situation was completely different!”

“How? How in all of damnation is it any better to steal from the man who has invited you into his house for dinner?”

“It was a prank, gods dammit!” Astarion snarled, the last bit of his patience going up in flames without even requiring a firestick, cursed or not. “A stupid, childish prank!”

“So, stealing as a prank is better than stealing out of an actual need for supplies?”

“Gods, Zoraya!” Astarion’s hands flew to his head in a near-primal urge to rip out his own beautiful hair, so maddening was this woman. “I swear, whoever gave you a law degree didn’t know what kind of horrors they were unleashing onto the world!”

“Worse than a member of the City Watch physically abusing a minor in public?” she shot back.

They both sat rod-straight now, their faces barely an arm’s length apart, the air between them crackling with fury. Hell’s Teeth, he despised how effortlessly she managed to get under his skin like that. Anyone else he would have simply laughed at. Directed the conversation somewhere else or even just got up and left them sitting there. But there was something about Zoraya Naelgrath that had him seething at the thought that she’d leave this tent thinking she was right. Thinking she’d once again shown him up, strutting right past him to take her seat on the moral high ground.

She’d done the same thing with her comments about Cazador Szarr. Daring to slut-shame him when they both knew Astarion, the disgraced son of House Ancunin, did not have particularly many options at his disposal to make something of himself. So what if he had to sleep with a slightly creepy nobleman who was on a bit of a power trip? Sure, some of the things Cazador asked of him had not exactly been on Astarion’s personal bucket list, but it really wasn’t too bad, overall. At least Cazador was still reasonably attractive, despite being several centuries old. His bedsheets were made of the finest silk and the wine he served good enough to block out the rest.

It was a business transaction between two consenting adults. A sacrifice Astarion chose to make in order to show the whole world what he was able to accomplish, all by himself.

But that was something Zoraya would never understand. Zoraya who would have held on to her principles and her convictions even as they dragged her over the edge of a cliff, plummeting her into nothingness. He knew from that wicked glint in her eyes that she could keep this up all day long. And she probably would have if it hadn’t been for her mother setting down her mug with a gentle yet resounding clink.

“No,” Nadya said calmly. “Astarion is right.”

The impact of this statement shook the tent on a near physical level. Astarion and Zoraya both whirled around, staring at her in open-mouthed befuddlement.

“It does make a difference,” Nadya continued. “The same act becomes something entirely different, depending on whether it’s committed by a grimy Gur child or a handsome noble boy like Astarechka here. If you cannot see that, you aren’t half as smart as I thought you were, Zoraya. But none of this is Astarion’s fault. He did not make the rules of this world; he merely lives in it.”

“It’s his job to make the rules better!” Zoraya hissed.

“And I’m sure he’s working very hard to do just that,” Nadya said, another fond smile playing around her lips.

All the warmth from the tea and the fire drained out of Astarion’s body as he realized that she really, truly believed that. That she still saw him as the sweet, little boy who used to come for tea and biscuits. The boy who’d always offered to help with the dishes, always known when to say Please and Thank you and My, isn’t that a lovely dress. In her mind, there was no way that boy had grown up to be anything other than a kind-hearted, hard-working gentleman, dedicated to the betterment of his city.

It had been a long, long while since someone had last looked at him like that.

Like there was good in him.

Not just value, but goodness. Intrinsic, indisputable goodness tethered somewhere to the core of his soul.

Astarion’s mouth was too dry to respond, his mind empty save for a faint ringing sound. Zoraya would take care of that for him. Any moment now she must blurt it out. Tell her mother what a colossal disappointment he was, what a waste of a legal professional and magistrate.

But for some reason, she didn’t. She just sat there with her hands clenched to fists in her lap, not saying a word.

“Alright then.” Nadya rose to her feet and reached for the teapot.  “How about I make us some more tea and we’ll talk about something nice for a change. Astarechka, would you like a ginger biscuit?”

It was late by the time Nadya finally accepted that no, they did not want a third serving of dinner. So late in fact that the sun was already approaching the horizon as they emerged from out of her tent.

The girl with the pigtails, Ira, came running at them. “Are you going back to the city?” she asked. “You should take this with you! Invention number 278! I call it the Immortal Lamp — trademark pending!”

If Astarion had found himself confronted with the misshapen metallic object that had very obviously been created by melding together whatever scraps she’d been able to find, he’d have probably tossed it into the nearest ditch. Zoraya, however, inspected the thing with the closest approximation to genuine admiration a woman like her was capable of.

“Oh, wow!” she exclaimed despite the lack of any light in the so-called lamp. “Thank you so much, Ira!”

“It’s not really immortal, you see,” Ira confessed with a sheepish grin. “But it burns for up to 42 hours and that’s pretty darn long, don’t you think? Besides, it’s all about marketing these days. Luring in the customer, that sort of thing.”

She flicked a switch and — lo and behold, there was actually a small flame just behind the grimy glass pane. Something alchemical, by the looks of it, but really quite tempting, given the spreading darkness and the onerous march ahead of them.

So Astarion conjured up his most child-appropriate smile and bent down to her. “Why, aren’t you a smart one,” he said, exuding friendliness. “May I have one as well?”

The girl regarded him with a frown. “Only one of its kind! And I’d rather have Zoraya hold on to it. No offense, Sir, but you don’t look like you’ll make the trek back to the city in one piece — lamp or no lamp.”

She skipped away, leaving Astarion with one more piece of evidence as to why children were an utterly overrated concept.

“What a charming girl,” he murmured to himself.

“I think she’ll have great taste in romantic partners one day,” Zoraya said, holding out the lamp to light the way out of the camp. “Are you coming?”

“What choice do I have, abandoned and lampless?”

It was the most they’d said to each other all afternoon. They’d both spoken to Nadya a great deal, exchanging gossip regarding the city and the Gur camp alike, but somehow, they’d managed to avoid talking to each other. And now that Astarion had had some time to digest this whole event, it struck him as utterly silly. Like something children would do. Refusing to speak to each other because of some meaningless difference in opinion when they literally had hours of hiking ahead of themselves.

Astarion took a deep breath and decided to be the bigger person and graciously make the first step.

“I really don’t know what you thought I was going to gain from this. Apart from the imminent danger your mother’s hospitality is posing to my carefully maintained physique, of course,” he added, stroking alongside the curve of his waist to make sure it was still perfectly snatched.

“Well, I didn’t expect my mother to embrace the racial policies of Baldur’s Gate quite as passionately as she did,” Zoraya grumbled, eyes set on the path in front of her.

“Your mother is an intelligent woman. Realistic, too. She knows there are certain fights that simply cannot be won, you see. That there is no such thing as justice.”

“Not now, Astarion,” she hissed, ever the sore loser.

“Oh, I see. I shall bring it up once again an hour from now then. When we are both still out on this miserable dirt road that you had to drag us on!”

“Why is this so hard for you to understand?” she burst out, turning around to face him so abruptly, the lamp slapped against her thigh. “These are people just like you and me! All they need is a voice and if you can’t see that, then, honestly—”

“Good evening, Lord Magistrate,” a voice drawled from somewhere in the darkness. “So sorry to interrupt the discussion.”

Zoraya whirled and with it, the tiny bit of light at their disposal. There was the sound of steel against the sheath of a scabbard as several figures emerged from the dead of night, surrounding them in a circle of drawn blades.

Astarion counted six of them. Stocky men in simple clothing, the type to work at the harbor or the mines. Not trained professionals at all; just men who had decided to make some extra coin after hours.

Zoraya cursed under her breath and stepped backward, her back colliding with Astarion’s hip. Silently begging for his assistance in this dreadful situation they were in, the poor thing.

Astarion, who was all too familiar with setups like these, stepped around her with a hand on his hip. “An ambush,” he remarked with a moderately amused smile. “How very creative.”

“Astarion, get behind me!” Zoraya hissed, an unmistakable note of hysteria in her voice.

“There’s really no need to be frightened,” he assured her. “I am sure we can work out a mutually beneficial agreement with these fine gentlemen here in no time at all. Be on our merry way and reach the city before the taverns close up for the night.”

“Astarion—”

“Hush, darling. I’ll take care of this.” He reached into his coat and produced his coin purse, flipping through the contents leisurely. “Now, how much shall we say? 25 per person? Would that be agreeable?”

“Astarion!” Zoraya grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him backward, a split second before the dagger could slice through both the coin purse and his neck.

Chapter Text

Through no fault of his own, Astarion found himself on some gods-forsaken dirt path out in the middle of nowhere, forcefully pushed aside by his newly appointed advocate who had placed herself in between him and the humanoid vermin that was about to slit their throats.

It was, on the whole, an outrage.

To be attacked in his own city — well, near his own city, at least — without a single one of those self-righteous City Watch people nearby to rush to his aid? Whatever in the hells did he pay taxes for? To make sure they had comfortable beds to sleep in while he was being murdered and left to rot out in some ditch? He would need to have a word with whoever was in charge of patrols just as soon as he got back home.

Which, now that he thought about it, might take a good bit of luck.

A lot of luck, actually.

“They’re not wearing masks!” Zoraya said, her voice tight with concentration as she tried to keep an eye on all six of them at once. “If they let us see their faces, they have no intention of letting us go, no matter what you offer them!”

One of the brutes grinned, exposing an alarmingly incomplete set of teeth. “Smart woman you’ve got there, Lord Magistrate. Such a pity we’ll have to off her, too.” He stepped closer. “Nothing personal, ma’am, but this one’s had it coming for a while. Put one too many of our buddies behind bars, you see?”

Zoraya did not answer. Just clutched that tiny, little dagger she must have pulled out of her intricately braided hair, for all Astarion could tell. The famed custom-built weapon her boyfriend had forged for her. A pity that there was no conceivable way such a delicate blade would make it past the leathery skin of a single one of these brutes. No, unfortunate though it was, Astarion would have no choice but to leave her behind. See to it that at least one of them got out of this alive and could alert those lazy bastards at the City Watch. It was a sacrifice, to be sure, but one he was prepared to make if it meant that these monsters would be brought to justice.

Surely, that was what Zoraya wanted, too. Why else would she play hero like this when it was perfectly obvious that she didn’t stand a chance against six of these creatures?

Astarion had just started inching backward, careful not to draw attention, when the dentally challenged bandit charged forward. He had one of those crude knives they used to gut fish down at the harbor and for a moment, Astarion couldn’t help but picture Zoraya splayed out on her back like those unfortunate sea creatures. Her eyes sightless, all sorts of tubey things spilling out of her abdomen.

His muscles froze at the image, tethering him right where he stood.

Zoraya, however, reacted in the blink of an eye. She ducked underneath the swing, the blade slicing through the air just above her head, and then, in the same fluid motion, proceeded to kick the legs out from under the bandit’s hulking form. The man tumbled into the muck, and Zoraya was over him in an instant, knocking him out with a kick against the side of his head. Astarion could feel the resulting thud all the way into his toes.

Something clattered against a rock next to him. The bandit’s gutting knife — Zoraya must have thrown it his way.

“Take it!” she said, eyes still on the remaining bandits. “Just in case. But stay behind me!”

Astarion scrambled to obey, too shocked by what he’d just seen her do to voice his reservations about how much damage he’d be able to do with the weapon. By the time he had picked it up, two more bandits were down. They lay in a heap of twisted limbs, one of them bleeding profusely out of his oversized nose.

The remaining bandits did not seem pleased with this development.

“Bitch,” one of them growled, anger coloring his thickly accented voice. “Get her, lads!”

They came at Zoraya all at once. Three sets of burly arms and grimy hands going for one slender, helpless woman.

Except, she wasn’t helpless at all. She moved like she was made of pure starlight, evading their attack with a single well-placed step and simultaneously driving her elbow into the throat of the man closest to her. The blow sent him stumbling sideways, wheezing and gurgling as he collided with his comrades. The brief moment of confusion was all the invitation Zoraya needed; she whirled behind them, lunging with her dagger, and the three men toppled to her feet like poorly secured beer kegs on a coach.

Zoraya stood motionless for several heartbeats. Glaring at the bandits in case anyone was in the mood for seconds. Then she slowly exhaled and touched her free hand to the back of her head. Making sure her hair was still in its signature knot, because heavens knew, something as mundane as a nightly ambush was not excuse enough for Zoraya Naelgrath’s appearance to be anything less than perfect.

“Oh, shit,” Astarion breathed.

Because what else was there to say about any of this?

She looked up at him, her eyes widening as if she was confused as to what he was still doing here. That’s when a huge, hairy arm shot out from the pile of bandits and rammed a dagger into her thigh.

Zoraya yelped in pain, her knees buckling underneath her. The man rushed to his feet and came straight at Astarion. He had the wide-eyed look of a wild beast so utterly cornered, it couldn’t help but dash forward, use claws and fangs and whatever else it had at its disposal to carve a way to freedom.

Astarion had never seen that look on a person before. It seemed to gnaw its way right into the center of his soul, paralyzing him from the inside out. He knew there was a knife in his hand and yet, his body refused to do anything useful with that knowledge. Refused to do anything other than stand there and watch the inevitable unfold, step for step for step.

“Astarion!” Zoraya’s voice, somewhere; he didn’t know where.

He couldn’t get his eyes to move away from the madman’s face, so he only saw her when she emerged from behind his back, her unbloodied dagger raised high above her head. She used both hands to plunge it into the bandit’s neck, blood spraying every which way as the man went down with a horrible gurgling sound that Astarion honestly couldn’t tell whether it came from his mouth or that hole in his neck. He writhed in the dirt for a few seconds longer, then he stilled forever. Zoraya had collapsed on top of him, his blood seeping into her coat.

There was blood everywhere. So much blood. Astarion stood close enough that a good deal of it must have ended up on him, too, but he wasn’t ready yet to think about that.

Not when he had all this to process.

Zoraya Naelgrath stabbing a man to death right in front of him.

Zoraya with her spotless white blouses and her hair always tied up in that ridiculously tight knot, as if it had misbehaved once, a long time ago, and now deserved eternal punishment for it.

Zoraya who had never so much as cheated during an exam or skipped an early morning class to sleep in a little longer.

She’d killed a man.

Just the one though, he realized as his eyes darted to the pile of bandits. She’d incapacitated the others without even using the sharp end of her blade. Had spared them, probably because she felt sorry for anyone who got to use their poverty as an excuse to behave like absolute filth.

Except for this one.

The one who had come for him had found a rather decisive end.

“Are you okay?” Zoraya inquired from atop the dead bandit.

“I’m … alright,” Astarion managed. His voice was hoarse as if he had been the one doing the fighting and slaughtering when, in reality, all he had done was stand there like an unusually attractive piece of shrubbery.

He approached her cautiously, half expecting the madman to jump up once more. But no, with that much blood outside of his body, no amount of hatred could bring him back.

Zoraya had managed to draw herself up into a sitting position. Astarion winced when he saw the dagger hilt sticking out of her thigh. How in all of damnation had she even moved with that thing rammed into in her flesh? Painfully, that much was obvious from the look on her face, the way she struggled to find a bearable position. But when her eyes met Astarion’s, her lips curled up into a smile.

“You’re okay,” she said. “Oh, thank the gods.”

“That is all you have to say?” Astarion said, his voice shaky and shrill in his own ears. “You’re knocking out six rabid vagrants, each of them at least twice your weight, and then you say Thank the gods?”

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to reach you in time.” She looked down at her lap, her teeth clenching visibly. “Hells, that was close,” she whispered. “Way too close.”

“Zoraya. Darling.” Astarion knelt and took out his handkerchief, using it to wipe the blood off her face. “You and I, we are going to have a lengthy discussion about what just happened here. But first, we are getting you help. Now, I am not exactly an expert in first aid, but I reckon we should start by removing that?”

He pointed at the dagger, but Zoraya shook her head. “Absolutely not! I’ll bleed out in no time!”

“Alright. We’ll leave it in then until we get you into the hands of a healer.”

“We’re still at least a mile away from the city gates,” she said. “You should go ahead without me. Find someone from the Watch who can help.”

“And leave you alone and defenseless next to five unconscious brutes who might wake up any moment?” Astarion snorted. “Out of the question, love. You are coming with me.”

“But … my leg …”

“Don’t worry. It’s not the first time I’m carrying you to safety, is it?”

He saw her wince at the memory. For Zoraya Naelgrath, it was probably something shameful, an inexcusable failure to live up to her own sky-high standards, but Astarion had always treasured the memory. They’d been climbing the plum trees in his parents’ gardens when she’d fallen off and twisted her ankle so badly, she couldn’t get up anymore. Astarion had known this, even as she’d insisted everything was fine, that she only needed a little rest. He’d known she was in pain, had known she was biting back tears long before they’d trickled onto his neck when he was carrying her home.

“Come on.” He turned around, presenting his back to her. “You may have grown taller, but you’re still as wispy as ever. I’m sure I can manage.”

“B-but it’s a mile at least! And I’m gonna get blood all over you and—”

“Zoraya Naelgrath, get on my damned back right this instance. This is an order from your boss.”

Of course, that did the trick. He felt her arms close around his neck gingerly and reached back his hands, hooking her knees over his elbows.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He rose to his feet as gently as he possibly could, but she still hissed in pain at the pressure on her injured thigh. Astarion stopped immediately.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “If it’s too much, I can put you back down.”

“No,” she managed through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”

Hells. If he was half as buff as that blacksmith boyfriend of hers, he’d be able to do a bridal carry with her rather than this awkward piggyback ride. But he was not, so all he could do was pick up the Gur lamp and start walking, silently wondering how often she had said those exact words over the years.

Zoraya was most certainly a I’m fine kind of person. A No, thank you kind of person. I’ve got this covered, really, no need to worry. Astarion remembered vaguely how he used to admire that quality of hers, a long time ago. Before his mother had made it a point to shove it into his face every chance she got. Holding it over his head like a measuring stick, set to a goal he could never hope to achieve, no matter what he did.

No one could ruin something quite as effectively as Quelenna Ancunin.

“So,” Astarion said, fighting to keep his tone light, for Zoraya’s sake. “Care to tell me when exactly you learned to wield weapons other than legal paragraphs?”

“My mother,” she muttered. “She insisted I go through the clan’s traditional combat training.”

Ah, Gur tactics. That made sense. You probably needed to prepare your children for anything, living out in the wilderness like they did. Still, he hadn’t known Zoraya had spent this much time out here, connecting with this part of her heritage. She’d never seemed enthusiastic about her Gur roots — unsurprisingly so. An ancestry of traveling soothsayers and other circus attractions did not exactly scream, promising legal career.

“Well, remind me to thank your mother, next time she has us over for dinner,” Astarion said. “If it weren’t for her efforts, we’d both be dead at the hands of those vagrants, that’s for sure. Wretches, the lot of them. Besides, what did he mean with that little speech of his? What have I ever done to draw the ire of the local fisherman population?”

“Dockworkers.”

“Hm?”

“They were dockworkers,” Zoraya said, her voice clipped but clear. “Different accent. The r comes from deeper in the throat.”

“Well, I honestly do not remember ever saying anything against them, either.”

“The shipyard employs lots of gnomes,” she said. “They make really good engineers.”

“Because they’re small enough to fit into the nooks and crannies of a misbehaving machine?”

“Because metalwork has been an integral part of their culture for centuries!”

“Alright, alright,” he said soothingly, not wanting her to work herself up any further. She was already hard enough to carry without actively trying to murder him. “So you think these men attacked us in order to — what? Avenge their beloved albeit criminal coworkers that I had to send behind bars for the good of the public?”

“They’re only criminals because you decided so,” she said, “You understand that, don’t you?”

Astarion snorted, anger coiling in his stomach. “Yes, dear, after a decade of studying the law, I have managed to grasp the fundamental basics, thank you very much.”

Instead of an answer, she let out a pained little grown, squirming against his grip that had tightened without him realizing it. He forced his muscles to relax immediately and muttered an apology, mentally slapping himself across the face.

She was injured. Had a gods damned dagger sticking out of her thigh because some savages had decided to take out their existential anger on an unsuspecting magistrate, and she would rather put herself in harm’s way than allow her employer to die on her watch. Because that’s who she was. Zoraya Naelgrath, defender of the weak and helpless

Astarion had to admit, it felt rather nice, being on this side of things.

“Thank you, by the way,” he said. “For saving my life and all that.”

The words were quiet, even in the unsettling silence so far away from the hustle and bustle of the city.  Soft, like that feeling in his chest when he felt her rest her forehead against his curls, her breath warm and sweet on his neck.

And just like the last time when he’d carried her home, it did something to the rest of his body. Tapped into some hidden energy reservoir that allowed him to keep walking, long after he should have collapsed with this unreasonably tall woman on his back. Made him press on, even as his shoulders howled in protest and sweat dripped down his face, soaked through his shirt.

Somehow, he kept walking.

All the way to Wyrm’s Crossing, where the City Watch finally deigned to show their faces — if only to pester him with a never-ending stream of questions regarding the ambush. How many attackers had it been? What sort of weapons had they used? Had there been any distinguishing characteristics about them, scars or piercings or perhaps a missing finger?

When one of the guards asked Astarion to sit down and draw the bandits’ faces from memory, he finally snapped.

“You lot are paid to apprehend criminals, not to live out your dreams of becoming portrait artists! I told you where to find the bastards, so how about you get off your asses and take care of them, while I make sure my friend here doesn’t bleed out!”

He turned around with a grunt, ignoring their halfhearted offers to have a look at Zoraya’s injury. As if he’d let any of these incompetent fools so much as lay a hand on her! No, he was going to make sure she would receive help from the very best healers the city had to offer.

He used the Gur lamp to signal for a coach. The driver protested at first, waving his hands and shouting how he’d never be able to get the blood stains out of his cushions. Astarion threw his entire coin purse at the man and yelled at him to get them to his usual clinic in the Upper City. The driver, encouraged by the generous payment, tried to help him get Zoraya into the cabin, but Astarion shooed him out of the way impatiently.

He was drenched in sweat at this point, his arms so wobbly, it took him four attempts to move her inside. Gods, he was pathetic. He’d taken way too long to get her back to civilization, had not even realized how pale she’d grown in the meantime. She barely moved when he laid her down across the cushioned seats, her head lolling back against the balled-up doublet he’d placed there in lieu of a pillow.

“Zoraya?” He huddled next to her on the cabin floor, studying her face in search of a reaction.

She didn’t answer. Just kept clenching her teeth whenever the coach jolted over a protruding cobblestone and the entire cabin shook with it. A bruise was forming on the side of her face, just above her cheekbone, where one of the bandits must have landed a hit before she’d knocked him out.

It was the first time in forever that she looked small to him. Three years might not be much of an age gap now, but they certainly had been when they’d been children. As long as he could remember, he’d always been able to outrun her, outclimb her, tower over her with ease, his body perpetually ahead of hers. And yet, she’d never once seemed this … fragile.

And he, in turn, so utterly useless.

“Just a little longer,” he told her. “We’re almost there, Zoya. I promise.”

Her eyelids fluttered, not quite opening. “I’m fine,” she murmured. “Really. Everything’s just … fine.”

Astarion reached for her hand. It felt clammy and cold and absolutely disgusting, but he pressed it against his cheek anyway.

“I know,” he whispered over the thundering hoofbeat. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“She was exceedingly lucky,” the healer declared when her attendants were done dressing Zoraya’s wound. “Just an inch to the left and the blade might have severed her femoral artery. She would have bled out in minutes.”

Zoraya wondered, privately, whether that was actually the case or just a tactic to justify the outrageous rates clinics like this one charged their clients. She certainly hadn’t needed a team of four medical professionals taking care of her single wound. The same was probably true for most of the countless ointments and potions they’d given her, each one way outside her price range.

“She will have whatever you think is best,” Astarion kept insisting, no matter how many times she tried to protest.

Apparently, he had chosen to deal with the traumatic attack by going full-on commandeering nobleman. Half-delirious with pain though she’d been, Zoraya could clearly recall how he’d schlepped her in here, slamming his palm on the counter and demanding they’d pull a healer named Jaheira out of surgery right now because he would accept no one else.

Even now, he stood with his back straight and his every muscle tense, watching Zoraya make her first hobbling steps with the crutch they’d given her as if he was mentally taking notes on her poor form.

“Will there be any lasting damage?” he inquired, his gaze never wavering away from her.

“Not if the wound is properly taken care of, Lord Magistrate,” Jaheira said. “She will, however, be in quite a bit of pain. I’ll assemble some potions and herbal tees that might help, but really, the less she moves, the better.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Astarion said. “She will be the best patient you have ever seen. Won’t you, Zoraya?”

“I, er …” She swallowed. There was something about the combination of blood loss, stress and painkillers that had her head spinning, her fingers struggling to close around the crutch. “I just … really want to go home.”

“Of course, my dear.” He stepped up to her and placed his coat over her shoulders. Her own must have been discarded together with the rest of her blood-drenched clothing; they’d put her in a loose-fitting clinic robe instead. Astarion let his hand slide down her arm slowly, stopping at her elbow to steady her miserable limping.

“This way,” he said. “The coach is waiting for us.”

“Astarion, you really don’t have to—”

“I’m off the clock, darling. I am not participating in any sort of debates until tomorrow morning, 8 o’clock.”

Zoraya didn’t have it in herself to argue, not after the evening she’d had. So she accepted his outstretched hand with a sigh and let him help her out of the coach and onto her doorstep.

She cringed inwardly at how the tiny, little house she was renting must look like to him. The chipped paint, the soot stains from the chimney of the bakery next door, the merry group of mismatched animal figurines left over from a previous tenant, prancing through the weed-overgrown square foot of land that constituted her front yard. But in a small measure of mercy, she was too tired to dwell on any of it.

Her leg was numb from the pain medication, her head heavy as if she’d spent two consecutive all-nighters cramming for an exam. Except, rather than legal paragraphs, it was blood and screams filling up her thoughts.

One scream, in particular. The one from the man she’d killed, the life she’d taken. Had been forced to take — sure, but only because she had failed to resolve the situation differently.

Her hands were shaking as Astarion gave her the keys the healers must have fished out of her pockets. Somehow, she managed to unlock the door, but then promptly dropped her keys when she tried to push her way in with her crutch.

“Let me,” Astarion said, already next to her, bending down to pick them up for her.

He was met with a shrill hiss and a sharp set of claws, aimed directly at his face.

“Argh!” Astarion jerked back in an impressive display of instincts, narrowly avoiding an attack that had scarred more than one mailman over the years.

“Objection!” Zoraya shouted and placed her crutch in the way of the black cat that looked ready to jump after the intruder and finish the job. “Stop it!”

Objection glanced up at her with his sharp, yellow eyes. A look that wordlessly expressed his boundless disdain for her approach to decision-making and probably her existence in general.

Behind her, Astarion scrambled to his feet, patting the grass off his trousers. “Objection?” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You named your cat after a … legal term?”

“No better way to get comfortable shouting it at the top of your lungs, is there?”

Zoraya hobbled inside and lit the gas lantern she kept right next to the front door. Astarion made to follow her, but Objection had taken it upon himself to block the doorway, hissing in the acoustic equivalent of waving his fists in front of Astarion face.

“Sorry about him,” Zoraya sighed. “He doesn’t like people very much. Come here, Objection. Let’s get you a snack.”

She went into the kitchen, knowing he’d follow — if perhaps with a final warning glare at Astarion. Objection had been a stray when she and Dammon had found him, filthy and half-starved in a ditch close to the forge. And although he was more than well-nourished now, he still couldn’t resist a rustling treat bag. He was in the kitchen before she’d even pulled it out of the cupboard, his claws clattering on the floor.

“Now, who’s a good, little kitty cat?” Zoraya turned to him, the treat bag balanced in the crook of her arm.

She could practically hear Objection’s exasperated sigh as she held out her index finger and waved it at him. How he decided — with a heavy heart — to once again abandon all his pride and dignity, lifting himself onto his hind legs and spinning in a tight circle for her.

One, two, three turns; he never did any more than that. Then he dropped to his paws and meowed loudly, demanding to be compensated for his trouble.

Zoraya threw him a piece of dried fish, chuckling to herself as he caught it out of the air and carried it away to chomp down in private.

“You sure run a tight ship,” Astarion observed.

Zoraya jumped, nearly dropping the cat treats. Those fancy tonics must really be doing a number on her head because she realized way too late and way too suddenly that this was Astarion Ancunin in her kitchen.

In her house.

“You’re still … here?”

“Of course I am.” He strode over to the kitchen table as if this was something he did all the time. Leisurely unloading the bag full of bottles and jars they had given him at the clinic. “It is my duty to ensure you follow all the instructions Jaheira gave you. Shall we go over it together?”

“Astarion, look.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. “I am grateful for your help, honestly. But I’ve had quite the day today and if you don’t mind, I’d really like to just lie down now.”

His hands stilled on a prettily curved potion bottle, his eyes plastered to the table.

“This … has never happened before, you know,” he said quietly. “Not like this, anyway. There has been shouting, of course, the occasional vegetable being hurled my way, sometimes an egg. But no one has ever attempted to really …”

“I know,” she said. “It’s not your fault. It’s not like you pulled out a dagger and stabbed me in the leg, right?” She tried a laugh that sounded hollow in her own ears. Like it took the last bits of strength out of her and left her a brittle shell of herself.

He drew himself up and looked at her. In all the pain and chaos, she hadn’t even realized how worn out he was from all this. His silver curls hung into his forehead messily and damp with sweat, dirt and blood were streaked across his face. He’d discarded his doublet at some point along the march back to the city, wearing only a tattered shirt, and his trousers sported a gash down the side.

He looked like a man who had carried someone through the wilderness, no matter the cost.

The fact that that person had been her … well, that was something Zoraya couldn’t allow herself to think about. Not now when she was already an inch away from a mental breakdown.

“I’ll have them put away for good,” Astarion said, his voice clear and decisive. “Those men who did this to you, they will never see the light of day again. I’ll make sure of it. They will rot in the tiniest cell in the filthiest prison until they’ve taken their last miserable breath.”

Zoraya swallowed against the hot clump in her throat. “The usual sentence for armed assault is 3-5 years,” she whispered.

“Well, how very fortunate that I am not the usual type of magistrate then.”

He said it with a smirk, clearly meant as a joke, but at that moment, it was the final hit that brought down her crumbling composure.

Her hands flew to her face, trying and failing to fight the sob that burst out of her. She turned away from him as best as she could with her weight braced against the kitchen counter, horrified that he should see her like this. That she hadn’t been able to get him out of here before this happened.

“Zoya …”

She didn't hear him coming; he was just suddenly there. Closing his arms around her shoulders and pulling her in, taking the shaking, sobbing mess of her and cradling it against his chest so very gently, her body all but melted into his touch. There was nothing she could do about it. She was tired — hells, so tired — and so glad that he was here, alive and unharmed, his shoulder deliciously solid as she let her chin sink against it. Breathing in the scent of him, letting it fill her head, despite her better judgment.

“It’s alright, Zoya,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“But I … I …” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I killed that man!”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “And in doing so, you saved me. Tell me, what is the definition of acting in self-defense?”

She sniffled. “The use of reasonable force or violence to protect oneself or others from imminent harm at the hands of an aggressor.”

“Correct. Probably word for word, knowing you.” He chuckled and ran his hand over the back of her head, his fingers gently following her rumpled braids to the saggy remains of her bun. “Look at me, darling.”

Zoraya knew it was a mistake even before she lifted her chin off his shoulder and those golden eyes bore into her. Warm and encouraging and so much like the Astarion she used to know, her heart quivered in her chest with longing.

“You, my dear, have done nothing wrong,” Astarion said. “You were absolutely incredible. Stunning, miraculous even. I can’t believe you took out six of those brutes with that tiny, little dagger.”

Zoraya swallowed, desperately looking for something to say. Something that would distract her from how badly she wanted to press her face into the crook of his neck and nestle into him. Just close her eyes and let him hold her, like the miserable, little girl that was no longer her.

“Well, er … Dammon did an amazing job with that dagger,” she eventually managed.

She jerked back in a sudden fit of panic, her hands patting down her sides in search of pockets the clinic gown did not have to offer. “Shit, where did it go? I didn’t leave it out there, did I? Oh, gods, no …”

“Not to worry,” Astarion said, his smile a little strained as he stepped back from her. “I left it at the clinic, together with that girl’s lamp and instructions to bring it here. I’ll also make arrangements to have you picked up by a private coach tomorrow morning. If it were up to me, you’d be taking the week off, but I guess if I can’t keep you away from the office, the least I can do is make sure you get there as comfortably as possible.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Let me do this for you, Zoya. Please.”

She nodded, too stunned to argue. There it was again. She’d thought it a product of her own imagination, a hallucination caused by the excruciating pain she’d been in, but here it was once more.

Zoya.

Used not as a weapon to taunt her, but as an outstretched hand, a plea even.

And although she knew that nothing good could come from that, she couldn’t stop her heart from shooting all the way up to her throat when Astarion leaned in close at the doorstep and whispered, “Sweet dreams.”

She sank into her bed immediately, not even bothering to change out of the clinic gown. Objection jumped onto the mattress next to her and began licking the leftover bits of dried fish from in between his claws.

“I know, I know,” Zoraya murmured, her tongue heavy from exhaustion and the painkillers. “You think I have awful taste in men.”

Objection made a noncommittal grunting noise.

“You didn’t like me either when we first met,” she reminded him.

Objection yawned, not looking particularly convinced by this line of argumentation.

Zoraya sighed. “Never mind. It’s not like he’ll ever come over again. He doesn’t … feel this way, you know. He’s never … he’ll never …”

Objection’s judgmental stare blurred as her eyes fell shut. The last thing she was aware of was a warm, familiar weight settling down on her stomach, the faintest suggestion of a purr. Then the pull of overpriced pain medication dragged her away.

Chapter Text

When Zoraya made it out of the house the next morning, she felt like she had already fought half a dozen battles.

Getting into her clothes, for one. After several unsuccessful attempts to squeeze her throbbing leg into even her loosest pair of trousers, she’d finally caved and settled for the only skirt in her wardrobe. Which was, unfortunately, part of her designated third-date outfit. Meant to signal her willingness to move things along, rather than any sort of professionalism.

Even Objection gave her a questioning look when he saw her leave the house in the bright red miniskirt that barely covered the stab wound on her thigh. And, really, what could you expect from a day that began with your own cat judging your outfit choices?

Thankfully, Astarion had made good on his promise to send a private coach for her, which meant she had a few minutes to brace herself before reaching the office. Or, in her case, replay the events of the previous evening over and over again. Specific aspects of it, anyway. Hand-picked by some deeply masochistic part of her with the sole intention of torturing herself.

Astarion’s soft curls in her face when he’d carried her back to the city. How he’d held her so very gently, only to shove one of the guards out of the way, insisting that he’d be the one to carry her to the clinic.

Those men who did this to you, they’ll never see the light of day again. I’ll make sure of it.

The look in his eyes when he’d said it. Like she was something that belonged on a pedestal, protected by thick glass panes and a million deadly traps.

“We have arrived, Miss.” The coach driver stood with his hand outstretched, his polite smile giving her no clue as to how long he’d been standing there, waiting for her to return to reality.

“Oh, thank you so much!” Zoraya scrambled out of the coach as quickly as she could, grateful for her coat that kept the poor man from being flashed by her insufficiently sized skirt.

“Have a wonderful day, Miss.”

She looked after him, so bewildered by the whole private coach experience, she almost ran into Karlach at the stairs in front of city hall.

Which was really saying something, given Karlach’s body composition that fell somewhere between a searing, smoking piece of infernal machinery and one of those ridiculously oversized stuffed animals with their arms outstretched in constant search of a hug.

“Fuck, Zoraya!” Karlach stopped two steps in front of her, wringing her hands in what Zoraya was pretty sure was an attempt to refrain from crushing her against her chest. “I heard what went down last night! How are you holding up?”

“Ah, you know. Been better, been worse,” Zoraya said with an uncertain grin. “But what about you? What are you doing here?”

She glanced from Karlach to the other guard, a dark-skinned man who stood with a hand on his rapier as if he expected any one of the passing lawyers to pull a bomb out of their briefcases.

“We’ve been stationed here as emergency guards. An effort to protect city hall from any politically motivated attacks like the one you got into last night.” Karlach leaned in closer and added, “Honestly, someone must have made a really big fuss to get two permanent guards over here.”

“Oh,” Zoraya said, cringing inwardly at the knowledge just who must be responsible for said fuss. “I see. So … do you need to check my crutch for concealed weaponry?”

Karlach broke into a fit of bellowing laughter. “Nah, you’re all good! Just try not to murder anyone in there, will ya?”

“I’ll do my best,” Zoraya said, smiling through gritted teeth as she headed into city hall.

She was huffing and puffing before she’d made it up a single flight of stairs. It didn’t help her agitation that the bare legs peeking out from underneath her coat were noticed by pretty much everyone she passed. She could just imagine what they’d say, behind closed doors.

Would you look at that. Two weeks in Magistrate Ancunin’s office and that’s what she wears to work.

She found her desk blocked by an immense clothing rack stacked so full with fine dresses, shirts and doublets, Zoraya couldn’t even begin to imagine how anyone had moved this monstrosity up here. She did, however, have a pretty good idea who was the mastermind behind the whole operation.

Zoraya closed her eyes and tried to count to ten.

She made it to four before her hand found the door handle and flung the damned thing open.  “Astarion!”

“Ah, Zoraya. There you are.” He sat with his head tilted back leisurely as two stick-thin women were hard at work dabbing all sorts of little brushes over his face. Expertly moving back and forth between the countless make-up containers that were strewn across his desk, their sparkly golden lids and indecipherable swirly labels leaving no doubts as to how many families could have been fed with the coin involved in their purchase.

“Come on in, love.” Astarion turned to face her, forcing the women to move their brushes out of his way hurriedly. “Harlel and Miela will get started with you in just a moment.”

“Started with what, exactly?” Zoraya asked, the sinking feeling in her stomach telling her that she’d likely prefer living in a universe where she did not know the answer to that particular question.

“Getting you ready, of course. Our press conference starts at ten, so please, be a dear and sit down.” He gestured toward the free chair and leaned back again, allowing the women to return to their task.

“A press conference?” Zoraya repeated. “Why in the gods’ name would you pick today of all days for a press conference?”

“Because it’s the ideal opportunity to inform the public about my upcoming highway project, of course! Take a stance in favor of travel safety, so no more unsuspecting citizens fall victim to any of those vagrant cutthroats! Think about it — what better time could there be to make the announcement than right after having been the target of such an attack myself? And then there’s you! My loyal, fearless advocate hobbling oh-so adorably on her crutch!”

Zoraya stared at the crutch between her white-knuckled fingers, evaluating for several seconds too long how satisfying it might feel to smash it into his face.

She was such a fool. A stupid, love-sick fool. To believe — if only for a little bit — that he actually cared about her when he was already plotting how he could use it to his own advantage. Spinning a tale to serve his damned project, turning her injuries into his profit.

She whirled, too upset to even respond to that. Her vision blurred as she tried to push her way past the clothing rack to reach her desk — bloody pain medication! She’d never touch a single one of those potions ever again if this was what they turned her into!

“Zoraya, darling.” Astarion followed her, placing one hand on the rack to block her exit. “Come on. Don’t you think the public deserves safe roads to travel on? Proper streetlights, the occasional patrol to call upon if the need arises?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she snapped.

“Whatever are you talking about?” He took a step back, his brow furrowing halfway between confusion and irritation. “I’m doing this for you, too! Wouldn’t it be nice if you could visit your mother without having to carry that dagger? Without being jumped by a bunch of filthy miscreants who have gods-know-what on their minds?”

“There won’t be any more need to visit my mother if your project goes through! They’ll have to camp in some swamp or desert hundreds of miles away, where they’re in nobody’s way!”

“Who said they needed to be moved?”

“You don’t get to make this about me when I know perfectly well that — wait, what?” She paused, the anger so hot in her veins, it took her a moment to comprehend what he’d said. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve done some thinking,” Astarion said. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no reason to move anyone.” He pushed aside the clothing rack and pointed at a map rolled out across her desk.

It showed the city of Baldur’s Gate, including Wyrm’s Crossing and the surrounding areas. Differently colored markers indicated the settlements of individual groups of people: refugees, Gurs and other nomadic clans, each one labeled in a legend in the outermost corner. Certain areas had been crossed out in red, the corresponding label reading not suitable for road construction, and there was a thick, black line snaking through it all, marked as Ancunin Highway.

“You … made this?” Zoraya asked, incredulous at the sheer effort that must have gone into researching all this.

He must have consulted the city archives to get information about all these settlements. Not to mention the geological conditions surrounding the city, allowing him to exclude whichever areas wouldn’t work for a well-traveled highway. Hells, he’d probably had to learn about geology first.

She tore herself off the map to look at him. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I’m an elf, darling,” Astarion said haughtily. “I do not sleep.”

“Yeah, but you … meditate, right? What’s it called — reverie?”

She remembered the handful of nights she’d stolen into his bed long after he’d fallen into the trance-like state elves used to rest. It didn’t last as long as sleep, but it was certainly necessary for his kind to keep up their strength.

Only now did she notice the faint circles underneath his eyes. The make-up did a decent job of covering them from a distance, but up close, there was no mistaking his weariness.

“I was not in the mood for reverie after the events of last night,” Astarion said, crossing his arms in that fussy way of his. Doing his best impression of the mildly annoyed nobleman when she had been there with him as he stood frozen in fear in the face of the attackers. As he abandoned all his pride and hauled her back to the city, not stopping until he’d made sure she got the very best treatment there was.

Her heart clenched inside her chest as she tried to picture him, sitting down at his desk last night after leaving her. The ambush likely replaying in his mind, the blade in her thigh, the smell of blood and gore in the air, the sheer and utter terror he must have felt at it all.

And then … choosing to do this. To respond not with hatred, but with concern. For himself, surely — that much was obvious from the guards stationed outside — but also for others.

For people like her and her mother and little Ira with all her genius and nowhere to go with it.

“Is this really what you intend to do?” Zoraya asked, her throat dry as she gestured at the map. “A highway that doesn’t displace any of the people living out there?”

“It’s not that difficult,” he said. “Besides, it’s all about the way these things are framed, isn’t it? Tell the people you’re building something to support the hard-working merchants of Baldur’s Gate and all you get is suspicion and resentment. Tell them you’re doing it to help some miserable wretches and voilà — suddenly, you’re a hero!”

He flung out his hand in a dramatic sweeping gesture as if he expected enthusiastic agreement from her. When she failed to provide any, he rolled his eyes.

“You know what I’m talking about, Zoraya, my dear,” he said. “I saw you use it against that vulture Yeshana Orbryn. And now that I am presented with this wonderful opportunity, I’d be a fool not to take it. Much easier to keep those self-righteous idealists off my back if I am a known defender of vagrants, don’t you think?”

“I … guess?” Zoraya stared at him, still flabbergasted.

Was that truly all it took? Provide him with an angle that would bolster his own interests, and he’d drop his antics about lesser people? Not exactly care about them, but do enough for them so as to be able to establish himself as some sort of philanthropist — use it as a strategy, just because he’d realized it might serve him far better than the role of the elitist nobleman ever had?

It made her wonder, not for the first time, how much he actually believed in any of it. He’d never struck her as racist back in the day, at least no more than any other high elf. But then again, twenty years could change a man. Especially twenty years among the nobility of Baldur’s Gate, where a certain level of condescension was very much part of the local dialect.

“What about Lord Szarr?” she asked, quietly, in case the stylists were listening. “Are you sure he’ll be on board for this … change in direction?”

“Oh, he’ll be delighted, I’m sure! The High Court should be considerably more amenable to a motion that comes from a known philanthropist, don’t you think? So will whoever is in charge of recruiting me into the Council of Four!”

“Perhaps.” She licked her lips, trying to get her brain to catch up.  “And you are sure Lord Szarr will come through with that?”

“Of course he will!” Astarion snapped, a little defensively. “This is how things work in this city, Zoraya! You do not get ahead by doing a good job or trying your best or any of those other girl scout slogans. You get ahead by striking deals with powerful people.” He placed a hand on top of hers, gently squeezing the fingers that held her crutch. “Now that you’ve seen that I have thought of everything, would you please sit down, so Harlel and Miela can work their magic? I’d really love for you to join me on stage for the press conference, only … perhaps not in this indecently attractive skirt, hm?”

He turned around with a grin, leaving her helpless against the blush creeping up her neck.

“Chop-chop, ladies!” he said, clapping his hands for emphasis. “Let’s get to work! And make sure you highlight that bruise on her face! Really make it pop!”

“Baldur’s Gate is a city of progress, to be sure, but said progress must never come at the expense of our dear citizens. Therefore, we are taking every possible measure to ensure that the construction of the Ancunin Highway will happen at minimal cost to the local populations. My advocate, Miss Zoraya Naelgrath, is acting as a consultant on the matter. In fact, just last night, we were on our way from a strategic meeting with the leaders of a local Gur tribe when we were the victims of an ambush that has left her severely injured. And while the motives behind this heinous attack remain unclear until the perpetrators have been caught, I am fortunate to report that it will deter neither myself nor Miss Naelgrath from pursuing this project with the utmost determination!”

Applause filled the conference room, boomed off the high ceilings and wood-paneled walls.

Zoraya could hardly believe it. The same journalists who had practically eaten him alive on more than one occasion were now enthusiastically clapping for Astarion. It was almost irritating what people like him were able to accomplish when they set their mind to it. People who didn’t have to spend hours rehearsing and perfecting their speeches, but could just wing it and have the whole room hanging on their every word.

Still, underneath her irritation, there was also an undeniable swell of pride in her chest when she looked at him, tall and confident in the midnight blue suit Harlel and Miela had chosen specifically to match her dress. Positively basking in the attention of the crowd. She’d always thought that quality of his would make him a damn good lawyer, but it was the first time she saw it in action.

“Magistrate Ancunin!” Yeshana Orbryn called out from the first row. “One more question, if you please?”

“Apologies.” Astarion turned to Zoraya, smiling as he wrapped an arm around her waist and gently pulled her toward the stage exit. “But I wouldn’t want Miss Naelgrath to wear herself out too much after such a traumatic event. Thank you all ever so much for coming.”

Zoraya dug her fingernails into the handle of her crutch to rein in the decidedly goofy grin that was threatening to spread on her face as he guided her offstage. Several of the journalists kept calling for Astarion, waving their arms to get his attention, but he didn’t pay them any heed. He walked away with his gaze set firmly on Zoraya, a conspiratorial smile playing around his lips. It was a smile just between the two of them, like an invisible bubble separating them from the rest of the world.

It felt familiar. Intimate. As did the arm he kept slung around her waist, the way he slowed his steps to match hers.

“Well,” Astarion whispered as they left the conference room. “That went rather well, wouldn’t you say?”

“I believe so,” Zoraya said, willing her voice to remain steady despite the manic pounding of her heart. “Apart from the fact that you’ll need to set up a meeting with the leader of the Gur clan now, or it’ll all blow up in your face.”

“Why, I thought your mother was some sort of … leading figure. Head of the herb witches or whatever it’s called?”

“Not anymore,” Zoraya said, eyes plastered to the stairs.

It didn’t feel right to tell him the rest of it. That it had been her that had cost her mother her position in the tribe.

Not the fact that she’d been the product of an affair with a settled man — that sort of thing happened all the time. It was that Nadya had allowed Zoraya’s father to take her away. To sully her with the customs of settled folk when the Gurs believed the heritage of a child to be determined exclusively by their mother.

Zoraya had her theories as to what motives Nadya might have had, but either way, in the eyes of her tribe, it was an unspeakably shameful act. One that had resulted in her losing her position as First Healer and all the privileges that came with it. Being forced to work under younger, less experienced healers, give them a cut of any profit she made. There was probably more to it, but Zoraya had never had the heart to ask.

Thankfully, Astarion didn’t press her on the matter. “All in due time then,” he said lightly as they stopped in front of his office. “But you must admit, we make a rather good team, you and I. The wickedly attractive magistrate and his loyal advocate.”

He turned toward her with a smirk, using his arm around her waist to pull her just a little closer, and Zoraya had to stifle a gasp. There was something hypnotic in the way he let his eyes rake down her body with deliberate slowness. Leveraging the fact that in the elegant flats his stylists had paired with her dress, he was about half an inch taller than her.

“You know,” he whispered, his voice so low, she had to fight the urge to lean in closer. “As much as I regret the fact that you need to limp around with this thing, I must say, it has its advantages.”

Zoraya scoffed, grateful for the opportunity for a retort. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those men who get intimidated by a woman who’s taller than them.”

“Oh, not at all,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t change a thing about that delightful figure of yours. But I must admit, it is certainly easier to look you in the eyes when you’re not wearing your high heels.”

“Are you trying to tell me that thing you do with your hair isn’t purposefully designed to give you an extra inch or two?”

“Whatever do you mean, that thing I do with my hair?” he asked, pulling back from her with a dramatic intake of breath.

She grinned, remembering when he’d first started wearing his silver curls in what was now his signature look. He’d been 16 or 17 and had just been rejected by the son of a visiting nobleman on the grounds that, if he wanted something to carry around in his purse, he’d invest in a well-groomed lapdog instead.

“Oh, nothing,” Zoraya said, taking way too much pleasure in leaving him there as she returned to her desk, grinning like an idiot.

She was still grinning about an hour later when a steaming bowl of noodle soup materialized in front of her face, the smell of chili and garlic apparently strong enough to pierce through even her haze of giddy foolishness.

Zoraya jerked back from the sudden olfactory onslaught, almost knocking over the bowl in the process. “Sweet hells, Shadowheart!”

The other magistrate assistant stood with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face as if delivering noodle soup to other people’s desks was part of her job description.

“Did you … need something?” Zoraya asked.

It was the only possible explanation she could come up with as to what Shadowheart was doing at her desk. Between getting caught eavesdropping on her boss and her rather spontaneous promotion into the position of his personal advocate, the other magistrate assistants had never made much of an effort to conceal their disdain for Zoraya. The break room turned silent whenever she entered to get herself a cup of coffee, all eyes darting away from her in a desperate search for the most fascinating floorboard in the building.

Shadowheart was no exception to this, although her brand of aloofness seemed more targeted at the world in general, rather than Zoraya in particular. From her perpetually black wardrobe to the severe bangs framing her moody face, everything about her emanated a deep-felt conviction that life really ought to try a little harder to live up to her expectations.

“I brought you lunch,” Shadowheart said, matter-of-factly.

“I … see?” Zoraya’s gaze flitted from her to the bowl of soup and then back, not gaining any further understanding as to what was happening here.

“I was going to get a bowl for myself, but I’ve long since noticed that this shop’s products differ greatly in quality, depending on who’s on staff. There’s a certain employee — a gith, if I’m not mistaken — who clearly elevates the whole business with her culinary prowess. She hasn’t been around for several days now, but I figured, since I was already there, I might as well get something for you. Spare you the walk downstairs, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Zoraya said. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s nothing, really.” Shadowheart shrugged but made no move to leave.

Clearly, she was waiting for something.

“How much do I owe you?” Zoraya asked, reaching for her purse.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s Magistrate Holloway’s treat, seeing as how he’s out for the rest of today and left his coin purse behind.”

Zoraya blinked several times until she understood. “You stole from your employer?”

“Oh, please.” Shadowheart snorted. “That man owes me a modicum of entertainment, given the fact that he turns every single day into a challenge not to strangle him with his own necktie. By the way …” She glanced past Zoraya, at the door to Astarion’s office. “What’s Ancunin still doing here? Is he wriggling his way out of the magistrate meeting again?”

“What magistrate meeting?”

“The one that was announced just this morning. Shortly after his press conference, actually. It seemed rather urgent — pigeon express and everything.”

Oh, shit.

Zoraya could imagine all too well what that meeting was about. A whole bunch of men who had been angry with Astarion for a while, but must be positively seething now that he had the audacity to actually try to do well at his job, just when they’d been so close to get rid of him.

“Excuse me, Shadowheart, I have to …”

“Certainly,” Shadowheart said, not looking surprised at all. Almost as if she’d known all along how their conversation was going to end, once it reached this point. She waved a hand at the noodle soup. “It’s not like this sub par product will suffer very much from being reheated later today. Perhaps it’s time to look for another lunch place in the area now that their most valuable employee seems to have left.”

“Oh, no,” Zoraya said. “Lae’zel should be back next week.”

Shadowheart stilled mid-wave, the carefully assembled scowl slithering clean off her face. “Lae’zel?”

“Yeah.” Zoraya leaned back and waited for several seconds. Long enough to watch Shadowheart’s eyes dart back and forth uncertainly, her jaw working as if trying very hard to keep from asking another question.

Would you look at that, Zoraya thought. A thief and a hopeless romantic.

“The gith woman at the noodle soup shop,” she finally relented. “Lae’zel. She’s at some sort of martial arts tournament. I heard her talk about it to one of her colleagues. She’ll be back next week.”

“Is that so?” Shadowheart drew back her shoulders, trying for that air of dignified standoffishness that usually came so easily to her. “Well, good to know that shop is not a completely lost cause then.”

She turned on her heel, her long, black braid whipping through the air behind her, and then marched back to her desk with an unmistakable spring in her step.

“Thanks again!” Zoraya called after her.

Then she jumped to her feet and knocked at Astarion’s door, knowing exactly what she had to say.

“Astarion? Come crash a magistrate meeting with me?”

It was the first time since his appointment as magistrate that Astarion entered the dreary conference chambers practically giddy to do his part.

His part being that he slammed open the doors, interrupting whoever had been talking with a resounding Bam!, thus ensuring that every single head was turned their way as he and Zoraya strode into the room with all the dramatic flair of a royal couple toward their throne. She always had a bit of a regal air about herself, but thanks to the dress Harlel and Miela had chosen for her, her every movement now straddled that maddeningly slim edge between sophisticated and suggestive. Hells, just the thudding of her crutch must have any sane person in the room fantasizing about being spanked with the thing.

Truly a testament to the power of a personal stylist.

“Good day, everyone!” Astarion declared brightly. “Excuse my tardiness! My invitation must have been lost in the mail. Pigeons these days — you know how it is.”

He pulled back a chair for Zoraya, then made himself comfortable right next to her, losing no time to reach for the wine jug on the table. The selection at these meetings was nothing short of tragic, but in his current mood he could have probably happily chugged pig’s blood.

“Magistrate Ancunin,” Magistrate Holloway said, his usually deep voice deliciously shrill with irritation. “We were not expecting you.”

“At a general magistrate assembly? Why, I really do not see how that would be surprising.” Astarion waved his wineglass encouragingly. “Please, continue.”

Uncomfortable silence descended upon the room, pierced only by the half-hearted rifling of papers here and there.

Finally, it was Holloway who had the nerve to speak. “I’m afraid this is a closed meeting, Magistrate Ancunin.”

“Oh?” Astarion lifted his eyebrows expectantly. “Meaning …?”

Holloway gestured at Zoraya who had just taken out her notebook, ready for attack. “She can’t be here.”

Oh, you sly bastard, Astarion thought, feeling his smile freeze into something dangerously sharp.

But no, he was not going to give this cockroach of a man the satisfaction of retaining power over any aspect of this sorry excuse for a meeting.

“Miss Naelgrath is my personal advocate,” Astarion explained, perfectly pleasantly. “She goes wherever I go. She hears whatever I hear. I do not keep secrets from her, as is prudent in any lawyer-client relationship.”

“That may be, but under the present circumstances—”

“Care for a demonstration?” Astarion interrupted. “No problem at all! Zoraya, would you mind telling those fine people a little something about myself? How about … what kind of vegetables I refused to eat as a child?”

“All of them, Lord Magistrate,” she said without looking up from her notebook. “Always been a meat eater.”

“See?” He addressed the room with a triumphant smile. “Plus, someone ought to keep protocol of this meeting, don’t you think? I couldn’t help but notice our usual scribe must have suffered from a similar pigeon-related mishap as myself. But Miss Naelgrath can take care of that. Won’t you, dear?”

This time, she looked up at him with a mischievous smile that — on anyone else — would have had him pull her into his lap right then and there without regard as to who was watching. “With pleasure, Lord Magistrate.”

Holloway cleared his throat laboriously, looking around in search of support from the other magistrates. When no one seemed to have anything to offer, he lowered his head with a heavy sigh of defeat.

“Well, then,” he said. “As we’ve been discussing prior to this interruption, the proposed highway project remains questionable in its financial feasibility. It seems that there are multiple alternative routes that would require fewer resources, all while promising similar benefits.”

“Not to mention the environmental impact,” Magistrate Elwood added, his chin wobbling as he nodded his assent. “Wildlife, fauna and such.”

Astarion threw back his head with a chuckle. “As heartwarming it is to see you so concerned about the local squirrel population, Elwood, I do hope you’re not insinuating they ought to take precedence over the people that would be affected by those alternative routes. Because — oh my, what a despicable suggestion that would be.”

“Of course not!” Holloway huffed. “But we must consider our financial capabilities! Is it really justifiable to spend extra coin just so a tribe of nomads can keep their current campsite, which they will likely abandon a few months from now?”

“If we want to keep referring to Baldur’s Gate as a paragon of freedom and equality, then yes, it absolutely is,” Astarion said. “Unless you’d like to propose a few alterations to the very ideals of our great city? Freedom and equality, but only for those with sufficient coin? Doesn’t have the same ring, I’m afraid.”

“And since when do you care, Magistrate Ancunin?” Sylthyra, one of the few female magistrates, glared at him across the table. “Just last month you were sitting here, refusing to sign a petition to increase public spending on orphanages! You sat there for hours until we eventually ran out of wine, and you relented, saying — and I quote — Fine, if that’s what it takes for a man to get something to drink around here.”

“Oh, so a magistrate of Baldur’s Gate is not allowed to change his mind on certain topics? Is that how things work now?” Astarion clicked his tongue in exaggerated disapproval. “Forgive me, Magistrate Sylthyra, but that strikes me as a terribly rigid approach to lawmaking.”

He could see her red lips press together tightly, smearing her carefully applied lipstick.

This was absolutely delightful. Furious faces all around and somehow, he was still the one who held all the strings. Who would have thought that whole philanthropist business could be this much fun?

“I must say, I am deeply saddened by this whole affair,” Astarion said. “Every single one of us has been appointed to make Baldur’s Gate a better place for all its citizens and yet, here we are, discussing something as simple as picking a slightly more cost-intensive route so as to ensure no innocent civilians need to be torn away from their homes. What an embarrassment to all of us! What a tragic day for our beloved city!”

He let his gaze wander through the room, making sure to shower each magistrate in his boundless disappointment for a breath or two before moving on to the next.

And there it was: the cowering of well-groomed heads, the grinding of perfect noble teeth as they all fell silent one by one. None of them believing a single word he said, yet utterly incapable of doing anything about it. Not here, in this room, with Zoraya diligently keeping protocol. Writing down every word they said, to be placed in the city archives for everyone to read.

“And how do you propose we obtain the necessary funds for your precious highway?” Holloway asked, his composure clearly hanging on a single thread of his hideously outdated doublet.

Astarion leaned back with an exasperated sigh and took a sip from his wine. “Well, you can hardly expect me to take care of everything around here, now, can you? As magistrates of this great city, we should all pull our weight.”

Holloway’s bushy eyebrows met just above his prominent nose. Sylthyra cursed, not quite under her breath, and several people reached for the wine simultaneously in an attempt to drown their sorrows.

Zoraya cleared her throat. “I have taken the liberty to draft a few ideas. Just to get the discussion started.”

Astarion couldn’t help but look at her as she opened one of her many notebooks and began outlining potential budget plans. He had to consciously fight the mounting exhaustion, but she seemed perfectly composed, nothing but her crutch to even hint at what she’d been through. How in all of damnation did she do that? Where did she find the strength?

The Zoraya he’d known had always been disciplined and diligent, sure, but in the way of a small girl with all sorts of large thoughts she didn’t quite know how to express just yet. There’d been an insecurity about her, a clumsiness even, and Astarion had liked that. He’d enjoyed being the one to take her by the hand and drag her along to play pranks on the maids, coax her out of her shell and make her double over with laughter.

When had that girl grown into this vision of a woman? He'd like to see them side by side and point out all the differences, one by one. Study her like he would a complex case, taking note of every little thing until he’d learned everything there was to learn about Zoraya Naelgrath. He followed the faint wrinkles on her forehead to the shape of her brow, only for his gaze to lock on the purple bruise on her cheek, anger coiling inside of him.

That blacksmith boyfriend better take damn good care of her. He didn’t seem to live with her, judging by the notable absence of any steel-toed boots next to her collection of high heels in the entrance area. But surely, he’d come by later this evening, right? He’d cook a nourishing meal for her and help her bathe and change her bandages, taking care so his claws wouldn’t scratch her tender skin. He’d give her Jaheira’s potions and tonics, and then he’d tuck her into bed and place a kiss on her forehead before he slid under the covers next to her and enveloped her in a great, big hug.

That man certainly seemed like the type who gave excellent hugs.

Astarion scrunched up his nose, not even sure why the thought irritated him. He reached for the wine jug, but found a glass of water being pushed into his hand instead. Zoraya did it without even looking away from Sylthyra, nodding along with the older woman’s verbose tangents as if this was deeply valuable input.

Astarion stared at the water glass, his insides twisting in a familiar type of dread.

Can’t you pull yourself together, Astarion? What will our guests think?

I honestly do not know what to do with that boy anymore. He’s a disgrace, a disaster, a ...

But then Zoraya’s eyes met his. And as much as she’d changed over the years, Astarion had no trouble identifying that tortured look of hers, the nonverbal, Gods, this sucks, doesn’t it? The same look they’d shared countless times whenever Quelenna had forced them to take lute lessons or learn embroidery or whatever else she deemed indispensable to the skill set of a young nobleman.

And all the dread was gone, just as quickly as it had appeared. Because no matter what sort of miserable situation they were in, at least they were in it together. She was right here, by his side. On his side. Not even reluctantly — no, she actually had fun taking on the elite of Baldur’s Gate with him!

As a … team.

Partners, so to speak.

He’d nearly forgotten how it used to feel, back in the day when life had been infinitely easier. When he’d known, without having to check, that she was right there with him. Counting on him, rooting for him. Believing in him.

He emptied the water and poured himself another one.

Zoraya was right — if he wanted to make it through this afternoon without a lick of reverie, he’d need every bit of brain power at his disposal.

Chapter Text

Astarion crossed his arms in front of his chest and sighed as he let himself sink deeper into the cushioned coach seats.

When Zoraya failed to react, he added another sigh, slightly louder than before.

Still nothing.

Seriously, what else did she need? A glowing magic diagram explaining how people’s facial expressions corresponded to their emotional states?

“I really do not see how this is necessary,” he said, abandoning any attempt at subtlety. “Those miserable wretches have been caught and put away until their hearing — after which, I assure you, none of them will get the chance to harm anyone ever again.”

“You’re still a public figure,” Zoraya said without looking up from the pile of documents on her lap. “One that is not exactly popular at the moment. The press conference was a good start, but it’ll take a while for public opinion to change in your favor. Until then, what happened the other night can easily repeat any other night.”

“Well, I’ll simply hire a few more guards to accompany me then! Strong men with great, big weapons and—”

“Really not the look we’re going for right now!”

Zoraya’s chin shot up, her slightly unhinged expression indicating she had a whole lot more to say on the matter. At that moment, however, the coach skidded over a small obstacle and the resulting jolt had her clinging to her seat, face contorted with pain.

Astarion’s hands reached out for her, not even knowing what he could possibly do to help her. She had a dagger-sized hole in her leg and a crutch propped up next to her, and she still only thought about him. His safety, his reputation.

It might have made him feel just a tad self-conscious if it hadn’t literally been her job.

“Look,” she hissed, sounding exasperated with herself. “A little self-defense will go a long way to discourage most common thugs. They’ll take one look at you and decide it’s not worth the trouble.”

“Fine.” He forced his hands back into his lap. “I’ll do it.”

The coach came to a halt and Astarion — ever the gentleman — slid out first, offering his hand to help her. A social procedure Zoraya seemed utterly unfamiliar with, given her insistence on crawling out by herself, accidentally slamming her crutch against his shin in the process.

Astarion stifled a pained grunt and followed her limping figure into the forge.

To the threshold, at least — that’s where the stench of soot and metal hit him with such force, he stopped dead in his tracks. While he was busy weathering the sensory onslaught, Zoraya moved through the space as if she’d had her olfactory faculties surgically removed years ago.

“Dammon!” she called out, expertly rounding all sorts of wicked-looking equipment that would have sliced her in half with a single misplaced step, crutch and all.

She probably came here all the time. Picking up her hunky blacksmith boyfriend for date night. He could just picture her, greeting him with a smile and a peck on the cheek. Pretending to push the hair out of his forehead when she actually just wanted to feel the strong lines of his sweat-slick brow. He’d tell her he had to finish up a little something, and she’d settle down on one of those anvils, crossing her legs in that unsettlingly attractive way of hers. Slowly leaning back onto her elbows, a silent invitation that extended further and further with each passing moment, until he’d finally drop his hammer and grab her by the waist, pull her against himself. A few whispered words as buttons were opened and fabric pushed aside, dinner plans all but forgotten in the haze of sweat and passion, right there on that anvil.

“Feel free to come in, Astarion,” Dammon said, having materialized seemingly out of thin air. “Just try not to touch anything. For your own safety, of course.”

“Astarion needs a dagger,” Zoraya explained. “And a few pointers on what to do with it. I’d do it myself, but …” She gestured with her crutch, smiling apologetically. Pleadingly, almost. Very clearly using her womanly wiles to get this mountain-sized tiefling to do whatever it was she wanted of him.

Please, Dammon. I’ll do that thing you’ve always wanted me to do. I’ll wear the fake horns and the tail, and I’ll even let you …

Astarion shook his head and tried to smile through his discomfort as he entered the forge. “I’m afraid our Zoraya is a little worried after the ambush.”

“Well, she’s not the only one there.” Dammon regarded him coolly, large hands placed on even larger hips. One of the few individuals entirely immune to Astarion’s tremendous charms, as it seemed. “A few weeks in your employ and she is already walking with a crutch. One can only speculate what else is going to happen to her during the remainder of her work contract.”

“Dammon!” Zoraya hissed. “Could you just …?” She gestured at Astarion.

Dammon closed his shock-blue eyes briefly, undoubtedly picturing several of the many, many depraved things he’d have her do to compensate him for this unimaginable sacrifice. Then he turned around with a sigh, indicating the sort of exasperated patience reserved for small children and furry animals.

“Come on then, magistrate boy. There’s a little yard out back.”

It took all of ten minutes for Astarion to realize that self-defense training was really just another term for beating up your girlfriend’s boss with zero legal repercussions.

“Zoya!” he wailed as he once again found himself with his butt in the only puddle in the whole damned backyard. “He hit me!”

“I believe that’s very much the point,” Zoraya said, her eyes still plastered to the documents she was working on.

“No, but he really hit me!”

“Better him than a bunch of cutthroats, don’t you think?”

Astarion snorted and muttered, “I’m not at all sure about that.”

He rose to his feet, pointedly ignoring Dammon’s outstretched hand. The only thing even more humiliating than being pushed into a puddle was letting the man who had done so help you out of it as well. Dammon seemed to be having a great time if his infuriatingly attractive grin was anything to go by. Of course — Zoraya had excellent taste in partners. Still, she could at least look up from her bloody documents every now and then! See for herself what he was putting himself through, what sorts of heroic efforts he was making, all for the sake of her! Just so the next time they were ambushed, he’d be able to do … well, something. Anything other than simply stand there, shaking and cowering, while she was being skewered alive.

Astarion touched a hand to his hair, trying to smooth the complete disarray on his head under the guise of catching his breath. Seriously, this woman …

It wasn’t like he enjoyed being here after work hours! Heavens knew, he’d prefer being at home right now, leaning back in his bath tub with a glass of wine in hand and one of his many acquaintances perched in his lap, lavishing their attentions on him. That was certainly what he would deserve after the night he’d had.

Cazador had summoned him to the mansion, sending one of his personal pigeons with those ominous black envelopes that Astarion knew from experience were not to be ignored.

It had all started pleasantly enough: tea and brandy in his lavishly furnished sitting room. Cazador wanted to hear about the ambush and Astarion swirled his drink as he relayed the details. He wasn’t really in the mood for alcohol after several days full of Zoraya nagging him about this paragraph or that ruling. Neither was he for this meeting. He let his gaze wander as he spoke, admiring the heavy brocade curtains, drawn shut as usual to block out the waning daylight. Cazador had some sort of skin condition, he’d once told him. He could not leave his house during the day and had to be very careful with his windows so as to avoid unseemly blemishes sprouting all over his face or something like that. Astarion couldn’t quite recall the details; he’d had too much wine that night.

“I am relieved to hear that these despicable creatures have been caught,” Cazador said. “You know, Astarion, if you wanted something special to happen to them in their cells … that could certainly be arranged.”

“Oh, no!” Astarion laughed at the suggestion, genuinely thinking it a joke until he saw the look in Cazador’s pitch-black eyes. “Really,” he added hastily, “I’ll have High Judge Dekarios set up for the hearing. He’s sure to make the rest of their lives a living hell.”

“If you’re certain.”

Cazador gestured at one of his servants to refill Astarion’s still half-full glass. The woman did so with her pretty face turned away from him, her movements jerky and hurried as if she couldn’t return to her post behind the couch quickly enough. Astarion had always thought his mother to be a little despotic with her servants, but clearly, that was nothing in comparison to what went down at the Szarr estate.

“I’ve heard about your press conference,” Cazador said, taking a dainty sip from his own brandy. “It’s created quite the stir among the nobility.”

“Oh, I’d hope so!” Astarion leaned forward with a smile and deposited his glass on the coffee table. “The dramatic timing couldn’t have been better, don’t you think?”

“I think that several of your proclamations went directly against what you and I had been discussing before.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“It begs the question then,” Cazador interrupted, his tone calm yet icy, “as to why I would spend all this time and effort to lay the groundwork for this project when you just suddenly decide to flip it all on its head. In public, no less! Tell me, Astarion: How am I to explain this to the other stakeholders? They agreed to back a project that benefits them, not some filthy wretches out beyond the city gates! How likely do you think they are to continue their support now that you’ve decided to make this into a gods dammed charity project behind their backs?”

“I, er …” Astarion found himself moving backward, seeking shelter in between the large velvet pillows. “I had not … That is to say, I did not expect this would pose such a …”

He cringed inwardly at his own verbal fumbling. It was a legal professional’s job to be able to talk themselves out of any given situation, to twist whatever apparent complication to their own advantage. But there was something deeply shameful about this, about the way Cazador shook his head at him, the disappointment on his face so familiar. Like a scab that never went away because you just couldn’t help worrying at it.

I can’t believe you couldn’t take two minutes to consider the consequences of your actions, Astarion.

He could imagine how his mother would close her eyes at this point. How she’d pinch the bridge of her nose and let out one of those sighs that always seemed to linger around his name. As if she couldn’t say “Astarion” without simultaneously voicing her disappointment in him and everything he did.

Cazador, however, merely threw an arm over the back of the couch and rested his head against the knuckles of his hand comfortably.

“It’s not impossible to spin this to our advantage, of course.” His tone was warmer now. Forgiving, almost. “Public opinion will certainly benefit from it. I just wish you would have come to me first, you see?”

Astarion nodded and Cazador smiled.

“I’m glad you understand,” he said. “You and I, we are partners in this, Astarion. I have to know that I can trust you, that I can rely on you.”

“You can!” Astarion assured him. “From now on, you’ll hear about every new development right away! I’ll have Zoraya send you copies of all of our meeting notes!”

“That would be appreciated. I must ask, however …” Cazador took a moment to down his brandy. “I do hope that woman is not the reason you’re suddenly playing philanthropist.”

“N-no. Of course not!”

“Good. Because I can tell you, women like her live in dream worlds. Their minds are too soft to cope with reality, so they fantasize how wonderful it would be if every stray animal was fed and every orphan child adopted. Maybe it’s the Gur blood that’s making her so emotional, who knows. But what I know is this: That woman is far better suited to work at some sort of charity organization rather than the office of a magistrate. You’d do well to find a reason to fire her.”

Astarion blinked and needed several seconds to wrap his mind around this. That anyone — let alone, an educated nobleman like Cazador Szarr — could describe Zoraya as soft. That he’d question her ability to do a job she was already excelling at.

“I … can assure you, I have the situation under control,” he finally managed, struggling to conjure up his usual smile. “Besides, isn’t it good for publicity to have someone like her in my offices?”

Cazador snorted. “The problem is not the lack of lowlifes in positions such as yours, but the notion that this is a problem to begin with. Some people are just not cut out for the intellectual demands of the job. Look at yourself, Astarion. You’ve been bred for this. Made for this. Anyone can tell after two minutes of speaking to you what a capable young man you are. Practically born for a career in politics.”

Astarion felt himself straighten at this, even as something acrid twisted in his gut. This was the feeling that had drawn him to Cazador, a little over a year ago when they’d first met at a party. Cazador had singled him out that night, had sat with him the whole evening, inquiring about his opinions on politics and business and actually listening to him — really listening to him. Showing him the one thing neither money nor looks could buy.

Respect.

Astarion’s parents might have been able to get him into the position they deemed suitable for him, the fancy office and the magistrate robes and a pretty secretary, but they could do nothing to get him even a modicum of respect from his colleagues. Quite the contrary, in fact; the whole arrangement had left Astarion on the back foot from the very beginning. Snickering and gossiping following him down the severe corridors of city hall, people eyeing his every move, eager to see him fail, to see him embarrass himself and prove to them that, yes, they had been right all along. Because who didn’t love to watch the spoiled rich nobleboy make a complete and utter fool of himself?

It had been like a blown-up version of Astarion’s childhood. Every legal professional in the entire city taking up the roles that had heretofore been played by his parents. A huge, giant magnification glass placed over his head with hundreds of individuals practically salivating to see him fail.

Everyone except for Cazador Szarr. He was the only one who’d approached him openly and honestly. Had invited him to his house, sought his counsel and remembered his favorite wines. The whole thing had been so novel that maybe at some point, Astarion had even become a little infatuated with the man. Enough so that he didn’t mind their relationship taking on a more … intimate level. And while that part had devolved into something more akin to a business transaction over time, any romantic feelings long since snuffed out, Astarion still valued him.

He really did.

All the more jolting was it when Cazador flashed him that sharp smile of his and said, “If you need help getting rid of the Gur woman, I can make arrangements for you. Set up a tragic accident for her, send flowers to her clan. That sort of thing.”

Astarion felt his throat close up, cold sweat break out all over his body and seep into his silk shirt. He couldn’t … mean that, could he? Except, he was a nobleman of Baldur’s Gate. Of course he could. Of course he had. It’s what they all did, either to attain their power or to grow it. Hells, being a bastard practically came with the job description.

It was simply the first time that Astarion saw it directed at someone he knew. Someone he cared about, in a certain roundabout way. Someone that mattered.

Zoraya mattered.

She was pushy and annoying, true, but she meant well. She was working her butt off to help him with this project, to keep those pesky journalists off his back. She prepared his court documents for him before his hearings, marking the most important facts with brightly-colored ink she’d bought specifically for him once she’d realized it made it easier for him to pay attention when he didn’t have to stare at pages upon pages of black and white.

She brought him lunch almost every day when they weren’t out at court. First, in order to get him to eat, but he’d soon be able to convince her to stay. It was his favorite part of the day when she sat there across the desk from him, and they talked and talked as if the last twenty years hadn’t happened. As if those precious 60 minutes of lunch break opened some kind of portal into their teenage years where nothing mattered, except them.

As if even now, despite all the horrible things he’d said and done to her, she was still his best friend.

Astarion didn’t know what he’d said in response to Cazador’s offer. He didn’t even know if he’d been able to respond to it at all. All he knew was that a little while later, Cazador beckoned him over to join him on the couch and Astarion did what was expected of him. He chuckled and threw back his head when ice-cold fingers ripped at his clothes. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, forcing it to provide pleasure where it was guided, and then let himself be flung around, flat onto the couch.

Not because he wanted to, but because that was what he’d always done. What was easier than trying to argue, trying to make a case for Zoraya — or even himself.

Being sober made it worse. His mind was so much sharper, each sensation heightened to a near-unbearable degree. Cazador’s weight on top of him, the brandy on his breath, the sting of his fingernails as he held him down, pinned him against the couch. Forced him to stay still when every fiber in his body was roaring with anger. Fury. The desire to rage and shout and throw pillows and shatter brandy glasses. To proclaim at the top of his lungs that he was done, that he did not want this.

And surely, if he’d done so, Cazador would have stopped. It was all just a game, after all. A bit of harmless role-play. The domineering act was nothing but a kink and if Astarion had actually spoken up, even with his face pressed against the pillow or his throat jammed full, Cazador would have stopped.

Surely, he would have.

That was made him even angrier: that he’d let it happen like he’d let it happen countless times before. Just because he was too scared to confront the man who was his only chance of making something out of himself. And now he was here, cowering before Dammon with mud smeared along his trousers and his hair sticking out every which way and his lower body so sore from the long, restless night before that the slightest shove had him on his knees.

He hated it.

Hated being on his knees, being pushed around like he was a prop to be used for everybody else’s entertainment just because that was what he’d been doing his entire life.

So when he came for Dammon this time, he did it with anger. With a whole lot of deep-seated concentrated anger that had nothing to with the man, yet still hit him square in the face when Astarion swung his fist at him.

“Woah!” Dammon stumbled back from the impact. He touched a hand to his chin and his eyes went wide with surprise when it came back with a little dab of blood on his fingertip.

Astarion was breathing heavily, but it was no longer from exhaustion alone. No, there was anticipation now. A little like that feeling when a waiter delivered a perfectly juicy steak, the smell of it somehow filling his whole entire body, his mouth watering before he even saw it.

Gods, he’d never been the type to partake in something as primitive as a wrestling match with another man. But apparently, desperate times called for desperate measures. And there were worse things than fighting an attractive tiefling in the mud.

“Alright, magistrate boy.” Dammon resumed his stance with a chuckle. “Let’s go another round.”

It was late by the time Zoraya made it home that night.

Much to her surprise, Astarion had actually ended up getting into the whole self-defense bit. He and Dammon had fought until after sundown, clumsily moving around each other in the light of a few oil lamps until Zoraya ended the lesson on behalf of her sore butt.

Astarion looked slightly disheveled at this point, which — annoyingly — only made him more attractive. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he actually looked like he’d … enjoyed himself. Just a little bit, of course, and only until he lowered his brand-new dagger and discovered what wielding it for two hours straight had done to his manicure, but still. It was nice seeing him have fun with something that didn’t require someone else’s misfortune.

He made a half-hearted attempt at offering to walk her home, but quickly settled for hailing her a coach instead, so he could swing by a nail salon for what he called an emergency intervention.

Zoraya hugged Dammon goodbye, whispering a weary but heartfelt “Thank you” into his ear before she boarded her coach. She was wiped out from her research, trying to anticipate all the possible hurdles people like Magistrate Holloway could place in their way. Budgeting was one issue, but the environmental impact was also not to be neglected. Neither was the question of who exactly would be in charge of maintenance, or how to ensure the nearby nomad and refugee camps were not indirectly affected by the sudden influx of traveling salespeople, the waste they might produce or something else she hadn’t yet thought of.

Just a headache all around. As was any worthwhile project, she figured.

She ached to peel off her dress, one of the many outfit options Astarion’s stylists had delivered to her door — all of them work-appropriate, but loose enough to wriggle her way into, even with her thigh feeling like an overfilled sausage ready to burst. All she wanted to do was fumble her way through one of the awkward sponge baths that were her only option at hygiene these days, scarf down some leftovers, and then collapse into bed.

Sadly, her plans were destroyed before she even made it to her doorstep.

“Zoraya?” a voice called out from right beside her house. “A moment of your time, please?”

Zoraya jumped, her hand already clutching at her dagger when she recognized the stately figure moving toward her.

“Tatiana.” She sighed, her shoulders sagging with relief. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Nonsense. I’m an old woman and haven’t scared anyone since that cleric came by the camp to try and convert us to whatever sappy excuse for a deity he worshipped.”

Tatiana Morozova might have been well into her fifties, but there was nothing frail about her thick-set body, the heavy ax she carried on her back as if it was a loaf of bread. She wouldn’t be the leader of the clan if she allowed herself any sort of weakness.

“Frightfully dangerous neighborhood you’ve chosen for yourself,” she observed in that heavy Gur accent she never bothered to mask, her sharp eyes wandering through Zoraya’s front yard as if she expected one of the garden figurines to jump her. “All sorts of sinister creatures lurking around here in the dark.”

“It was way worse before I got my cat,” Zoraya said in an attempt at joking. “He got rid of the other strays in no time at all.”

“I do not mean animals, you silly girl.” Tatiana rolled her eyes, then looked from her to the front door. “Are you going to invite me in or has your mother failed to impart even the most basic rules of hospitality on you?”

Zoraya clenched her teeth around the answer she’d actually like to give, instead busying herself with her keys. “Would you like to come inside, Tatiana?”

“I’d love to, thank you.”

Zoraya just barely managed to get a hold of Objection before he could start his usual welcoming routine. He was screaming out his righteous fury as she locked him in the bedroom, where he’d probably destroy a few of her books in retaliation, but that was still preferable to a full-on fight between him and a woman that was rumored to have wrestled a bear into submission.

“Please, have a seat,” Zoraya said over the sound of Objection’s scratching from the other side of the door, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us tea.”

Tatiana Morozova seated herself at Zoraya’s table as if she had single-handedly chosen the tree for it, felled it and then carved it into shape. Which she very well might have, given her large, calloused hands that so clearly knew their way around most tasks. Her hair was gray and her skin notably darker than Zoraya’s, marked from a life spent outdoors. Always on the move, fighting for survival.

Zoraya refused to let herself get intimidated.

“So, what brings you here, Tatiana?” she asked as nonchalantly as possible as she rifled through her cupboard.

“It’s about your current employer,” Tatiana said. “Astarion Ancunin.”

“What?” Zoraya nearly dropped the tea caddy, so quickly did she turn around. “Why would you …”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me. Nothing happens in my camp without my knowing about it. Especially something as audacious as an outside visitor being brought in without first consulting with me.”

Tatiana gestured toward the kettle, which appeared to have started piping at some point during the past few seconds. Zoraya hurried to take it off the stovetop.

“I … apologize,” she mumbled as she poured hot water over a random assortment of tea leaves.

Tatiana snorted. “Your apology is not accepted, but don’t worry. I’m not here to talk about that. See, I’ve done some research on the man. Him being a magistrate and an absolute fool to boot. The kind that received his position because of his family’s influence and now gets to dictate all our lives with his whims and fancies. Not too surprising, given the bewildering customs of settled folk; what is interesting to me, however, is the connection you share with him, Zoraya. A rather intimate connection, or so it seems.”

“It’s all in the past.” Zoraya turned back to the cupboard in search of the sugar that was right in front of her face. “It’s been so long, we’re practically strangers.”

“Perhaps,” Tatiana allowed. “Yet, you managed to convince a man who has spent his entire adult life fighting ethnic minorities to visit a Gur camp — peacefully, I might add. And then somehow, a day later, he declares himself an ally of our people, vowing to defend our interests when it comes to that ridiculous highway project. Now, I wasn’t born yesterday and there is no doubt in my mind that this sudden change of heart is nothing but a publicity move for him. Still, I cannot ignore the role you played in all that. Your … influence on him.”

Zoraya kept her eyes trained on the teapot in her hands, pouring the beverage with undivided focus as if a single spilled drop meant the death of thousands.

Tatiana accepted her cup with a smile. “I’d be the last person to fault you for trying to get ahead by extending special favors to your employer, especially one who is so easy on the eyes. But seeing as how you already have a certain sway over him, why not use it for the good of our people? Turn those pretty, empty words of his into actions, if you will?”

“Our people?” Zoraya hissed, only barely keeping herself from adding more.

How her mother had tried bringing her to clan festivities as a child and Tatiana had her kicked out of the tent, arguing this was a closed event for clan members only. How she’d had to beg to get one of the rangers to teach her the traditional Gur fighting style, deep in the woods, away from prying eyes. All the countless times Tatiana Morozova had made it perfectly clear that she did not consider Zoraya part of her clan any more than she did a pebble on her way to the outhouse.

“Astarion is his own man,” Zoraya said instead. “All I can do is advise him, but his decisions are his own to make.”

Tatiana surprised her with a genuine, throaty laugh. “You underestimate yourself if you think anyone else could have gotten that man to set foot into a Gur camp without a set of torches and a dozen lackeys at his side.”

Zoraya felt her skin crawl at the image. She took a sip from her tea, focusing on the hot liquid going down her throat. “He’s already promised no one will need to be moved for the highway. Isn’t that enough?”

“Oh, but the construction of that monstrosity is only the beginning!” Tatiana said, finally letting the venom in her voice seep through her cool exterior. “I’ve seen this many times before, so trust me when I say that this highway will be the ruin of our people. Once they see how much money it will bring into the city, they will get greedy. They’ll want to expand it, further and further until there is no more space for us, not even in the lousiest ditch. That’s when they’ll show their true colors, of course. When they’ll go searching for a way to get rid of us — and where so many men are searching, they’re bound to find something, no matter how small or inconsequential. It could be a Gur child stealing a hunk of cheese or petting someone’s dog, and before you know it, there’ll be masked figures marching into our camp at night. Burning down our homes and poisoning our wells, forcing us to flee with nothing by the clothes on our backs.”

Zoraya swallowed. She knew the stories from her mother Stories of other settlements that had to be abandoned when the local population had turned against them. But this was Baldur’s Gate. A self-governed city, a place of culture and progress. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

“There are upsides to having the highway …”

“Of course there are,” Tatiana snapped. “For people like Astarion Ancunin and his noble friends. If you think this benefits anyone other than them, you are a fool. Just like your employer.”

Zoraya felt her jaw tighten. “And you think insulting me will convince me to help you?”

“No. But here’s a little something to consider.” Tatiana leaned forward on her elbows, the wrinkled corners of her mouth curling up. “Your mother’s title as First Healer has been revoked when she was foolish enough to hand over her own daughter — a child that belonged to my clan — to that pompous chamberlain she is so enamored with. It was a grave transgression at the time, but it doesn’t mean her title could not be restored to her now that she’s had a chance to repent.”

Zoraya stared at her, hands clenched into fists in her lap. Of course Tatiana Morozova did not come empty-handed. She came swinging stick and carrot alike, as was befitting for the woman who had led her people from one end of Faerûn to the other for decades.

Zoraya knew how much it would mean to her mother to be able to reclaim her title. Be a respected member of the clan once more, allowed to sell her potions and tonics without needing to pay tribute. She’d be able to take on little Ira as an apprentice, train her well enough that she might even have a shot at getting herself a job in the city.

But all of that hinged on Zoraya’s ability to sway Astarion from the only chance he saw to claw himself into a higher position. Finally getting out from underneath his mother’s shadow, perhaps even gaining her approval. Zoraya could never do that to him. She couldn’t betray his trust, not when he’d just started extending it to her again. Especially not if she herself wasn’t sure the highway was such a terrible idea as Tatiana made it out to be.

But Tatiana didn’t need to know that. Not yet anyway; not when this was Baldur’s Gate and there were thousands of ways she could find to resolve this. She just had to sit down and think about it. Weigh her options carefully before deciding on a course of action.

A good lawyer never let anyone know about their strategy until it was too late for them to do anything about it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said with a noncommittal smile.

“Good.” Tatiana rose from her chair. “I look forward to seeing it. Oh, and Zoraya?” She paused in the doorway, her brow furrowed in sudden concern. “Do consider bolting your doors and windows, will you? There are some truly monstrous things out there in the dark.”

Zoraya shook her head as she closed the door behind the older woman, letting her gaze wander over the familiar cobblestones and wooden fences, the long shadows drawn by the streetlamps.

Monsters lurking in the night — what a silly notion! This was Baldur’s Gate. The only monsters here wore fancy suits and pleasant smiles, and Zoraya was not afraid of any of them.

She locked her door as she always did, then went to check on what all had fallen victim to Objection’s rage.

Chapter Text

“Oh, come on now, Zoraya,” Astarion pouted. “I fail to see why you’re giving me that sad, little I expected better from you, Lord Magistrate look. I gave that miserable gnome an exceedingly lenient sentence.”

“Which you justified by insinuating he was not of sound mind!”

“Darling,” he sighed. “A man who pairs a green bowtie with a mustard shirt is really only one step away from taking a kitchen knife and slaughtering his whole entire family.”

“Excuse me, Lord Magistrate?” a voice said from somewhere near Zoraya’s knee.

“Oh, Mister Babblebell!” she said brightly, recognizing the green bowtie, which now hung loosely around the gnome’s neck.

He had been waiting for them in the entrance hall. With him were a female gnome in a floral dress and at least five or six children; Zoraya couldn’t quite make out the number without bending down — which she’d read was considered an act of condescension by many gnomes and dwarves, so she resisted the urge.

“We’d just like to thank the honorable Lord Magistrate for being so good to my idiotic husband,” the female gnome said, rocking a baby in her arms. “He’s never been the sharpest needle in the sewing kit, ‘specially not after a pint or two. But I can assure you, there’ll be no more of that! Isn’t that right, sweetness?”

Mister Babblebell nodded. “By the gold in my teeth, sugar — no more drinking, no more fighting, no more throwing things through windows!” He glanced up at Astarion before dropping into a low bow. “Thank you, Lord Magistrate, for letting me stay with my family!”

“Thank you, Lord Magistrate!” the children echoed, the word Magistrate coming out in several different variants, consonants being altered or omitted freely.

Zoraya smiled and turned to Astarion, only to find him with his mouth slightly agape, an expression of utter bewilderment on his face as he stared at the happy gnome family.

He was speechless.

Astarion Ancunin — speechless in the face of gratitude. Who would have had their money on that?

Zoraya had to hold back a chuckle as she turned to the gnome family and assured them that no, Magistrate Ancunin was simply doing his job, but thank you so much for coming by; we really appreciate it. She waved after them as they pattered off, Mister Babblebell balancing two of his children on his shoulders.

“So,” Zoraya said smugly. “I take it that hasn’t happened an awful lot, has it?”

Astarion cleared his throat in an attempt at regaining his composure. “It’s a well-known fact that being a public servant is thankless work.”

“They didn’t look so thankless.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope Mister Babblebell’s sanity doesn’t take a turn for the worse, or they end up regretting I didn’t lock him in a cell. Can we go now? There’s a little something I’d like to take care of while we’re here.” He looped his arm through hers and pulled her away from the door, toward the grand staircase.

It was something he’d started doing ever since the ambush: a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist. Always making sure he was right there by her side, ready to catch her, should she trip over her crutch and fall. She was aware that she should probably find it patronizing as well as inappropriate, but couldn’t bring herself to put up any kind of resistance. Not when it felt so good to have his hand on her forearm, their hips brushing occasionally as they made their way upstairs.

In all honesty, she was the inappropriate one, considering the thoughts that popped into her head in moments like this. Thoughts of letting herself fall on purpose, so she’d end up pressed against him on the floor, straddling his hips. Leaning in to his ear and whispering, Just this once, okay?

“We need to swing by High Judge Larkin’s office,” Astarion said, ripping her out of her fantasies.

“Larkin?” Zoraya repeated, praying he’d miss the slight quiver in her voice. “Why him?”

“I have it on good authority he and Holloway are planning to oppose my motion as soon as I’ll release it to the parliament. We need to see what he’s up to. Formulate counter strategies for his counter strategies.”

“Oh.” Zoraya blinked. “I see.”

She glanced at him, trying to mask her surprise at this. Him showing initiative like that. Not just doing his job — which would have been shocking enough in its own right — but actually going so far as to anticipate his opposition and ready his defenses ahead of time. No matter what Tatiana said, he seemed committed to this project. Hells, maybe even excited, judging by the smirk with which he approached High Judge Larkin’s office.

Besides Nerennos, Larkin was one of the oldest High Judges. So respected, apparently, that he’d built a wooden platform for his assistant’s desk, which allowed the stocky, bearded dwarf to glare down at his visitors.

“I’m afraid the honorable High Judge is out at the moment,” he informed them brusquely.

“Oh, what terrible news!” Astarion exclaimed in a voice so booming with theatrics, Zoraya flinched against his arm. “See, my good man, we just came to inform the honorable High Judge that someone appears to have broken into his courtroom and left a positively frightful mess in there! The door is wide open, there’s things smeared all over the walls and the High Judge’s bench — my, it’s a tragedy I could not bear to even describe to you!”

The assistant climbed off his desk platform under a stream of Dwarven swearwords. “I bet this was someone from Kirby’s office! That twat never got over the fact he wasn’t seated in the first row for that stupid gala!”

“Now that you mention it, I do believe I saw him there earlier today,” Astarion said, eliciting another bout of Dwarven profanity.

“I’ll show them what happens to people who think they can mess with Larkin! ‘Scuse me, ma’am!” The dwarf pushed past Zoraya and dashed off, beard flying and boots thudding on the wooden floors.

“High Judge Larkin is a fortunate man to have a dedicated assistant like you,” Astarion called after him. He was already halfway up the desk platform, where he began rifling through papers and opening drawers.

“What are you doing?” Zoraya hissed.

“Research, of course.” Astarion glanced up at her, smiling innocently. “Or what does it look like to you?”

“Like you’re going through a High Judge’s documents without his consent!”

“Ah. Well, that, too. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, right?” He ripped a page out of Larkin’s calendar and slipped it into his doublet, then closed the drawers and hopped off the platform.

Zoraya was just about to start breathing again when he strode over to the door to Larkin’s office, casually inserting what looked like a small metal wire into the lock.

“Hells, no! Astarion, you can’t possibly—”

The door opened with an almost mocking click before she could even finish her sentence.

“What?” he asked, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Don’t tell me you forgot how very skilled I am with my fingers?”

Zoraya refused to let the blush spread any higher than her collarbones out of sheer principle. “There is a world of a difference between breaking into your parents’ wine cellar or a High Judge’s private chambers!”

“In terms of locks, my mother makes far better investments than Larkin; I can tell you that much. Now, are you coming?” He held the door open for her, gesturing invitingly. “Two sets of eyes see more than one, love.”

“Under no circumstances will I break into someone else’s office!”

“Fine. Be my lookout then.” He ducked inside, leaving her utterly alone in the corridor.

Zoraya cursed and whirled around, half-convinced that there must be someone coming their way, mere steps away from discovering them.

What kind of punishment would she receive for this? Standing by as someone broke into the chambers of a High Judge? Astarion would be fine, of course; they’d get him out early for good behavior and then arrange for a cushy job somewhere far away. She, however, would be ruined. Forget the law — she’d be left with a criminal record that would prevent her from doing anything other than the most grueling type of manual labor. Slaving away in a factory, perhaps, or a coal mine. Cowering down there with her back perpetually bent for twelve hours straight, making so little coin, she couldn’t even afford Objection’s favorite fish treats. At which point he’d leave her and go find a better home because what kind of cat wanted to stay with someone who couldn’t provide the right treats?

“Hurry up, gods dammit!” She inched closer to the door, careful not to cross the threshold as she peeked inside, and found Astarion bent over a dozen open folders.

“You really should know better than to try and rush a man in the middle of his grand performance, darling,” he said chidingly. “I pity that tiefling boyfriend of yours. How must the poor lad feel when he’s right in the middle of pounding his heart out, and then you come along with a thoughtless comment like that?”

“You’re revolting!” She clutched at the door frame, nails digging into the wood. “Since when do you break into other people’s offices anyway? Is that a new hobby among noblemen now? Swirl wine, play cards, commit a felony or two?”

“No, my love, it’s what I do.” He brandished his lock-picking tools with a flourish, striking a silly little pose before opening the filing cabinet in all of ten seconds.

 “How do you think I kept my position before Cazador came along to help out?” he asked as he flipped through the documents. Picking out the most interesting folders and stacking them in the crook of his arm. “You know how I love to get into forbidden places. How I cannot seem to withstand the sweet allure of a pretty lock or the incriminating diary behind it.”

“You mean you were … blackmailing people?”

“Ugh, that’s such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as trading information in mutually beneficial agreements.” He pushed the filing cabinet shut and turned to face her, lips curled up a positively wicked smile as he patted the documents on his arm. “I am what you might call a rogue, darling. A rogue magistrate.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

His face fell and Zoraya nearly burst out laughing at the sulky expression that swooped in to replace the sultry smile. An expression that made him look like he was seven years old again and had first learned about the concept of homework.

“You’re entitled to your opinion, of course,” he said haughtily. “But there’s no arguing with the results. I’d choose myself a souvenir, but Larkin seems to have abysmal taste in desk trinkets. Honestly, what is it with elderly men and fishing? Is it the growing awareness of their imminent death that makes them so utterly obsessed with killing small, helpless animals for sport?”

The sound of footsteps in the corridor had Zoraya whirling, panic shooting up her brain.

“Someone’s coming!” she hissed under her breath. “Get out of there!”

“Ah, just a moment, darling. I bet one of those fish figurines would not look half bad on my own desk, don’t you think?”

“Astarion!”

“Alright, alright.” He selected one of the many trinkets from Larkin’s desk, then joined her with pointedly unhurried steps.

He had just pulled the door shut behind himself when the Dwarven assistant came around the corner. His face was red with anger, sweat trickling into his beard.

“Whatever sort of joke you people think you’re playing,” he huffed, “It’s not funny! There is nothing wrong with High Judge Larkin’s courtroom!”

Astarion clasped a hand over his lips with a shocked inhale, simultaneously angling his body to conceal the documents on his arm. “My sincerest apologies, good sir! It must have been someone else’s courtroom; I swear, five years in this place and I still get lost!” He reached for Zoraya’s arm with a chuckle. “We’ll have to see if we can find out whose courtroom has been defiled so dreadfully, won’t we, dear? Please, do excuse the commotion.”

He guided her away from the dwarf, who continued staring after them in sweaty, breathless anger. And in all likelihood, Astarion would have gotten away with it if the little fish figurine hadn’t fallen out of his pocket at that exact moment. It dropped to the floor with a resounding clink!, followed by an almost comical silence in which they all stared at it, drawing their respective conclusions.

Then the dwarf threw up his fists and shouted, “Stop right there!”

“Oh, dear.” Astarion chuckled and tightened his grip around Zoraya’s arm. “We better make a run for it, darling.”

Under normal circumstances, she would have had no objections to this plan whatsoever, seeing as how they now had an enraged Dwarven assistant on their heels. About five steps in, however, her injured leg made it abundantly clear that it was several weeks too early to even think about something as frivolous as running. It simply buckled underneath her, sending a jolt of pain up her spine that had her seeing white as the crutch slipped out of her grip and her body collapsed into Astarion’s. In her mind, she saw them both tumbling to the floor, buried under a flurry of stolen documents. But to her surprise, Astarion caught her mid-fall. He grabbed her by the waist and then lifted her up with a grunt, depositing her over his shoulder as if she was a rolled-up carpet.

“M-my crutch!” Zoraya yelped, too flabbergasted to think of anything else to say as she watched it disappear in the distance, the Dwarven assistant leaping over it in his furious pursuit.

“Hush,” Astarion said, somehow managing to sound insufferably smug, even through his panting. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll even have them engrave your favorite paragraph into it, alright?”

“No! Absolutely nothing is alright!”

“Oh, come now. I know you don’t have a lot of experience with the whole running from the law thing, but it’s only a dwarf! I can outrun a tiny little dwarf, even with a helpless damsel in distress thrown over my shoulder! I mean, have you seen my legs?”

He rounded a corner, stabilizing her with a hand on the back of her thigh, which made her extremely aware of the fact that she was wearing a skirt. A skirt that was definitely sliding upward with her hanging over his shoulder like that.

“Careful with my … clothes!” she yelped miserably. “And could you speed up a little? He’s gaining on us!”

“All of this would be considerably easier if you’d gone ahead and stopped growing at some point,” he huffed.

“It’s not my fault that you’re—”

“Don’t you dare! I’ll have you know I’m exceedingly tall for an elf!”

“Well, and Larkin’s assistant is exceedingly fast for a dwarf!” she shot back.

It was a little hard to make out, hanging upside down over Astarion’s back as she was, but the dwarf was definitely coming closer. And what in the hells were those blueish lights erupting from his fists?

Could that be …?

Zoraya sucked in a breath of pure panic and yelled, “Magic spell incoming!”

“Oh, Hell’s Teeth!” Astarion darted to the side just in time, narrowly avoiding the crackling ray of freezing magic. The abrupt motion had Zoraya slip on his shoulder and he had to tighten his grip on her thighs.

“Do something!” he panted, now apparently beginning to understand the severity of the situation. “Throw your dagger, gods dammit!”

“I am not throwing a dagger at an innocent man who’s only doing his job!”

“Throw something else then! Don’t you have one of those fountain pens on you?”

“Yes, but—”

A Dwarven war cry interrupted her, followed by another ray of magic that singed the sleeve of Astarion’s doublet.

“But what, love?” he hissed. “Gods below, if you tell me it’s one of your limited editions …”

“They only ever made 125 of these!” she argued.

That was half the reason, really. The other half was something she couldn’t say, not to Astarion.

That they had been gifts, extended to her whenever she finished another year at the top of her class or won a debating competition. By the time she got back to her room on the second floor of the Ancunin estate, they were waiting for her on her desk, a pretty ribbon tied around the delicate wooden box. Sometimes there’d be a little note next to it, saying Good job in the tight, swirly handwriting of the family matriarch. But more often, even that was implied, for Quelenna Ancunin was nothing if not stingy with her praise.

They’d grown sparser over the years. The last one came in the mail right after Zoraya had passed the bar two years ago, the Ancunin family crest adorning the package. It was the same pen that was clipped to the breast pocket of her blouse right now, gold-plated and decked out in delicate Elven runes. A commemoration of some kind of holiday they never celebrated, but it wasn’t about that.

It was about the gesture. How it felt to have them neatly arranged on her desk, ready to gaze at whenever she was getting tired or frustrated, folders stacked high in front of her. Her thoughts instantly funneled into the question of how she might earn herself another one. An immediate glimpse into the future that was supposed to reward her for it all.

“Zoya!” Astarion hissed. “You either throw the goddamn fountain pen or I’ll throw you with it!”

“Fine!” She pulled the pen out of her breast pocket, savoring the familiar, sleek feel of it, the beautiful curve of its handle. “Slow down for a second!”

To his credit, he obeyed without hesitation. The dwarf screamed something Zoraya couldn’t understand, a new spell glowing on his fingertips as he took aim.

She inhaled deeply and took a moment to look him in the eye, expressing her deepest regret at what was about to happen. “I’m so very sorry, Sir! You’re doing a fantastic job for the city of Baldur’s Gate and I applaud your dedication to your work.”

Then she cracked the ink cartridge out of her fountain pen, irrevocably breaking it in two, and used the tiny bit of magic she had at her disposal to send the ink splashing all over his beet-red face. The man shrieked — more in surprise than in anguish, as Zoraya chose to believe — his hands flying to his face, trying to fend off the ink that must have penetrated his eyes as well as his nostrils.

“Oho!” Astarion broke into a giddy little laugh as he looked over his shoulder. “Brutal, yet effective! I must say, I’m impressed!”

“Will you get a move on, for heaven’s sake?”

“Certainly! Wouldn’t want to get on your bad side!”

He was laughing all the way back into his chambers. By then, he was so out of breath, he barely managed to set her on his desk before needing to brace his own weight against the edge of it, doubling over with laughter.

“There was absolutely nothing funny about that!” Zoraya protested, clutching the remaining bits of her fountain pen.

“Oh, come on! Did you not see the look on his face when you took the time to apologize to the man before you went ahead and dumped a month’s worth of ink over him?”

Another laughing fit that had his shoulders trembling and Zoraya’s chest squeezing with recognition. This was how he used to laugh, back in the day. When his laugh had been just that — a laugh. Before he’d learned to funnel it into a pretty, little chuckle and use it as a weapon.

She could buy a new ink cartridge. She’d always know it wasn’t the original, sure. She’d know what she’d done to it, but it wasn’t so bad, all things considered.

“I mean …” Astarion straightened and his face came so close to hers, she could see tears of laughter glistening in his eyes. Her heart thundered at the thought of wiping them away. “Who could have guessed Zoraya Naelgrath would harbor such deep-felt respect for secretaries? I mean, I am a magistrate of Baldur’s Gate and yet, you’ve never once treated me with even a fraction of that kind of reverence!”

“Well, er—” She squirmed away from him, busying herself with rubbing her thigh that had not been the biggest fan of the impromptu chase and magic battle. “You might be a magistrate, but you’re also a … a bum!”

Astarion made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “A bum? Really? That’s the best you can do in terms of insults?”

“Oh, shut up! You hang upside down over someone’s shoulder and fight their fights for them, and then we’ll see how eloquent you’ll be!”

“You know, that really is no way to speak to the man who has just risked his professional reputation as well as his physical well-being all for the sake of ensuring the people of Baldur’s Gate get the highway they deserve. These documents, my dear —” he made a show of waving around the folders he’d somehow managed to carry with him “— will be invaluable in countering Larkin’s and Holloway’s attempts to thwart our motion. Really, if you look at it a certain way, this practically makes me a hero. A champion for the common man!”

He placed a hand on his hip and Zoraya couldn’t help it — she burst out laughing. A breathless, snorting laugh, fueled by the subsiding tension of the chase as well as Astarion’s very particular brand of theatrics. It had her shaking and convulsing with laughter, the heel of her good leg kicking the desk as she doubled over, her forehead meeting his chest.

And then Astarion was laughing, too. One hand braced against her shoulder to keep her from rolling over the floor like a madwoman as they shared their first laugh in … what, well over two decades?

Where had the time gone?

When had he started to feel so distant, so far outside her reach when she was absolutely certain she knew this man to his very core? She knew his vanity, his impatience and pompousness, but also his gentleness. She knew he’d never left her back there, no matter what he might say about it. Knew it from the countless pranks and treasure hunts he’d dragged her on, mocking her for her timidness, all while he held her hand firmly in his. Using the same combination of natural charisma and nimble fingers he’d displayed up there to open any door he wanted, only for him to step inside first, making sure it was safe for her to follow. Boasting about their success, the pastries they’d stolen or the mousetraps they’d placed somewhere an unsuspecting maid was sure to reach her hand eventually, although Zoraya had rarely done anything more than stand watch or distract the governess with a question about their optional reading material.

She had always loved the way it made her feel. The thrill and exhilaration of knowing that every now and then, when she was with him, she could allow herself to bend the rules a tiny little bit.

“You, my dear, have always had the most ridiculous sense of humor,” Astarion said, his voice shaky from laughter.

“Nowhere near as ridiculous as the idea of you being a champion for anyone other than yourself!” she snorted.

“I am simply practicing for the next time that vulture Yeshana Orbryn corners me when you’re not around.”

“She’d have you checkmate in four moves and we both know it.”

“Big words for a woman who had to rely on my strong, masculine shoulders for her survival,” he said, pushing back his shoulders so pointedly, it sent her into another giggling fit.

Her stomach was aching at this point and she couldn’t help but think that this was how it should have been their whole lives. The two of them running through the dark, wood-paneled corridors of Baldur’s Gate Law School side by side, hurrying to make it to class in time. Poring over their homework in the library, him dozing off behind the large textbooks and her poking him with her fountain pen. Practicing mock trials together, arguing and sneering and yelling at each other in increasingly exaggerated displays of legal drama until they’d both burst into laughter at the same time. Finding each other halfway between their practice stands, his arms wrapping around her waist as her fingers slid into the curls on the back of his head. Kissing between laughs and the tail ends of their argument, hands everywhere, thoughts nowhere at all.

Gods, how she ached for it.

Ached for him to touch her, to hold her, to tell her, I’m here. I’m sorry I wasn’t, but I’m here now.

And then he went ahead and ruined it all.

“I’ve missed this, you know,” he said, leaning in close with his hand against the edge of the desk. “You, Zoya, my dear. I’ve missed you.”

It wasn’t the words, per se, but the way he said them. How he tilted his head and looked at her with just a hint of regret in those warm, golden eyes. Reminding her that this was their reality: the heir of House Ancunin and the miserable little girl following him around. Holding on to a friendship long shattered and broken, clutching the memories to her chest as if there was any value left in them now.

I’ve missed you, too.

The words were right there, on the tip of her tongue. Had been there all those years, lingering and festering, never to be released. Because Zoraya knew those words might be all it would take to turn her into that girl again. The one that cried over a boy who called her his mother’s “charity project” whenever his friends asked about her and walked right past her in the library when the stack of books in her arms collapsed, pretending he hadn’t seen her. The girl that loved him anyway, that only wanted to know what she’d done wrong, how she could fix it — please, gods, let me fix it.

She couldn’t risk that. Not after twenty years of fighting it, knowing what it had done to her mother to chase after a man who couldn’t care less about her. Sacrificing her position as First Healer in an attempt at pleasing him, pestering her clan to keep returning to Baldur’s Gate just in case he might want to come by and visit her. Waiting and waiting for nothing but more heartbreak.

No, Zoraya wasn’t going to end up like her mother because she wasn’t that girl anymore.

Never again was she going to be that girl.

“Zoya, are you alright?” Astarion asked.

She saw his hand reach out for her, the tender concern in the set of his brow, and she kicked out her good leg and threw up her arms, mobilizing all her strength to push him away. “Don’t you dare Zoya me!”

He stumbled backward and nearly lost his footing, the confusion on his face indicating this was not the sort of reaction he had been expecting. “I apologize if I was too … forward.”

“Forward?” she repeated. “Forward? You think that’s my problem? Oh, Hell’s Teeth, it’s a miracle you manage to see anything at all with your head so far up your own ass!”

“Excuse me?”

“No!” she raged. “I’m done making up excuses for you, Astarion! You were my friend — my only friend in the whole damn world — and then you just … decided I wasn’t good enough for you anymore! Do you have any idea how that felt? To be tossed aside, from one day to the next? Going up to the boy I thought was my friend, trying to talk about school, about books, about literally anything at all, just to hear some variant of Get lost, I’m busy? Having to live there, in the same fucking house, seeing all those new friends you had replaced me with? Of course you wouldn’t! Because if you had even the tiniest idea what that’s like, you wouldn’t have the gods damned nerve to say things like I’ve missed you when we both know it’s too late for any of that!”

He opened his mouth, but she was not done yet. Not by a long shot.

“You ignored me for years!” she spat, actual bits of saliva flying through the air. “I mean, I understand growing up is weird and you were older and all that — but still! You wouldn’t even acknowledge me when I was in the same room! You acted as if I was air and … Hells, it hurt, okay? It hurt like all circles of Hell! And here you are, thinking you can just gallivant back into my life as if nothing’s happened?”

“I believe you are the one who applied for a job with me,” he said stiffly.

“Because your father begged me to! Do you honestly think I would have chosen to do that? Resigning myself to sit in that office of yours day after day after day, having to pretend that I’m fine, that I don’t feel like going up the walls because—”

“Well, you’re not the only one who’s having a difficult time with this!” he interrupted, his tone sharper now.

“Oh, sure!” She cackled and gripped the edge of the desk, sneering up at him. “Tell me about the burdens of having a face that makes people flock to you in droves! Having to choose which one to bestow with the precious gift of your attention for a little while before you inevitably grow tired of them and move on to the next!”

“I wasn’t talking about any of them!” he snapped, flinging out his hand as if casting aside his countless affairs with that one gesture. “I was talking about you! The perfect, flawless child my mother always wanted! Racking up achievements so fast, there was no way for me to keep up, no matter how hard I tried! How do you think that felt? Having my own parents talk about nothing but you — your accomplishments, your grades, your future! Why can’t you try to be more like Zoraya? Why don’t you study harder, like Zoraya does? Look at Zoraya, she’s always at the top of her class. Look at Zoraya, she’s made valedictorian. And you — ah, right, we had to donate a new library wing to get you a graduation certificate!”

He made a step forward with each sentence until he loomed over her, the beautiful lines of his face hardened with anger. Zoraya forced herself to keep her chin up and hold his gaze, seeing as how she was quite literally stranded on top of his desk and backing up was not an option.

“And you know what was the worst part of it all?” he said. “You’ve done all these things, everything my family ever wanted to see from me, and you’re not even … not even …”

“What?” The word felt acrid in her throat, coated in the venom of the possible endings to that sentence.

Not even noble.

Not even trueborn.

Not even …

“Not even proud of it!” Astarion snarled, his hands flying up as if he was looking for something to strangle. “Can you imagine how insufferable I’d be if I had accomplished even a fraction of what you’ve done? I’d be boasting about it constantly! I’d be carrying around a list with me — Hells, I’d probably pay a bard to compose a song in my honor! And then I’d make sure they perform it at every ball and banquet I’m invited to, so the whole room knows all about Astarion Ancunin and his marvelous achievements! But you, you don’t even realize it, do you?”

He stared at her as if he expected a response to that, but Zoraya’s throat was tight, her heart hammering in her chest. He shook his head with a scoff and when his gaze settled on her again, it was calmer than before. Like the anger had burned down the façade he wore so well, revealing a glimpse at the real Astarion underneath. There was a softness to him, an openness that had her mind reeling.

“Do you know how humiliating that is, Zoraya — to envy someone who thinks they’re nothing?”

“You … envied me?”

“Of course I envied you! It’s the whole reason I couldn’t stand being around you anymore! Because I knew it was just a matter of time before I’d blow up in your face and say all sorts of things you didn’t deserve. At first, I told myself it was only going to be for a little while. Just long enough to calm down after I’d overheard my dear mother once again trying to talk my father into adopting you, so they’d have — and I quote — at least one child that isn’t a huge disappointment. But then time went on and it was … easier, in a way. Thinking of you as a memory. Something I could keep just as it was. Pristine. Untainted. I am so very good at ruining things, aren’t I?”

His shoulders slumped into a long exhale and Zoraya had to fight back the impulse to reach out and touch him. Had to fight to hold on to at least a shred of her anger because even so, it didn’t change anything about how he’d treated her. How he’d decided all of that on his own and just left her alone, thinking she’d been replaced. Abandoned to the same shameful hiding place where he must keep his stuffed animals and his teenage attempts at writing poetry.

“Well, you could have talked to me about it!” she said, her voice quivering against her will.

“We were children!”

“Yes, but we were also friends!” she countered. “Maybe I couldn’t have helped, but at least I would have known!”

“Excuse me for not being the epitome of emotional maturity when I was a hormone-driven teenager!”

“Well, we’re supposed to be adults now and look at us!” She gestured in between them and the stolen documents. “We’ve robbed a High Judge and assaulted his assistant and then run off to have a shouting match in your magistrate chambers!”

“Believe me, that is far from the most scandalous thing that has happened in here.” He grinned, regaining some of his usual attitude. “Besides, must I remind you that everything except for the shouting match happened exclusively for the good of the people?”

“That doesn’t make it right!”

“It doesn’t?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Well. It seems I have much to learn on my path to redemption.”

He sat down next to her on the desk, leaving what struck her as an intentional gap between their bodies. “Zoraya, look. I might not have always been as honest with you as I should have. But when I said I missed you — that was the truth. And I know you’re upset with me, and you have every right to be, but please … please don’t leave yet.”

“Why would I—”

“I like having you around,” he continued. “You’ve always been better at reading these dreary legal texts, finding loopholes and such. I need your help if I want to get this motion approved, while I have Holloway and Larkin and who-knows-who-else plotting to block me. I promise to make it worth your while! How about we give you a little pay raise?”

“What?” Zoraya blinked, not understanding why he’d suddenly start talking about money. “No!"

"Or perhaps your own private coach, out there waiting for you? No? Gods, you’re impossible!” He jumped to his feet with an exasperated sigh. “We’ll get you a new crutch then! And dinner, afterward. Lobster or steak or — you know, there's this place that makes the loveliest salmon pate!”

She studied him for several seconds, the rigid straightness of his shoulders, the practiced allure of his smile. This was what he was comfortable with. Promising her things, offering them to her in a plea for forgiveness when he wasn’t ready to outright ask for it. Attempting to use them as a bribe, yes, but that wasn’t what made her reach out a hand, so he might help her to her feet. Wrap her coat around her shoulders and brace her weight against himself as they left the courthouse in peaceful silence.

It was what she’d seen on his face earlier. The crooked little smile of the boy she’d fallen in love with, tender and almost bashful as he fumbled for words. Proving to her that whatever this was, it wasn’t just her. That just as there was a miserable girl inside of her, there was a jealous boy inside of him.  He’d thought of her, just as she’d thought of him. Had raged at her, worried about her, cherished her in the safety of his own mind.

And gods dammit if it didn’t make her fall in love with him all over again.

Chapter Text

Zoraya knew she was in trouble when Astarion dabbed a bit of soup from the corner of her mouth at lunch one day and, rather than jerking away from him, she found herself leaning into the touch. Savoring the warmth that was spreading in her chest when he left his thumb there just a little longer, her muscles all but melting under the feel of his hand, the soft gaze of his eyes — only for her body to snap to attention as soon as he pulled back. Every fiber getting ready to pounce on this man, to knock over his chair and straddle him on the floor because gods dammit, she was going to die if she couldn’t have his hands all over her body right. This. Instance.

It was really quite humiliating.

Whoever had come up with the concept of talking about one’s feelings — of letting it all out, so to speak — Zoraya wanted to push them down a flight of stairs. Her life had been fine with her emotions bottled up inside of her. She’d had them stacked on top of one another, neatly organized and labeled like a well-kept wine cellar. Now any trace of order was gone. The bottles were shattered and broken, their contents irrevocably spilled. And what used to be a childhood crush — embarrassing, sure, yet ultimately manageable — had grown into something far deadlier.

Zoraya was in love.

Stupidly, hopelessly in love.

As it turned out, the final step in her emotional degradation had been seeing him … try. And, gods, was he trying.

Astarion was working on his highway project in a way she’d never seen him work on anything in his entire life. There was a single-minded focus about him, a dedication that made her weak in the knees whenever she came in to work extra early and found him already at his desk, the smell of coffee filling the room. She hadn’t seen him touch his liquor cabinet in weeks. Neither had he attended any parties that weren’t expressly work-related, meeting a city planner or councilor who could provide valuable input for their motion. She was fairly certain Astarion still employed some of the same tactics she’d overheard before, but he no longer took those kinds of meetings in his office.

Which might have something to do with the fact that it wasn’t just his office anymore.

One day, not too long after their impromptu heist, he’d called her in, only to point out a brand-new desk right next to his own that seemed to have materialized there all on its own.

“There’s no point in your hobbling back and forth all the time,” he’d explained, fiddling with his papers as he spoke. “Besides, it’s hardly proper to have my advocate sit at a mere assistant’s desk, wouldn’t you say?”

“But … don’t you need someone out front?” she’d asked, too flabbergasted to think of anything else to say.

“Hire whomever you like, pay them whatever you think they’re worth. Now, could you have a look at my revisions here?”

He’d pushed a stack of papers onto the new desk and that was that.

A week later, Shadowheart transferred from the offices of Magistrate Holloway to those of Magistrate Ancunin. With her came bags full of copies she’d made of all sorts of documents, earning her a rather sizeable pay raise. Under normal circumstances, Zoraya would have been wary about hiring someone who had so easily betrayed her former employer. But that was before she’d invited her for noodle soup, learning two very important facts about Shadowheart.

One, the woman hated noodle soup, but started blushing and worrying at her braid and generally acting like a huge, ginormous dork as soon as she spotted Lae’zel behind the counter.

Two, she was pursuing a law degree for herself.

She could only take a few classes per semester since she also had to work to support herself, but she was determined to see it through. So, really, giving her the option to plan around her class schedule was pretty much a guarantee to keep her around, at least until her degree was finished.

And with Shadowheart occupying the front desk, Zoraya spent her days side by side with Astarion.

Working on his motion for the highway project, most of the time. Editing and revising it together, making it as airtight as it possibly could be before it was to be submitted to the parliament. Trying not to focus on the raw excitement that jolted up her spine whenever their fingers brushed as they passed drafts back and forth. Trying not to notice the way the afternoon sun played in his silver curls, the way his brow wrinkled in concentration as he guided his fountain pen across the creamy white paper, his sprawlingly artful handwriting next to her tight, little notes.

It really wasn’t fair. That he had the audacity to be everything she’d ever hoped he might be, now, that she’d been so close to finally getting over him.

A knock on the door had her drawing herself up hurriedly, wiping the dreamy smile off her face.

“Yes?” Astarion said.

“Your private messenger has arrived,” Shadowheart informed them, a split second before Ira ducked her head through the door.

“Hi, Mister Lawyer Guy!”

“Ah. Ira, my sweet.” Astarion smiled and set down the fountain pen. “Thank you, Shadowheart. That’ll be all.”

Ira skipped up to his desk, pigtails bouncing off her skinny shoulders. “Got a big letter for you today,” she announced, reaching into her messenger bag. “Feels real heavy. Serious stuff in there, no doubt about it.”

“No doubt,” Astarion agreed. “Ten gold pieces kind of serious?”

“Pah! For ten gold pieces, I couldn’t carry this thing past Wyrm’s Crossing!”

“I see. What about fifteen?”

“Twenty — and that’s practically cuttin’ me own throat!”

Zoraya chuckled as Astarion took out his coin purse. “Did you hang around the marketplace again?”

Ira crossed her arms. “No better way o’ learning how to make some coin in this age and economy!”

“Tell you what, Ira, darling.” Astarion counted out his gold pieces, stacking them in front of her. “You get twenty, but only if you make a proper argument for it. Using proper language.”

“Ugh!” Ira grimaced and threw back her head with a groan. “Fine! Fancy lawyer talk for fancy lawyer guy! See, the situation is as follows.” She made a show of clearing her throat and when she spoke again, her voice was crisp and refined, not a trace of the heavy accent of the Lower City to be found.

“These are trying times to be moving back and forth through Wyrm’s Crossing as often as my post requires me to! I understand Lord Magistrate has been the target of an ambush outside city gates himself, and I can assure him, such attacks have become far more frequent over the course of the past month. Travelers are being robbed, coaches stolen; the Watch is on high alert. The official stance is that these attacks are to be blamed on the refugees and nomads living outside the city and indeed, many of them have been arrested, although the basis of these arrests often remains nebulous. In either case, acting as Lord Magistrate’s personal messenger has become increasingly difficult, with security at Wyrm’s Crossing tighter than ever before. It only seems fair that I should be compensated for the added effort of slipping past their vigilant eyes.”

“Hmm …” Astarion touched his index finger to his chin, as if contemplating her argumentation. “Sounds reasonable, safe for one small, little detail. Do you remember how I gave you a letter of permission with my personal signet, so the Watch wouldn’t bother you?”

“Well, yes,” Ira spat. “But a girl needs to stay in shape. Not all my jobs are strictly legal, you know. So — how about that gold?”

“It’s yours, my dear. You’ve earned it.”

Ira pocketed the money with a squeal, then handed him the envelope. “Here ya go! Always good doing business with you guys!”

“You do know she’s criminally overcharging you, don’t you?” Zoraya said as soon as she’d left.

“Well, at least with her, I know she’s not going to spend it on cheap liquor or other questionable substances.”

Zoraya watched him as he inspected the Gur signet on the wax seal for tampering attempts, unable to contain her smile. “And the language lessons?”

“No one is going to take that girl seriously if she continues to talk as if she’d crawled out of some sewer, no matter how brilliant her inventions may be. Really, I blame Tatiana for not making sure all children in her clan are sent to proper schools. Then again, what can you expect from a woman with this sort of handwriting?” He held up the letter with a dismissive snort.

“Want me to have a look?”

“Please.” Astarion handed her the letter and Zoraya’s stomach dipped in disappointment when his fingers failed to touch hers.

Focus, she scolded herself, clenching her teeth as she began deciphering Tatiana’s erratic cursive.

This was not the time to wallow in her own stupid, pointless feelings. Not now when tensions were running high, just as Ira had described.

Over the past month or so, there’d been countless reports of travelers being attacked by refugees or nomads outside city borders. People were scared to travel without an armed escort now and the nomads, in turn, were scared of guards coming into their homes and arresting people at random on more than shaky charges. Several refugee camps did not even accept food donations anymore, claiming they’d received poisoned ones from government officials. It had all come to a head last week when the Watch had marched into a refugee camp at night for an unscheduled raid, only for the inhabitants to deny them entry so empathically, the whole camp had been destroyed by the end of it, dozens of people arrested.

There was so much anger on both sides now, ready to spiral into violence at any given moment. And the worst part was that Zoraya knew none of this was coincidence.

No, this was planned. An orchestrated effort to amp up tension, cunningly devised and ruthlessly put into action.

She’d had trouble believing it when she and Astarion had stumbled over the first pieces of evidence in the documents he’d stolen from Larkin’s office. The idea that a High Judge like Larkin would even consider putting his people’s lives at risk was baffling, outright bizarre.

Astarion had a much easier time wrapping his mind around it than she did.

“They fear the competition,” he’d explained. “Larkin and Holloway both own substantial shares of several shipping businesses down at the harbor, so the last thing they want is an alternative trading route in the form of a highway. It’s rather clever what they’re doing. Provoking the vagrants who live out there with these … targeted disruptions, as Larkin puts it. Backing them into a corner step by step until they have no choice but to strike back, thus turning the entire area into a war zone. It blocks the project before it’s even started because obviously, no one will want to build anything in a place that’s overrun with terrorists.”

“They’re not terrorists!” Zoraya had argued.

“Oh, but they will be,” he’d said, very calmly. “A few more weeks of poison deliveries and raids, and they’ll be ready to bash in the skull of any city guard that crosses their way. And that’s when Larkin wins and our project dies before we’ve even submitted it to the parliament.”

Zoraya hated how right he was. Hated that this was the reality of things, even in a free city like Baldur’s Gate.

Since then, they’d been working overtime. Finishing the motion to start construction on the Ancunin Highway, all while simultaneously countering Larkin’s and Holloway’s attempts at sabotage. Zoraya had lost count of how many times she’d gone down to the city dungeons in the past month. At this point, she had her speech memorized — unlawful imprisonment, insufficient evidence, racial targeting, etc. — and so had the people working there. Meaning, the whole affair was really just a matter of showing up with a great, big scowl on her face, and they’d go open the cell for her. The most difficult part was usually convincing the accused to sign the papers making her their official advocate, ensuring them that, yes, her services were completely free.

Astarion had tried his hand at it a few times, but somehow, people had a harder time believing that a man like him would know about the concept of pro bono work.

They also attempted to stay in touch with the local tribes, alerting them of any impending attacks they’d learned about, but the only ones who regularly responded were the Gur.

“Tatiana says their well has been poisoned,” Zoraya reported, her eyes flying over the page. “Fortunately, they were able to identify the problem before anyone suffered anything more severe than stomach cramps. Three hunters were arrested for allegedly hunting on private property. I’ll look into that myself; I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to get them out with a strongly worded letter. Other than that, they’re holding out.”

“Good,” Astarion murmured, his mouth tense as he twirled his fountain pen between his fingers. It was a new tick of his, she’d noticed. Sometimes he tried it with the dagger he’d bought from Dammon, but he wasn’t very good at it yet.

“Everything okay?” Zoraya asked.

“It just strikes me as … inefficient.” He dropped the fountain pen with a heavy exhale, frustration written all over his face. “We’re working ourselves to the bone, trying to put out Larkin’s little fires one by one, all for him to simply start five new ones overnight. At this rate, we’ll drop dead from sheer exhaustion before the parliament has even had time to consider our motion!”

“But what else can we do?” Zoraya asked. “All his documents use code names, so we have no idea who he’s working with. Plus, we can’t even prove they’re his without admitting we broke into his office — which makes them inadmissible in court, anyway.”

“I am well aware, my love. Which is why I believe it is time for a more direct approach!” Astarion jumped to his feet with a sudden jolt of energy, his chair skidding backward.

Zoraya watched as he strode over to the box where Shadowheart placed all their incoming mail, rifling through the envelopes.

“I know you and I are intellectual types,” he said. “We do not simply charge into battle, yelling loudly and hoping for the best. But think about it: What does the great hero of legend do when he cannot outwit the mighty seven-headed serpent?”

She frowned. “Turn around and get some help?”

“He faces it head-on!” Astarion picked out a letter with a flourish, thrusting it out as if it was a rapier.

Zoraya’s eyes moved from him to the letter, her stomach sinking at the excitement on his face. “What is that?”

“This, my darling Zoraya, is our way into the serpent’s den.” He walked up to her with a brilliant smile, resting a hand on her desk as he studied her quizzically. “Say, your leg has recovered from our little adventure, has it not?”

“Er, yes, but—”

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “You’ll accompany me then — to a ball at High Judge Larkin’s estate!”

Zoraya had dreamed of this moment more times than she was willing to admit.

Astarion coming by her house to pick her up for a ball, a bouquet of flowers in hand and a fancy coach with white horses parked just behind him. The way his eyes would grow larger as soon as she opened the door, his jaw dropping in awe and adoration as he let his gaze travel up and down her figure, taking in the sight of her. How he’d try to mask his own stupefaction with a chuckle, reach for her hand and kiss her knuckles, tell her that she was beautiful, lovely, everything he’d ever dreamed of.

The present situation had, of course, nothing at all to do with that.

This was a business outing. An occasion to learn more about Larkin’s sabotage, not to exchange heated looks across the dance floor. Astarion wouldn’t notice that she’d chosen the most elegant dress in her wardrobe, slinky and black with thin straps and a little scoop in the back to show off her shoulders. Neither would he notice the golden ribbon she’d tied into her hair to match the embroidery all along the hem of the dress, or that thing she’d done with her eye makeup that had taken her four attempts and two mental breakdowns.

He wouldn’t notice her in that way because he never had.

She knew this and she knew she was a fool for trying and yet …

When he knocked on her door, she was helpless against the rush of excitement that had her on her feet in an instant, dropping the book she’d been pretending to read and tripping over it on her way to answer the door as fast as humanly possible. She nearly stepped on Objection’s tail, earning herself a scandalized meow as she fiddled with the lock.

“Good evening, Zoraya,” Astarion said. “Oh, and good evening to you, Objection, my sweet.”

He crouched down and reached a hand to Objection, who pressed himself against Zoraya’s leg, his annoyance with her apparently overshadowed by his burning hatred for anyone else.

“I don’t think he’s ready to …” She trailed off, unsure how to describe the bloodbath Objection had made of the last person hellbent on petting him.

Astarion drew back his hand with a chuckle. “Still a little shy, hm? That’s alright.” He shuffled backward, making a point of giving the cat more space. “I am perfectly happy to admire you from afar.”

Objection seemed somewhat placated by this. His ears came up from where he’d pressed them flat against his head as he studied the intruder. Circling Zoraya without taking his eyes off Astarion, a decidedly smug look on his face.

“Don’t flatter him,” Zoraya whispered. “His ego really doesn’t need it.”

“Some creatures are made to be admired, don’t you think?”

Astarion rose to his feet and Zoraya held her breath as his golden eyes settled on her. Moving from her face down her neck and shoulders, almost entirely bare under the dress, and then — darting to some spot behind her.

Her clock perhaps, checking if they were still on time.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, his voice perfectly calm.

Entirely un-awed, as it were.

“Uh, sure.” Zoraya slipped into her wool coat, buttoning it as quickly as she could. With spring in full bloom, she didn’t really need it anymore, but she suddenly felt immensely stupid in her tight-fitting dress, her arms and legs way too exposed.

What in the hells had she been thinking, letting herself picture for even a moment that any of this was real? That he’d have any sort of reaction to her, when he regularly took out models and bards and whoever else was beautiful enough to catch his eye?

“Good night, Objection,” Astarion said over his shoulder as he guided her toward the coach. “I’ll have her back before midnight, gentleman’s promise.”

They spent the coach ride preparing their strategy for the ball, going through a list of Larkin’s potential collaborators and dividing them amongst themselves to try and learn more about them. It helped to refocus her mind a little. Get her out of her silly teenage fantasies and back into reality where, yes, she was wearing a ridiculous dress and sporting the same unrequited feelings she’d had two decades ago, but at least tonight she’d get a free meal out of it. Maybe even one of those gift baskets they handed out at very fancy events. She could certainly use some imported chocolate to drown out her sorrow.

By the time they arrived, the ball was already in full swing. A group of bards filled the lavish rooms with tasteful music, elegantly dressed couples swaying to it on the dance floor. Zoraya’s eyes went immediately for the buffet, her mouth watering at the sight of an entire table dedicated exclusively to seafood.

“You remember who’s on your list?” Astarion asked as he helped her out of her coat.

“Sure.” Zoraya turned to face him with a smile, fighting the impulse to wrap her bare arms around herself. “Meet you at the buffet at ten?”

“Ah … well, er, yes,” he said hesitantly, as if he was picking the words out of a bucket with a very small pair of tongs. “Ten sounds good.”

“Alright, see you then!” She was about to go tick a few names off her list before diving head-first into the lobster puffs, but Astarion’s voice held her back.

“Oh, er … Zoraya?”

“Hm?”

“You …” His gaze dropped down to his polished shoes and if she hadn’t known better, she could have sworn the tips of his ears turned ever so slightly pink. “You look nice.”

Zoraya’s mouth fell open. Her brain apparently used this opportunity to slide right out of her skull, leaving her mute and helpless, nothing but the dumbfounded expression on her face to communicate with the rest of the world. Not that it mattered because Astarion had already thrust her coat at the cloakroom attendant and then proceeded to march off, hastily disappearing into the crowd before she even had a chance to gather herself.

What in the hells …?

“And then I told him that there’d be no way House Iastar would even consider such an arrangement and then bla, bla, bla …”

Astarion smiled, hoping the sheer extent of his beauty would distract the group of merchants and politicians around him from his inability to listen to anything they were saying. His mind was consumed by three little words — and the overwhelming desire to grab the ice bucket off the bar area and smack himself over the head with it.

You look nice.

Of all the things he could have said, that’s what he’d chosen.

Nice.

Fucking nice.

A word exclusively reserved for doting grandmothers and pimply-faced, awkwardly proportioned schoolboys, wringing sweaty hands in front of their infinitely more attractive crush. Neither of which was him — neither of which had ever been him! He was Astarion Ancunin, gods dammit! Master of seduction, wielder of knee-melting, heart-racing flattery! He wasn’t just good at this, he was downright unparalleled! He could have picked out any person in the room and had them up against the wall of the bathroom in under an hour, no problem.

Why then was it that with her, he’d spent the entire coach ride trying to decide on the right compliment for her, only for his tongue to twist into knots in his own mouth as soon as he attempted to say any of them to her face? Heat rushing into his head, incinerating every bit of flattery he had so painstakingly prepared for her?

It wasn’t even like the dress was anything spectacular. Ankle-length and rather conservatively cut, her gorgeous neck about the only thing that was really on display. But there was something about the fact that it was her in the dress. Not one of the childish ruffly dresses Quelenna used to put her in, back before they were allowed to make their own outfit choices, but an actual evening gown.

Clearly, his mind was still recuperating from their fight the other day. He’d known it would come, of course, but there was a world of a difference between knowing he deserved to be yelled at and actually having someone precious like her yell at him. Lay out all the pain he’d caused her and slam it in his face, forcing him to look at the consequences of his own youthful stupidity. And although instinct had kicked in to try and defend himself, he’d been certain she’d leave him after that. Pack up her fountain pen collection and walk out on him, leaving him behind as he rightfully deserved.

The fact that she hadn’t … that she’d not only stayed but actually grown closer with him over the past weeks, working and laughing and plotting with him …

Well, it baffled him, to say the least.

“What do you think about the situation, Magistrate Ancunin?”

“What?” Astarion blinked, surprised to find several pairs of noble eyes staring at him expectantly.

“Oh, pardon me, my friends,” he said, his well-practiced smile sliding back into place before his mind was quite able to. “These days, it is ever so difficult to leave work-related thoughts at work. What was it we were discussing?”

“How very courageous it is of you to continue pursuing that highway project of yours,” Lady Iastar said. “In spite of all the gruesome stories you hear about what’s going on out there in the wilderness.”

“Just this week, my aunt was robbed on her way into the city!” some minor lord reported, clearly excited that he’d have something to report. “It was a group of Gur; they stopped her coach and stole the jewels right off her neck! Can you imagine — the audacity!”

“I doubt the Gur would have much interest in jewelry,” Astarion said with a chuckle.

“But wasn’t it also a group of Gur that attacked you, Lord Magistrate?” Councilor Alcock asked. “I hear they injured your secretary?”

“My advocate,” Astarion corrected, a little too sharply. “And no, we were on our way from a meeting with the Gur when we were ambushed by—”

“Nobody is safe with all these savages on the loose,” Lady Iastar interrupted with a dramatic swing of her fan. “I know you’re doing your best, Magistrate Ancunin, but it seems like we’d need some serious clean-up out there before anyone could feel safe traveling those roads again.”

Astarion opened his mouth, but the conversation was already drifting away, toward a gala at a local museum and which artists would be able to attend, what with traveling in and out of the city becoming such a hassle.

They didn’t actually care about any of it. Not about the filthy savages who allegedly attacked coaches and robbed frail old women, and certainly not why they might have started in the first place. Because none of it had any sort of consequences for them. Their lives would continue just as they always had, whether there was a highway or all-out war in front of the gates. The worst thing that could happen to them was that they’d have to pay a little more for their favorite imported silk, or hire a few more guards to protect their coaches when they felt like spending a relaxing weekend in the countryside. That was it. No one would ever poison their wells or drag them off into a dank cell under some made-up charge. No one could do any of those things to them because this was their world. Their rules.

It was his world, too. And he was glad to be on this side of things, of course. He’d always been glad because the gods knew, he couldn’t have made it in a world without manicures and velvet slippers and maids to take care of all the many things he couldn’t be bothered to do himself. But it also came with a distinctly … nauseating feeling, knowing what it was like on the other side. Seeing it in Tatiana’s letters, in little Ira who should be in some sort of program for gifted children, but instead spent her days running from city guards.

It wasn’t even like he was really doing much to help them, either. He just did whatever was necessary to claw himself up into a higher position. Followed the path Zoraya had set out for him for purely selfish reasons because he knew better than to believe that a single person could change anything about the way the world worked. Which meant that, ultimately, he was no better than them.

The thought felt heavy in his stomach, the very opposite of how the light, sparkly champagne ought to make him feel.

“Excuse me,” Astarion said, forcing an apologetic smile. “I must continue making the rounds. It was wonderful to see all of you.”

He strode off, not stopping until he’d reached the balustrade overlooking the ballroom. His hand closed around the polished wood and for a moment, he found himself thankful for the stability it provided.

He knew he should move on to the next target on his list since he had failed to extract anything useful from Lady Iastar. But the thought of throwing himself into another round of ignorant, mindless prattle had his stomach in knots, a sour taste rising in his throat.

A brief reprieve. Just a few minutes of peace and quiet and he’d feel better. Perhaps he could even catch a glimpse of Zoraya from up here. Watch her glide through the crowd for a bit, her figure rippling underneath the tight dress, the shape of her shoulders, the dark glossiness of her hair.

Recently, he found himself thinking about her hair a lot. How it might feel to free it from that knot in the back of her head, to have it spilling down her shoulders and reach out a hand to take a single strand between his fingers. Bring it close to his face and inhale the scent of it.

There were times when he was almost certain he could smell it.

“It’s been a while, Astarion,” a feminine voice purred into his ear.

With it came a hand pressed against the small of his back, determined fingertips dipping just a bit lower than what would be considered proper in high society. Not that Faelynn had ever concerned herself with propriety — that was the whole reason they got along so well.

Usually, anyway.

“Good evening, darling.” Astarion turned to face her, using the opportunity to press his backside against the balustrade, away from her industrious hands.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, again in that low, velvety purr.

He’d never heard her speak in anything other than a purr, come to think of it. The woman was remarkably cat-like, from the long, polished fingernails to her distinctly pointy nose. She needed a hobby, he supposed, being married to an ambassador who was away from home most of the year, leaving her to entertain herself.

Faelynn stretched up to his ear, letting her lips graze along his sensitive skin in that way she knew he liked. “I’ve been dying of boredom, Astarion,” she whispered. “Let’s go find a dark corner somewhere. I am simply famished.” As if to emphasize her point, she closed her lips around the tip of his ear and started sucking.

A very tactile woman, that one. Feisty and daring in the bedroom and beautiful to boot. Which, usually, was exactly Astarion’s cup of tea. The ideal distraction from his other work-related assignments. He’d whisked her away plenty of times at functions such as this one and never had any reason to regret it; yet, now …

Now all he felt was a vague sense of confusion when she pressed herself against him and moaned into his ear and — nothing happened.

Nothing at all. 

Complete failure on all carnal fronts.

Shit.

He’d feared as much when just a few days ago, he’d had to resort to using his mouth when his other parts had continued to refuse service, even at the third attempt. He’d been able to cover it well enough — he was very good at this, after all — but the problem remained.

A rather severe problem, given the way he lived his life.

“Excuse me, darling,” he said, gently extricating himself from Faelynn’s grasp. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling my best tonight and I’d hate to pass on whatever …”

And then he caught sight of her, down in the ballroom, and the sentence just stayed there in the air, unfinished.

Because apparently, that’s what he’d turned into. The kind of man who stared at a woman across the room like he was a young cleric and she the deity he’d chosen to dedicate his life to. Who stumbled over his own tongue when trying to pay her a compliment and squirmed like a boy at the thought of touching her hair. A man who couldn’t get it up when getting his ear sucked in public, but who woke up in sweat-drenched sheets with his childhood friend’s face seared into his mind. Desperately rutting into his own hand, unable to find release because he was too ashamed of what she might think if she knew he was picturing her. Sprawled out across his desk, the buttons ripped off her blouse and her long legs wrapped around his waist, her voice choked with lust as she told him how good it felt, how no one else could make her feel like this — only him, him, him!

He moved along the balustrade to get a better look, completely forgetting about Faelynn who had probably stormed off pouting. Who in the hells was Zoraya talking to? Who was this scoundrel who’d dare to hand her a glass of champagne this suggestively? To corner her against the buffet like that, blocking her exit, so she couldn’t run without making a scene?

He froze in place, the realization hitting him like an ice cube sliding down his throat.

Cazador.

Chapter Text

Zoraya held on to her empty champagne flute, exercising superhuman levels of willpower to refrain from smashing it into Cazador Szarr’s face.

What in all nine circles of Hell did he even want from her? There were well over a hundred people at this ball, every single one of them far more important than her, the Selunite vagrant. And yet, there he stood with that tight-lipped smile he probably thought made him look mysterious, boxing her in against the table full of crab cakes and scallop bites she’d planned on rewarding herself with for making it through two thirds of her list.

“Lord Szarr,” she said, greeting him with the very curtest of nods. “You must be looking for Magistrate Ancunin. I think I saw him up on the gallery just a little while ago.”

“Thank you, but as a matter of fact, I came to speak with you.” Lord Szarr gestured at her empty glass. “May I refill your drink, dear? It seems you’re all out of champagne.”

“I, er—”

But he’d already pried the glass out of her grasp, replacing it with a fresh one without bothering to wait for permission. His hands were icy cold, as if he’d spent the past hour cradling the large ice block they used to cool the fish dishes — seriously, did this man suffer from some kind of cardiovascular disease?

Zoraya murmured her thanks, not intending to drink whatever it was he’d given her.

“I see you’ve made quite a splash since you first started in Astarion’s offices,” Lord Szarr said, his tone perfectly light, as she glared at the polished buttons of his doublet. “The whole city is talking about that ambitious little project of his. They’re calling him a visionary, an inspiration, a hero of the common man. But you and I, we know better, don’t we?”

“I do not understand what you mean.”

“Oh please, Miss Naelgrath. We both know that Astarion couldn’t have come up with any of this philanthropy business if the pretty curls on his head depended on it.”

Zoraya pressed her lips together, refusing to acknowledge that with an answer.

Lord Szarr, meanwhile, took a leisurely sip from his own glass. Red wine, judging by the deep crimson color. “No,” he said with a slow, thoughtful smile. “All of that started at the same time when you entered the picture. Which doesn’t make it all that difficult to pinpoint the real visionary behind our idiotic friend.”

“Astarion is not an idiot,” she hissed.

“Oh, but he’s certainly more than a little wanting in comparison to you! See, I’ve done my research on you. How you’ve spent your life outshining him, surpassing him at every possible opportunity — and yet, somehow, he’s the one holding an office and you’re the one making coffee. Doesn’t it bother you? That it’s your work he’s taking credit for? That he’s the one being praised, while the actual visionary is once again left unrecognized? That in spite of all of your achievements, this is where you are: bumbling about in the employ of your vastly inferior childhood friend, all your efforts only serving to further his career?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Why? Because you think you can change him?” Lord Szarr broke into a lilting laugh that left the rest of his face weirdly unaffected, like his features were frozen in time. “Oh, I wouldn’t hold my breath for that. Men do not change, you see, least of all for women. But you’re a sharp one; you probably already know that. What you do not seem to grasp quite yet is that you are in the unique position to use your accomplishments in his office to find yourself a much more … suitable position.”

Zoraya snorted. “What, you mean with you?”

“I’m afraid my legal team is all filled up at the moment. But I know of several esteemed individuals who would be thrilled to hire the woman who managed to drag Astarion Ancunin’s reputation out of the mud in just a few weeks. Politicians, merchants, judges — you simply say the word and I’d be glad to introduce you.”

“And what do you get out of it?” she asked. “What do you care about any of this?”

“Why, it simply pains me to see a promising young woman withering away in the offices of a failing magistrate.” He leaned in closer, the look in his unnaturally dark eyes so piercing, she felt herself freeze up, the glass shaking in her hand. “Especially one who is so hopelessly in love with a man who loves no one except for himself.”

Zoraya gasped.

A tiny, little gasp, quickly muffled and kicked under the table, but it was all the confirmation Lord Szarr needed. She could see it right there in the upward tug of his thin, wine-stained lips, the narrowing of his ink-black eyes, oddly dull and lifeless in the light of the chandeliers.

Contacts, she realized. He must be wearing contacts. A calculated move to make himself more intimidating because gods knew there was nothing inherently intimidating about a small, well-dressed elf with a receding hairline.

She took a step sideways. Edging along the buffet table, so she could get a hold of herself and come up with some sort of rebuttal. The fake boyfriend perhaps, although that sounded desperate, even in her own head.

Her back met a solid chest, one arm closing around her waist and pulling her in.

“There you are,” Astarion said, his voice low and gravelly behind her. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Astarion was not a tall man, but he was very, very angry at the moment, and that was almost the same thing.

He was looming between Zoraya and Cazador, glaring down at the man with the concentrated hatred of a thousand different things he wanted to throw at him. Keep your filthy hands off her, fiend, or you’ll lose them! was one of them, although he was also rather partial to, I’m challenging you to a duel for the lady’s honor!

Perhaps he should stop reading quite so many romance novels.

“Ah, Astarion,” Cazador said pleasantly. “So good of you to join us. Miss Naelgrath and I just had the most delightful chat about how the two of you grew up together! How come you’ve never shared any of those charming anecdotes with me?”

Because I’d never place something so precious in your hands, you bastard!

Astarion swallowed the thought as best he could and said, “I’m certain there are infinitely more diverting stories than those of Miss Naelgrath and myself climbing plum trees.”

Cazador’s eyes dipped down Astarion’s form, taking in the anger in each taut muscle, the way he’d positioned himself between the two of them like a living, breathing shield. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said, smiling that dead, hollow smile of his. “I have always been quite partial to plums, personally.”

“You should pay my parents a visit then,” Astarion said. “Their plum orchard is nothing short of spectacular in the summer. Now, if you’ll excuse us — Miss Naelgrath has promised me the next dance.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her with him firmly, ignoring her little yelp as she struggled to keep up with him.

“It was a pleasure meeting you again, Miss Naelgrath,” Cazador called after them. “Give my advice some thought, will you?”

Astarion ground his teeth, smothering what he was pretty sure would have been a growl. Hells, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this wound up. A side effect of his self-defense training, probably. Learn how to swing a dagger and before you know it, you’re ready to gauge out another nobleman’s eyes in public. But damn it all, a man like Cazador shouldn’t even be allowed to have eyes if he was going to use them to look at her!

“Astarion!” Zoraya hissed.

She was panting for air, struggling to keep up in her high heels, but he couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t even think about slowing down when Cazador was still there, in the same room.

“Whatever he told you, it was a lie,” he said, his grip iron on her arm. “You cannot believe a word he says. Don’t let him rope you into one of his games. Don’t speak to him, don’t—”

“Astarion!” she repeated, louder this time. Sharper. “People are staring!”

“So let them!” He stopped and whirled around to face her. “As you said yourself, it is one of the many burdens that come with having a face like mine!”

“Not like that!” she said, shoulders hiking up miserably. “I mean, like … gods, will you just let me go!”

She was embarrassed. Mortified not of Cazador, but of what people might think of their little scene. It was such a stupid thing to worry about — something as petty and mundane as gossip — it actually helped absorb some of his anger.

Astarion took a deep breath and let go of her arm. “Just one dance,” he said quietly. Pleadingly.

“What?” she blurted, staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Please.” He stepped closer, clenching his hands into fists, so they wouldn’t reach out for her again. “You do not know this man the way I do, Zoraya. Dance floors and cheery music are two of the surest ways to keep him at bay.”

“You do remember that you were the one who introduced us, right?”

“Yes, and I am coming to realize what a fatal mistake that was! Now, will you dance with me? Or would you rather I started screaming about some sort of medical emergency and dragged you off to see Larkin’s personal cleric?”

Zoraya huffed out a breath, her brow furrowing in familiar exasperation. “You’re a spoiled brat, do you know that?”

“There are people who’d argue that’s half my charm.”

“Pitiful wretches.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of taste, darling.”

She grinned and he felt the weight starting to lift off his chest. Maybe he had overreacted just a tiny bit. Cazador could hardly kill her in a ballroom full of Baldur’s Gate’s finest. Still, Astarion would have to send the man a letter as soon as he got home. Even better, show up at his creepy mansion and make it entirely clear that nothing was to happen to Zoraya Naelgrath. That she was non-negotiable. And if Cazador didn’t like it — well, so be it.

Astarion was done cowering for him.

“May I have this dance, Miss Naelgrath?” He offered his hand to her, properly this time, palm up, head bowed, and she accepted. Her hand felt surprisingly small in his, the pads of her fingers rough from long nights with fountain pens and lawbooks.

“You might end up regretting this,” she whispered. “Ballroom is not exactly my strong suit.”

“Oh, I am well aware. I remember our lessons back in the day.” He chuckled at the memory of young Zoraya, tripping over the hem of one of those ruffly dresses, flustered and beet-red at the smallest misstep. “So do my toes. The ones that survived, anyway.”

A faint blush crept over her cheeks, like an echo of her nervousness back then.

“Don’t worry,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “I have twirled on many dance floors, so I will do all the heavy lifting. You just tell me if your leg starts acting up, okay?”

“Now that you say it, I am in excruciating pain.”

He grinned. “Zoraya Naelgrath, did you just lie to a magistrate?”

“N-no. Of course not!” The blush intensified and Astarion’s stomach flipped.

He’d never really understood the expression before whenever it appeared in his romance novels, but that was exactly what it felt like. Like his stomach detached itself from whatever tissues it was supposed to be connected to and started frolicking about like one of those ridiculous circus artists on their poles and swings.

It felt … nice.

“No excuses then,” he said, pulling her onto a suitable spot at the very edge of the dance floor, where even Zoraya would have a hard time bumping into other couples.

She moved her hands into position reluctantly, one in his, the other just above his elbow, her lips pressing together nervously.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

Astarion listened for the bard’s lute and started moving in the familiar one-two-three rhythm, careful to use his body language to steer her along with him.

At first, Zoraya panicked. Her fingers dug into his biceps, her palm growing sweaty against his own as she struggled to mirror his movements. But then, after he’d guided her through the first few iterations without either of them knocking over the punch bowl or falling flat on their faces, she seemed to relax somewhat. Which, in Zoraya’s case, meant that she began to view this as a challenge. A problem to be solved, a task to be completed. Her face was shrouded in concentration, her jaw tight as she mouthed the tact of the steps to herself, and Astarion nearly laughed out loud when he recognized it.

Only Zoraya Naelgrath could make the same face when she was dancing with a handsome nobleman and when she was elbow-deep in tax law.

“Oh, Zoya, my sweet,” he said, smiling as he stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “You do realize this is supposed to be fun, don’t you?”

“Maybe if you’ve done it a million times.”

He guided her into a spin, using decades of ballroom experience to make the motion as obvious as possible for her. What he wasn’t prepared for was the way the light from the chandeliers hit her golden hair clip, sparkling off the little gem in the center and then, when she finished her spin, from the depths of her dark brown eyes.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his throat weirdly tight. “You’re a natural.”

She smiled and his stomach did the flipping thing again. He spun her once more, this time pulling her with her back against his chest. She tensed at the sudden change in position and he couldn’t resist the temptation to hold her just a little tighter, using the hand on her waist to guide her through the steps. The curve of her neck was tantalizingly close, begging him to sneak a kiss onto the sweet spot behind her ear. To bury his nose into her hair and breathe in her scent, as he’d pictured doing a hundred times at this point.

It was the perfect moment to pay her a proper compliment. Whisper it into her ear and watch the goosebumps spread over her neck, feel her melt against him. But somehow, none of his usual lines sounded right in his head. Hollow platitudes, devoid of any real meaning, when compared to her.

“You know,” Zoraya said, thoroughly incinerating his train of thought, “If Lord Szarr is so dangerous, perhaps you should stay away from him, too?”

“I … can’t.” He swallowed, grateful she couldn’t see the look on his face. “You know that.”

“I’m not so sure,” she said. “All we need to do is listen in on Larkin’s secret meeting later tonight, and we should be able to gather enough information to put an end to his machinations. Then we build the highway, everyone sings your praises for it — I don’t think you’ll need Szarr to make it into the Council of Four.”

“What?” Astarion stilled, his muscles refusing service from the sheer enormity of what she’d just said.

“The secret meeting.” She nudged his elbow, trying to remind him that they were in the middle of a dance floor and standing still was not really an option. “Surely, you found out about it, too. Larkin and a handful of his most trusted friends are to meet in his office at midnight. A little cliché, if you ask me, but—”

“Tell me everything!”

He spun her around to face him, possibly using a tad too much momentum, for she tripped over her high heels, requiring him to haul her against himself to keep her from falling.

With most women, this would have left her quite endearingly tucked underneath his chin, ready to gaze up at him all wide-eyed and smitten. Since this was Zoraya, however, her head was at a level with his own. Which meant that her forehead ended up connecting with his nose rather than his strong, masculine chest, resulting in a headbutt that had him cry out in pain.

“Argh!”

The noise echoed throughout the ballroom, unbearably loud in the brief silence in between songs. The bards stood with their instruments clutched hesitantly, not sure if now was a good time to start a new song, seeing as how the vast majority of guests were currently busy staring at a beautiful, if somewhat inappropriately tangled couple on the dance floor, one of whom was bleeding all over himself.

It took Astarion a moment to realize it was him. Blood seeping out of his nose and trickling down rapidly, staining his beautiful ivory doublet on its way to the floor.

“Oh, Hell’s Teeth!” Zoraya exclaimed, a hand flying to her lips in shock. Then she spun around and yelled, “Someone get him a towel or something! Don’t just stand there and stare, gods dammit!”

Astarion tried to tell her that he was alright, but was cut off by a handkerchief that was thrust into his face none too gently.

“Come.” With her one hand, she kept the handkerchief pressed against his nose, while she was using the other to drag him off the dance floor. Pushing him onto what he could only hope was a chair. “Sit down and put your head between your legs.”

“Zoraya, really—”

A hand appeared on the back of his head, shoving it down to enforce her command. The handkerchief was replaced with a fluffy towel someone seemed to have brought for her and Astarion accepted his fate with a quiet sigh. If there was anything more embarrassing than being headbutted by your partner on the dance floor and bleeding over your own gown, it was probably getting yourself into a full-on fight with said partner, all while having a towel pressed into your face.

Thankfully, the music picked back up a short while after. So did the murmuring around them, most of it doubtlessly dedicated to Astarion Ancunin and his very public nosebleed.

Well, at least that provided some variety compared to his usual exploits.

“How do you feel?” Zoraya asked when she eventually let him sit up straight again.

“Humiliated, for one.” He chuckled as he accepted the glass of water she pushed into his hand. “Although not nearly as much as at last year’s masquerade ball when I overindulged in the punch and confused a vase with the chamber pot.”

His attempt to lighten the mood failed abysmally.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, eyes darting to the floor, fists clenching in her lap. “I never should have accepted your invitation. I made a fool of you and—”

“Nonsense.” He set down the glass and reached for her hand, covering it with his own. “It was entirely my fault for not properly telegraphing that last spin. I was a terrible dance partner and for that, I thoroughly deserve to be laughed at.”

She looked up at him hesitantly. “So you really didn’t know about the secret meeting Larkin’s having tonight?”

“No. I’m afraid I have been somewhat off my game tonight, in more than one respect.”

“I was thinking we should try to sneak into his office sometime before midnight.” She picked up the towel and started dabbing it around his nose, clearly more comfortable to talk about their work mission. “Try and find a hiding spot, so we can overhear the meeting.”

“Oho!” Astarion laughed. “Look who’s picking up a few new tricks for herself!”

“There’s nothing illegal about it!” she protested. “You’re an invited guest in this house and if you happen to get a little lost on your way to the bathroom, that’s entirely by accident. Probably a result of the concussion I just gave you!”

“Zoraya.” He reached for her wrist, gently lowering it, so he could look at her without the blood-smeared towel blocking his view. “You do not need to convince me. You had me at sneaking into a secret meeting.”

Her lips parted before curling into a giddy smile and — gods help him — it was then that he finally understood there was no compliment that would do her justice. No words beautiful enough to convey how she was making him feel. Like he could do anything, so long as she was there. Be anything he’d ever wished he could be; that there was still time to become that person, the one that made her smile just like this.

Like he was going to die if he could not kiss her right now. Lean over and take her face in his hands and kiss her until she’d forgotten all about those years when he’d been a complete ass to her. Until there was only now, where they sat in soft candlelight and she was beautiful and she was his and if he tried hard enough, he could keep her with him forever.

Gods above, what in the world was wrong with him?

This was Zoraya. She was his friend, his advocate. The only person in this bloody city who actually cared about him. And he was thinking of throwing it all away, of getting in between her and that stupidly attractive boyfriend of hers, causing all kinds of drama — just because he’d finally realized what a goddamn miracle she was?

What if this was just another one of his fleeting affections? Burned away by next week, passions sated, curiosities stilled. He couldn’t risk everything she meant to him just for that. But perhaps he could be something else for her. Something … lighter. A fun, little diversion. The third wheel helping her relationship with the hunky blacksmith reach new heights of passion. Showering them both in his affections, only to pull up his trousers as soon as it was over and see himself out. It was what he was good at, after all. His specialty, so to speak. Serve people’s passion, then leave.

He could do that for her. No matter how much he wanted to be the one to tuck her into bed afterward, to wipe the sweat off her brow and whisper sweet nothings into her ear as she fell asleep beside him.

No matter how much he wanted to be everything for her.

“Zoya?” He licked his lips, trying to decide on the best way to broach the subject. “I’ve been thinking …”

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything intimate.”

Astarion and Zoraya shot backward with a sharp intake of breath, much like actors in a cheap stage play. There was only one voice in all of Baldur’s Gate that could have uttered that sentence with quite so much disdain, while simultaneously expressing its utter disinterest as to whatever it was they were doing.

Just one of the many ways in with Quelenna Ancunin was unlike anyone else.

“Come to make a fool of yourself once more?” she said, her perfectly manicured eyebrows lifting in the same disappointed expression that had followed Astarion’s every step throughout his whole, entire life.  “Some things never change, I suppose.”

Zoraya had grown up worshipping Quelenna Ancunin in much the same way as sailors of old who’d try to appease the great Gods of the Sea by hurling their favorite goat into the waves before setting sail. They realized there was a power beyond their understanding, so all they could think to do was cower their heads and pray. Throw out an offering and then pray some more.

 It wasn’t just because of her looks — although, gods dammit, the genetics of the Ancunin family were truly off the charts — no, she had a distinctly regal air about herself that made her every movement feel significant.

Tonight she wore a blue-and-silver gown, emphasizing her pale skin and bright blue eyes. Her silver hair was impeccably styled as always, curling around her sharp, narrow face in a way that made it look like every single curl stood to attention, waiting for its next command. Even her genetic material seemed unconquerable. Astarion was the spitting image of her, his golden eyes the only feature he had in common with his father.

“M-mother,” he said, scrambling to his feet to greet her. “I … didn’t know you were here.”

“Well, I can’t say the same about you,” she snorted. “No swifter way to locate my son than right in the middle of a public scandal. No news there, I see. You however, Zoraya …”

Zoraya felt her shoulders pulling back under the gaze of those cool, blue eyes, her posture straightening, chin lifting. A reflex born from years of doing everything in her power to placate this woman. To prove that she was worthy of her benevolence, that she was grateful for all the support she’d received and determined to make the very best of it. She’d earned herself many of Quelenna’s rare smiles over the years that way. Those memories were stored away safely, together with her fountain pens, ready to be taken out whenever she needed to look at them.

Presently, however, Quelenna stared at her as if Zoraya was a stain on a tablecloth she’d ordered cleaned.

“I had not expected to find you so tangled up in Astarion’s antics,” Quelenna said icily. “Pray tell me, what is it you are being paid for so handsomely each month? Is it to gallivant around ballrooms, twirling and throwing yourself at your superiors like a common whore? Or is it to help his crumbling career back to its feet? Get him to do something useful, rather than becoming one more notch on his bedpost?”

The words hit like a brick wall. The weight of the shame too great to even try and defend herself, to do anything other than stand there with her mouth open.

“There is no need for any such language, mother,” Astarion hissed.

“I am speaking to Zoraya,” Quelenna said, not even sparing him a glance. “Now, I hope that I do not need to explain to you that any project carrying the Ancunin name can be nothing short of a resounding success. It is disappointing enough that you’d use it for something as mundane as a road” — she wrinkled her nose at the word — “But since you’ve already announced it to the public, I trust you will find a way to remove any and all opposition to this project before it sullies the family name any further. Have I made myself clear?”

Zoraya swallowed. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

“What was that?”

She straightened, forcing herself to meet Quelenna’s eyes, and repeated, “Yes, ma’am!”

“Excellent.” Quelenna nodded, not having expected anything else. “You two are to come over for dinner and report your results. I’ll have Voron send a formal invitation.”

She turned to leave, but not without a final look at her son, her brow knitting in distaste at the dried blood on his white doublet. “And for heaven’s sake, clean yourself up, Astarion. You look ridiculous.”

She disappeared into the crowd — leaving behind Aquilan Ancunin, who must have been standing in her shadow the entire time. Holding a small piece of quiche and smiling uncomfortably as he waved it at Zoraya and Astarion.

“So good to see the two of you!” he said, hurrying after his wife. “Hope you enjoy the ball!”

Zoraya sank onto her chair with a deep sigh, her head rolling back to stare at the ceiling.

“Drink?” Astarion offered.

“Hells, yes.” She accepted the glass without even bothering to identify the contents, downing it all in one go. It stung and burned until settling in her stomach with a faint, dizzy warmth.

“Well.” Astarion chuckled, swirling his own glass. “If you can count on my mother for one thing, it’s that she has a gift for making people seek mind-numbing substances.”

“It never changes.” Zoraya tore her gaze off the ceiling to look at him. “No matter how old I get, she always makes me feel like I’m a silly little girl.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling. Minus the girl part, of course.” He held out his own drink, offering it to her, but she declined with a shake of her head.

“Let’s go,” she said, suddenly desperate to get out of this room. Away from these people who were so eager to judge her every step and point their fingers at the slightest stumble. Away from the kind of person they made her.

She wanted to be someone else for a while. The kind of person she could only be with Astarion.

“I think there’s an office upstairs that needs breaking in.”

It had all seemed a lot simpler in Zoraya’s head than it ended up being in reality.

She’d somehow assumed there’d be a convenient hiding place for them in Larkin’s office. Some sort of air shaft or walk-in closet perhaps, like they had in those adventure stories she used to read as a teenager. As it turned out, whoever had designed the Larkin estate had failed to read those stories. It was an office exactly like any other rich-people office she’d ever encountered: expensive, heavy furniture, copious amounts of liquor and absolutely nowhere to hide two above-average-sized adults.

“Shit,” she muttered, all but ready to plop down on the floor and bury her face in her hands like a child, when Astarion called her over to a door he’d just unlocked.

It led into a surprisingly modest bedroom, bare except for the large canopy bed in the center.

“Larkin’s … bedchambers?”

“Not his main bedchambers, I’m sure,” Astarion said, already rifling through the drawers of the nightstand. “No, these would be rooms for when he’s working late and does not wish to wake his wife. Or, perhaps more frequently, for when he wishes to invite someone the wife is not supposed to see.”

“Oh.” Zoraya wasn’t even sure why that surprised her. Of course, rich people would have separate bedrooms for that.

“Look here, darling,” Astarion said, holding up a glass bottle he’d found in the nightstand. “A rather typical find for these kinds of rooms.”

Zoraya blushed a deep shade of crimson at the shape of the bottle. “That’s not … what I think it is,” she stammered. “Right?”

“Oh, I bet it is. Performance-enhancing potions are very much in style for the contemporary nobleman struggling to satisfy his younger love affair.”

“But why … why would the bottle look like that?”

“So it can be identified in the dark by touch alone, of course.” Astarion made a show of shaking his head at her. “Clearly, you’ve never been in a situation where you were in need of such assistance. You lucky, lucky woman.” He shot her a grin before returning to the contents of the nightstand.

“Aha!” he exclaimed moments later, holding up another bottle. “Just what I was looking for!”

“A potion of diminution?” Zoraya frowned. “But why would he … You know what, I don’t even want to know what he’s doing with that!”

“I could explain it to you,” Astarion said smugly. “It’s not for him, you see, it’s for—”

“I said I don’t want to hear it! Just give me the potion, so we can shrink ourselves!”

“Let me take care of that, will you? I have a bit more … experience with this sort of spell.”

He downed the potion without taking his eyes off her and Zoraya was certain, no one had ever been more flustered to watch a man drink from a bottle than she was in that moment.

By the time people started filtering in for the secret meeting, the two of them were safely hidden away in a small, stuffy wardrobe on the far side of the office. It was weirdly reminiscent of their childhood, both of them shrunk to about half their usual sizes, knees drawn into their chests. There was a red bathrobe dangling above her head that Zoraya refused to think about.

In fact, there were a great many things she was working very hard to ignore. How intimate it felt, huddling in a tiny, dark space with Astarion, their legs just barely touching in the center. The narrow ray of light that filtered in through the crack between the wardrobe doors, draping his face in shadows, making every smirk that much more alluring.

She really should have insisted on having her own hiding spot, but it was too late now, so she did her best to keep her attention on the meeting on the other side of those flimsy wooden doors. On Larkin’s deep, throaty voice that she knew from a couple of his hearings that she’d visited. He’d never been her favorite High Judge — that would be Gale Dekarios, hands down. Larkin was a bit too much of a conservative, in Zoraya’s opinion. Enamored with tradition and establishment, not really known to say anything remotely challenging or, well, interesting.

This was mirrored in the group of people he had assembled. She and Astarion took turns peeking through the crack between the doors, jotting down names and functions on a notebook she’d borrowed from Larkin’s desk, using her now oversized fountain pen. Every single one of his guests was an established part of Baldur’s Gate elite. The kinds of people who’d call the Ancunins new money and mean it as an insult.

“I do not appreciate being dragged here so secretively like some common criminal,” a feminine voice proclaimed. “Besides, what’s the point now? Ancunin’s motion is already dead in the water. There’s no chance for the parliament to approve it now.”

Astarion pointed at a name on their list: Lady Iastar. He took over the fountain pen and added, Weaponry merchant. Frequenter of brothels with underage personnel.

Blackmail opportunity? Zoraya wrote.

Astarion shook his head, a wordless, No one would care.

Of course. A woman accidentally stumbling into her boss on the dance floor was a scandal, but a noblewoman engaging in underage sex trafficking was fair game.

“Certainly, Lady Iastar,” Larkin said. “That is precisely why I have called you here. Project Savagery has been such a resounding success that I believe if we can all agree, it is time to withdraw our efforts and let matters proceed on their own.”

“Why not make extra certain and get a couple more thugs to jump Ancunin?” Holloway said. After arguing with the man for hours on end in several magistrate meetings, Zoraya would have been able to pick out his voice from any group. “He can’t submit anything if we have someone bash in his skull and do it properly this time.”

“That might be a little … extreme,” Larkin said cautiously. “Camouflaging it as an act of retaliation would be considerably more difficult now that public opinion has started to sway in his favor. We were able to silence the individuals that facilitated the last attack, but I’m afraid if we were to repeat this now, it wouldn’t hold the same degree of believability.”

Astarion tensed, the fountain pen going rigid in his hand, and Zoraya realized that this was a thought that had never occurred to him, not in all those weeks they’d been battling Larkin’s disruptions. That perhaps the ambush that had ended with her getting stabbed had also been part of this. The very first display of violence outside city borders. After all, what had those dockworkers been doing all the way out there, when they could have ambushed them just as easily in the city?

Zoraya had considered it before, but never dared to mention it to him out of fear that it would bring back all those traumatic memories for him. But it certainly wasn’t impossible that Larkin and his group would have known about Lord Szarr’s highway plans and wanted to start blocking them even before Astarion’s press conference. All they’d had to do was find a couple of angry dockworkers and tip them off about his hike out to the Gur camp, then leave a few Gur trinkets as false evidence. Done.

Judging by the look on Astarion’s face, however, he’d never even taken into account that the attack could have been fueled by anything other than the people’s hatred toward him.

“No,” Larkin continued. “I believe if we want to be extra certain, we should make another effort at targeting the Gur. They’re the only clan that has failed to respond to any of our disruption attempts thus far.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Iastar exclaimed. “Who cares about one more group of savages, when the rest of the jungle is already swinging their clubs? I am done with these secret meetings! I do not wish to see any of you again, unless it’s in broad daylight with a glass of wine in hand and a handsome lad by my side!”

There was a bit of a commotion as she stormed out of the room. Larkin was calling after her, while several other individuals were heatedly discussing the merits of either of their stances, their agitated voices mixing into an unintelligible garble.

Zoraya leaned her cheek against the door, straining her ears to make out as much as possible — at least the parts about the Gur! But there was something odd happening with the wardrobe as she was huddling there. The smooth wood of the door gliding alongside her cheek, almost as if it was moved by invisible hands.

What the ...?

She looked around herself and found her legs unmistakably growing, inching toward Astarion’s, whose silver curls grew closer to the bathrobe above their heads with each passing second. He must have lost concentration when they were talking about the ambush, the reduction spell slipping through his fingers.

Panic bubbled up her throat, resulting in a noise that she did her best to stifle by pressing both hands over her mouth as she scrambled backward as far as possible. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but, Hells, this seemed like the kind of experience that would leave her with panic attacks whenever she so much as laid eyes on a wardrobe for the rest of her life!

There was no way this tiny piece of furniture would hold two above-average sized adults. They’d simply burst out of it. The doors would be forced open by the sheer mass of their bodies, delivering them onto Larkin’s immaculately polished floors, right under the eyes of several of Baldur’s Gate’s most influential individuals. Resulting in a moment of such shame, neither of their reputations would ever recover from it. They’d find a way to use this to block Astarion’s highway and Zoraya would forever be branded as the woman who’d been caught with her employer in someone else’s wardrobe during a ball.

The thought burned in her chest, stoked the flames of panic to a full-on inferno. She could feel it blazing through her body, her muscles thrashing with it. Involuntary jerky movements she knew were not helping right now, but that she was utterly helpless against. And still, her legs kept growing and she had nowhere left to go and—

“Shhh.” Astarion’s voice, way too close for comfort.

He was reaching out across the tiny space, determined hands that closed around her shoulders and pulled her in, nestled her into his chest. Zoraya gasped at the feel of his collar against her cheek, a sound that was lost in the cocoon of his arms. He had his legs drawn up, so she could rest in the space between them, both arms wrapped around her tightly, his chin a comforting weight on the top of her head.

“Shhh,” he kept whispering, the calmness of his voice helping to ease her twitching, slow her breath. “I’ve got you, Zoya. I’ve got you right here.”

His voice was all that she could hear. She didn’t understand a word they were saying on the other side of the wardrobe door anymore, missed the entire rest of the discussion because she was wholly focused on him. The soft, velvety tone of his voice so very close to her ear, delivering a gentle stream of meaningless little words she couldn’t have repeated if her life depended on it, but that were everything that kept her panic from spiraling.

Zoraya had no idea how long they were huddling there. She didn’t even really register the end of the meeting, the polite goodbyes or doors clicking shut. But when Astarion reached out a hand to open the wardrobe, the office was suddenly empty. Nothing but the gleam of a single lantern to indicate that anyone had ever been there.

“See?” Astarion said gently. “They’re gone. It’s all good. ”

His touch felt mesmerizing on her bare skin. Soothing strokes down her back to where her dress started, then back up over the curve of her shoulder. The steadiness of the motion, combined with the warmth of his body slowly working to bring her back into reality where they’d somehow, miraculously, gotten away with this whole thing.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he said. “I was a little … startled back there and lost control of the spell. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Zoraya drew herself up awkwardly, using both hands to steady herself against his chest. She was still shaking, each breath ragged, like her ribcage was a flimsy thing made of paper and spit, ready to collapse any moment.

“Next time,” she whispered, “I’m doing the spell, okay?”

He smiled and it was like liquid sunshine, straight into her veins. “Alright.”

He ran his thumb over her cheek, a touch so small and tender, she couldn’t help the involuntary shudder, her eyes flying closed for a moment.

When she opened them again, she saw Astarion swallow. The muscles of his jaw tightening as his gaze dropped — settling on her lips with an expression she couldn’t quite place. A quiet, tortured sort of intensity, as if he was fighting something only he could see.

Her heart fluttered as she realized what it was.

That for the first time in her life, Astarion Ancunin looked at her just the way she’d always looked at him.

“Zoya …” It sounded like a plea. His voice strained as if he, too, carried the weight of all those years with him.

He moved his hand to push a strand of sweat-dampened hair out of her forehead.

And that was all it took.

After two decades of fighting it, that was all it took for Zoraya to close her eyes and let him kiss her.

In her imagination, it had always been an event of earth-shattering scale. An occasion so grand, there’d be fireworks and shooting stars buzzing away over their heads. Blood boiling in her veins as their bodies melted together, limbs tangling and breaths mixing, shirt buttons and belt buckles all but disintegrating under the sheer force of their passion.

Reality turned out a fair bit more … quiet.

Intimate.

Astarion cradled her face in his hands as he kissed her slow and gentle. Each touch of his lips feathery light, tentative, almost hesitant, as if this was highly unfamiliar terrain that required the greatest degree of caution.

He was kissing her like she was a stranger.

No.

A stranger he would have kissed without reservations, moving in swiftly and decisively, not stopping until they were putty in his hands. With her, he was … shy. Like they were children again and this was his first kiss.

Which was completely unacceptable.

She’d waited for that kiss her whole life and damn it all if she wasn’t going to get a little more than this.

She pushed onto her knees, grabbed the frilly bits of fabric around the shoulders of his doublet and then used her body weight to shove him backward. Astarion gasped as his head thumped against the wall of the wardrobe. His hands shot away from her face, trying to give her space, all while she was reaching into his hair and leaned in to kiss him — hard.

Astarion groaned. “Oh gods,” he whispered, shaky words straight into her mouth. “Zoya.”

No amount of daydreaming could have prepared her for how it felt to have him say her name like that. For the violent shiver it sent down her back and right into her core.

He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her closer, angling her head upward so as to deepen the kiss. His tongue was hot and desperate against hers, his initial shyness melting away with each strained noise she made, each nip at her lips. His mouth became everything she knew in the entire world. Everything she wanted to know because — dammit all if this wasn’t even better than she ever could have imagined.

Suddenly, her dress felt immensely constricting. The long, tight skirt like a modern version of a chastity belt. She started tugging at the fabric, frantically pulling it up. Not caring about the faint ripping sound until the dress finally slid past her knees, allowing her to crawl into his lap, one leg on either side of his hips.

Astarion interrupted the kiss. “Z-Zoya, I … ah!”

They both gasped as their bodies slotted together, her wet center sliding across the hard length sticking out through the tight fabric of his trousers and …

Damn, he was hard. They'd done nothing but kissing and already, he was wielding the sort of erection that would have his tailor in tears when he inevitably brought in those trousers for repairs.

Zoraya looked at him, his face flush with arousal and maybe also a hint of embarrassment at his current state. And somehow, despite everything that had happened so far, that’s what drove home the realization that he actually wanted her.

It was all over from there.

She rolled her hips, making sure to follow the expression of pained pleasure on his face. The slackness of his jaw, the way his eyes fell shut and his ears turned desperately pink. Savoring the knowledge that it was her who made him feel this way.

He reached for the back of her neck, pulling her throat against his lips, and all she could do was throw back her head and whimper at how good he felt, right there at her pulse point. She was grinding into him in earnest now, his other hand grabbing her ass and aiding the movement. Struggling to stay on top of her increasingly bunched-up dress in an odd display of chivalry when, even through the fabric of his trousers, he must be able to feel how absolutely drenched she was for him. How much she wanted him, how much she’d wanted him her whole life.

Hells, she’d wanted him for so long, she didn’t even care that they were in someone else’s wardrobe. She would have let him have her in Larkin’s weird sex room or down in the ballroom, bent over the goddamn buffet.

Like a common whore.

The cool disdain of Quelenna’s voice rang through her head, effortlessly slicing through two decades of pent-up desire.

Because that’s what she’d be, wouldn’t it? Another name on his list, another notch on his bedpost. One more face joining the ranks of his flings and affairs — replaceable, forgettable and utterly inconsequential.

She’d known Astarion long enough to know that he did not have partners. He had conquests. Trophies. For him, it was all about the thrill of the hunt. Of proving to himself that he could have whomever it was he wanted, seduce a married woman in front of her husband’s eyes just as easily as he could get his prim and proper advocate to tear up her own dress for him. He probably delighted in the scandal of it, the idea of Larkin coming in to put out that lantern and finding her half-naked in his lap. But then once he’d fulfilled the fantasy, once he’d had her in a few scandalizing positions, he’d inevitably get bored and toss her aside.

Move on with his life, once again leaving her behind.

Zoraya remembered how it had felt last time. How it had torn her apart, ripped her into so many pieces, it had taken years to even begin to put them back together.

She knew she could not do it a second time.

“Astarion …?” She pushed against his chest with numb hands, trying to remove him from where he was sucking at her neck.

“What is it, love?” he whispered.

He looked up at her quizzically, the desire so blatant in his eyes, she felt her core coil in rebellion.

Touch me, she wanted to say. Touch me, fuck me, love me.

“Stop,” she said instead. “Please stop.”

Astarion straightened himself and blinked several times. Understandably confused to be told off when she was the one who had climbed onto his lap and then proceeded to ride him into the sunset. She tried to scoot away from him, but her legs were so shaky that all she ended up doing was flopping around uselessly in his lap.

Which, really, only made everything that much worse than it had already been.

“Please,” she repeated, heat welling up behind her eyes. “We can’t do this. We can’t, I—”

“Why not? Hey, calm down.” Astarion placed his hands on her shoulders, gently trying to still her frantic movements. “Talk to me. Is it because of … Dammon?”

“Dammon?” she repeated, not understanding what he had to do with any of this.

“Does he not approve of this sort of … arrangement?”

“N-no,” she muttered, her head slumping miserably.

“Ah. Well, not to worry, darling!” Astarion said, a strangely hollow chipperness in his voice. “Dammon never has to know a thing. As far as I’m concerned, this can be our little—”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Silence.

A silence so full of humiliation, Zoraya gave up on the whole idea of getting off his lap. She deserved this. After screwing up the way she had, she really, truly deserved this.

“You mean, the two of you broke up?” Astarion asked.

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the bunched-up remnants of her dress. “He was never my boyfriend. He just agreed to play the role as a personal favor.”

“Oh.” Astarion hesitated. “But why would you … I mean …”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“That you’re single? Oh, Zoya, darling, that’s hardly something to be ashamed of! I’ve been single my entire life and never once felt like that was a burden.” He chuckled and took her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were bright with excitement. “We could have been doing this so much sooner if I hadn’t felt the need to be such a gentleman. Come on, let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

“No!” Zoraya blurted as he tried to pull her up. “I can’t!”

“Why not? Is it about what my mother said?” He sighed. “You know how she is, always pouncing on the opportunity to point out other people’s flaws. But there’s nothing inherently wrong about this. It happens all the time in all sorts of offices. You and I know you didn’t get your job because of any sexual favors, right? And neither will I give you any special treatment, no matter what sorts of filthy things you might offer me in return. Well, at least I’ll try not to. I’ll try very hard, alright?”

He smiled and cupped her cheek, the touch so warm and familiar, Zoraya felt herself melting into it. Her defenses starting to crumble because how in the hells couldn’t they when he looked at her like that? When he’d just kissed her like he’d dreamed of doing this, like he’d yearned for her, just as she had for him?

But then he leaned in and said, very gently, “This doesn’t have to be a big deal, you know.”

And it felt like waking up. Like jolting upright and finding herself in the middle of a classroom, twenty-something gleeful pairs of eyes staring at her as her professor spat out, Oh, am I boring you, Miss Naelgrath?

Zoraya shot to her feet. A single burst of panicked energy that had her halfway through the office before Astarion could even get up.

“Zoya, wait!” he called after her. “I don’t understand why you’re so—”

“Of course, you don’t understand!” she snarled, turning around just steps in front of the door. Desperately pulling at the remnants of her dress to make sure at least her butt was covered. “If that isn’t the worst part of it all that you genuinely do not understand, Astarion!”

“Well, then tell me!” he demanded, clearly losing patience with her.

“I told you I wasn’t going to be like one of your assistants, gods dammit! Not when it comes to how I do my job and certainly not when it comes to this!”

“But I thought I—”

“I want the exact opposite of not a big deal!” she shouted. “I want this to be the biggest fucking deal since Cassius Carvilius’ Principles of Legal Thought and Practice! The kind of event that has generations of academics analyzing it, devoting hundreds of thousands of pages to even begin to encompass its sheer magnitude!”

He stared at her, still not any closer to understanding.

She wanted to shake him, slap him. But most of all, she wanted to get far away from him and this room and the fact that any of this had ever happened.

“I want something real, Astarion!” she said, her voice breaking into a sob. “In general, but especially when it comes to you! And if you can’t understand that, then it’s probably better if we …”

No.

That part she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud.

So instead, she turned around and ran.

Chapter Text

“Miss Naelgrath?”

“Yes?” Zoraya turned on her heel and nearly spilled her drink.

In front of her, broad-shouldered and imposing in his long, purple robes, stood High Judge Gale Dekarios. The brilliant mind behind Lockwire v. Kimball, Wallace v. Kragbow and at least a dozen more of her favorite cases of all time. A lawyer with such explosive court performances, his colleagues had taken to calling him The Bomb.

Zoraya had studied his work religiously. Once, she’d even skipped class to see one of his hearings in person, hugging her notebook to her chest and straight-up squealing when he finished his closing statement. Gale Dekarios was a legend. Youngest High Judge in the history of Baldur’s Gate and her personal legal hero.

It wasn’t too surprising that he would be here at this banquet. He was an alumnus of Baldur’s Gate Law School, same as her, so of course, he would have been invited to the celebration of the new library wing. But the fact that he was right in front of her, smiling at her like they knew each other, like …

Hell’s Teeth, he’d just said her name.

Gale Dekarios knew her name!

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, holding out his hand in greeting. “I’m—”

“H-High Judge Dekarios.” Zoraya’s voice trembled like that of a 13-year-old girl who had just caught her parents having sex on the kitchen table and now wasn’t sure if the world was still turning around her. Somehow, she managed to lift her hand and meet his for a weak, little handshake. “It is such an honor to meet you, Your Honor.”

Wow, she thought. What eloquence.

“The honor is all mine,” he said — politeness, for sure, but it sent a wave of excitement down her spine all the same. “Please, call me Gale.”

“Gale,” she repeated slowly. Dully. Her brain stuttering and screeching to a halt until it kicked itself into gear again, roaring forward at full speed.

“I love your work!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been following your career! Your rulings as High Judge, but your early casework as well! I doubt there’s a single attorney in the history of Baldur’s Gate who’s had a greater impact on the interpretation of immigration laws. When you called for the Gondians to be recognized as full-fledged workers, to be eligible for equal pay, I was … Well, I was eleven and I had to be home by six, but otherwise I would have marched for them, too! I would have been front and center in those demonstrations, waving the Gondian flag!”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear you heeded your parents’ advice. Not all of those demonstrations would have been entirely safe for a child to participate in.” He chuckled amicably and Zoraya couldn’t help the burst of nervous laughter spilling out of her.

“O-of course!” she said, fighting for composure. “What I mean to say is that you’re an inspiration. I’ve always dreamed of starting my own practice and making a difference and … Well, your work is such a testament for the impact a single individual can have. What they can accomplish for their city — in a human lifetime, no less!”

There. That, finally, sounded like a halfway coherent summary of the many, many things she’d dreamed of telling the High Judge Dekarios if she ever got to meet him.

“Why, thank you,” he said, inclining his head as he smiled.

There was something almost bashful about his reaction, although that must have been her imagination. No way a man like Gale Dekarios didn’t hear this kind of stuff on a daily basis. He must have fans camping outside his chambers, welcoming him every morning with their cheering and screaming. Waving their university diplomas or legal textbooks or probably the occasional set of breasts, begging him to adorn them with his autograph.

Zoraya briefly contemplated asking him to sign the grease-stained sandwich wrapper she had stuffed in her purse.

“If your recent work in the offices of Magistrate Ancunin is anything to go by, I am certain you will have no trouble fulfilling those aspirations of yours,” Gale said kindly. “In fact, that’s what I came to speak to you about. I have an opportunity that might be of interest to you.”

The smile froze on Zoraya’s lips, dread coiling in her stomach. “An opportunity?”

“I’ve heard of your pro bono work, representing many of the unfortunate individuals who find themselves the victims of ethnic targeting and wrongful imprisonment. While I do not practice as an attorney anymore, I still have many friends in the field, several of whom are working on a special task force to combat the recent surge in racially motivated incarcerations. I believe you would be a great asset to their cause. If we work together, we stand a much better chance of thwarting those shameful acts of bigotry.”

Zoraya lifted her chin, fists clenching at her sides. “Did Lord Szarr send you?” she demanded, the words sharp on her tongue.

“Cazador Szarr?” Gale’s brow furrowed. “No. I wasn’t aware of his interest in the legal defense of ethnic minorities.”

Zoraya snorted. It wasn’t the minorities Lord Szarr was concerned with — it was her. Getting her away from Astarion, specifically.

In the week since the disastrous ball at High Judge Larkin’s house, she’d been approached with at least a dozen job offers. Everything from acting as personal advocate to an entire noble house to mid-level positions in the most prestigious legal firms in town. With the first few offers, she’d been naïve enough to take them seriously, actually taking the time to hear them out. It wasn’t until a representative of Nersk & Glondil accidentally mentioned “Lord Szarr’s glowing recommendation” that she finally understood.

She was being played.

Lured was perhaps the better word, for she was fairly certain those job offers were real. Every single one of them a marked improvement over her current position. A leap in her career she wouldn’t have dreamed of just a few months ago. Not even taking into account the fact that she’d be able to quit her job with Astarion. Spare herself the torture of having to sit there in the same office with him, staring at him, loving him. Knowing what it was like to kiss him, how perfectly their bodies fit together, and that it could never happen again.

But no matter how much that hurt, no matter how many times she had to bring her work to the little park bench around the corner, so she could focus on anything other than the sound of Astarion’s breathing, she would not give in to a bastard like Cazador Szarr. Wouldn’t let him pull the strings of her life like she was some sort of puppet. Not even if he came at her through Gale Dekarios.

Except, Gale did look genuinely puzzled. The crease on his brow deepening with every moment that he stared at her, trying to piece together what exactly she was talking about.

“Are you quite certain?” Zoraya asked cautiously. “You see, Lord Szarr and I had a few … run-ins in the recent past. He thinks he’s doing me a favor, but I’m not really looking to transition away from Magistrate Ancunin’s offices at the moment.”

“Oh, no!” Gale said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t intend to poach you — apologies for the misunderstanding! I meant to offer a collaboration. Pooling our resources, streamlining the defense process. Magistrate Ancunin would be welcome as well, although he might prefer to focus on finishing his motion. Meanwhile, you and my colleagues could divvy up the pro bono work amongst yourself and keep innocent people out of prison. I’d love to introduce you to a few members of the task force, if you could spare a moment or two?”

“That sounds … wonderful,” Zoraya said.

“Yes, it does,” Astarion agreed, his voice icy in her ear as he stepped up beside her. “Unfortunately, Miss Naelgrath is my advocate, Dekarios. And her services are very much needed, right this instance.”

“Good evening, Lord Magistrate,” Gale said, weathering the force of Astarion’s scowl with a perfectly pleasant smile. “I don’t mean to keep you two, of course. Could we arrange for a meeting some time later this week? Miss Naelgrath and I were just discussing a potential collaboration that might—”

“Absolutely not,” Astarion cut in. “We are exceedingly busy with the preparations of my motion. Now come on, Zoraya.”

He reached for her arm, the way he used to do before everything had gone to shambles, and Zoraya found herself flinching away from him. A knee-jerk reaction of her body, avoiding any and all physical contact and the memories attached to it.

Memories of his hands cradling her face. His lips brushing against hers, slowly and timidly, like an unspoken question. His breath hot in her mouth, her name right there on his tongue.

Zoya.

Oh, gods, Zoya.

And then her pillow crushing against her face, soaking up the first tears she’d shed in a good five years at least. Objection snuggling up beside her, purring in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness as she sobbed out the absolute agony of finally kissing the love of her life, only to find out that, for him, it was not a big deal.

“My apologies.” Gale stepped back, aware that there was something private going on that he did not want to be part of. “Didn’t mean to overstep. Please, do enjoy your evening. It was lovely meeting you, Miss Naelgrath.”

Astarion stared after him as if he could mentally make him trip over his own feet and impale himself on a candle stand.

“What in the Hells was that?” Zoraya hissed. “That’s High Judge Dekarios!”

“I am well aware of who that is!” Astarion spat. “And of where exactly he stands on the whole ousting Ancunin from office front!”

“He’s a proponent of ethnic minorities! Of course he voted against you in the past, but that’s different now! He offered his help with all the pro bono work and I really think it could—”

“Gods, how can you be so naïve, Zoraya?”

“Naïve?” she repeated, feeling like he’d struck her across the face.

“Yes!” He thrust out an arm, nearly spilling the champagne he held in the other hand. “The only difference between a self-proclaimed do-gooder like Gale Dekarios and a filthy scheming weasel like Larkin is that one of them is upfront about their intentions! Dekarios wouldn’t have gotten where he is without a few underhanded tactics of his own, and you can be sure that this is why he’s making a move on you now. Frankly, Zoraya, I’m disappointed you’d fall for his ploy so easily! That you’d endanger our work like that!”

Zoraya sucked in a breath of sheer, concentrated outrage. They’d barely spoken in the past week and whenever they did, it had been very, very careful. Measured words, quiet and cautious. Tiptoeing around each other in an attempt at pretending that what had happened between them had not, in fact, happened.

But now there was anger bubbling up her throat, hot and fast, and it had to go somewhere.

“Of course you’d think that!” she snarled, taking a step forward. Coming closer than she’d dared to for a whole week. “Because for you, this is just something you’re trying out for the season, isn’t it? Like an exotic new doublet you put on in front of the mirror, twirling and preening at how pretty you look, dressed in the illusion of good intent! But you know what, Astarion? For some of us, this isn’t just a new way to get ahead in life — some of us actually believe in what we’re doing! And once you realize you’re tired of playing philanthropist, I’d like to have someone like Gale in my corner because, believe it or not, I actually care about this!”

She turned on her heel and marched off, anger seeping out of her pores.

Astarion stared after her, gripping his champagne flute so tightly, it wouldn’t have surprised him if the blasted thing had snapped in two.

Had she really just called him Gale?

Since when was Zoraya, I’d rather shake my mother’s hand than hug her, even though she gives the best hugs in the entire city, thank you, Naelgrath on a first-name basis with one of the very High Judges who’d been dead-set on ousting him from office?

The answer was simple.

She was job-hunting. Ever since the night of the ball, there hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t seen her whispering with the representative of some big-shot legal firm whenever he came out of a hearing. Lunch invitations flooded her desk, all sorts of important names adorning the insignia. Clearly, she was using the recognition she got for saving his crumbling career to jump-start her own.

Their contract technically bound her to his offices until the end of the summer, but the woman was a lawyer. She’d find a way to get out of it if she really wanted to. Which, apparently, she did.

I want something real, Astarion! And if you can’t understand that, then it’s probably better if we …

The truth of the matter was that he did not understand. College and law degrees notwithstanding, he couldn’t figure out what in the Hells had gone wrong in that wardrobe.

Everything had been perfect, hadn’t it?

She hadn’t shied away from his advances as he’d feared — no, she’d climbed right up into his lap, warm and willing and single! Praise the Gods, she was single! His to shower in his adoration, to use every muscle in his body to show her just how much she meant to him, how much he treasured her. That was how things went. How they’d always gone, his entire life. He seduced and pleased and indulged and then afterward, they were his.

But of course, Zoraya had to be different. Because for her, nothing he did was ever good enough. Even after he’d given her an office, a secretary, complete freedom to do whatever she wanted with her pro bono work, she was still unhappy.

He’d even bought her a new fountain pen. The same limited edition she’d broken during their first heist, a pen so outrageously expensive, even Astarion had swallowed before handing over the gold. He’d placed it on her desk, all wrapped up in a pretty bow. Scooting around on his chair impatiently all morning long until she finally came into the office. Watching out of the corner of his eyes as she picked up the present and studied it.

“Thank you,” she’d said.

And then she’d pulled out her chair, which was now facing away from him because the Gods knew, she’d rather look at the wall than his face, and started working.

Seriously, what else did she want? What else could he give her to make her stay, to make her see? He couldn’t change who he was. Couldn’t magically turn into someone like Gale Dekarios and pretend he’d always been that way.

Because he wasn’t.

Astarion might have made a career out of lying to people, but at least he didn’t lie to himself.

He clenched his teeth in frustration as he set down his champagne, still mostly full. Under normal circumstances, he would have drowned his anger in alcohol, but there was something about this particular flavor of anger that made him want to hold on to it. Clutch it close in an almost possessive way.

It was his anger, like she was his advocate.

Not for much longer, a voice inside his head said. You’ve always known she’d leave you, right? She wouldn’t choose to work for a corrupt Duke any more than a corrupt magistrate.

He pushed through the crowd, eager to leave the buzz of the party behind and get in some practice with his dagger. He’d had his basement refurbished into a training room, which came in handy with all that anger as of late.

“Ah, Astarion,” a familiar nasal voice said. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been hiding.”

Gods above, could this evening get any worse?

“Lord Szarr.” Astarion turned toward him, plastering a half-hearted smile onto his lips. “I wasn’t aware you were attending this evening.”

“I thought I might drop by. Have a word with my favorite legal professionals,” Cazador said, regarding him in that way Astarion had never quite understood. Like he wasn’t really looking at him, but further somehow.

One of the many side effects of the elven lifespan, Astarion assumed. He’d never openly asked about his age, but Cazador Szarr certainly seemed like a man who had been alive for a long time, had seen it all, one way or another.

“You have been awfully difficult to get in touch with,” Cazador said. “I do sincerely hope you haven’t fallen ill. You look a little pale.”

“Just a migraine,” Astarion muttered, turning toward the exit. “If you’ll excuse me …”

“How fortuitous!” Cazador thrust an arm around Astarion’s shoulders. A warm, familiar gesture from a distance, yet bone-chillingly cold up close. “I have the perfect remedy at home. A special import all the way from the Far East; you simply must try it! Come along. My coach is parked right out front. We’ll have your migraine taken care of in no time at all.”

Astarion hesitated, the beginning of a sentence forming in his head.

I don’t feel like …

Actually, I would rather …

I really don’t think …

But before any of those could ripen to completion, the cold arm around his shoulder tightened.

“Come,” Cazador said in the same low, melodic voice he’d said it countless times before. “This way, my boy.”

And Astarion’s feet followed, just as they’d done all those times before.

“What’s the matter?” Cazador asked afterward, when Astarion pushed out of the burgundy sheets as quickly as his wobbly legs allowed. “So eager to leave already?”

Astarion briefly contemplated bringing up his imaginary migraine, but decided against it, seeing as how it really hadn’t helped last time. He removed the special migraine remedy from where it had been inserted into his body and let it drop to the floor. Soreness was already spreading between his legs, his head heavy with exhaustion. He felt filthy. Used. Like one of those cheap balls children would kick around on the schoolyard, only to leave it behind, muddied and beaten-up, once the bell rang them back into the classroom.

He thought of what Zoraya would say if she saw him like this. The way her face would scrunch up in disgust at what he truly was.

What he was without her and the strength she gave him.

Astarion picked up his shirt, trying to take comfort in the luxuriously soft fabric, the way it hugged his body like an inanimate embrace. Focusing all his attention on the delicate pearl buttons, fiddling them closed over his chest one by one.

“You seem distracted as of late.” Cazador was leaning back against the pillows, one arm flung over the headboard leisurely.

He only took him to the bedroom when he aimed at a lengthier affair. Astarion had lost track of time, but his aching muscles told him it had been hours.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that advocate of yours, now, would it?” Cazador said. “I hear she’s looking for a transfer. Job-hunting all over the city.”

“It’s her decision to make,” Astarion hissed, the pearl button slipping through his fingers. “If she isn’t happy working for me, it’s her prerogative to leave.”

“Certainly,” Cazador agreed. “It might be for the best, after all. I must say, it pains me to see how much that woman has managed to manipulate you in just a few short weeks.”

“Manipulate?” Astarion whirled around, flabbergasted by such a baseless accusation. “Zoraya hasn’t manipulated me! She’s done nothing but help me! Without her, I’d be—”

“Fully devoted to getting that highway built, rather than playing hero on the side.” Cazador sighed heavily and ran a hand through the long, black hair that never seemed to slip out of place, no matter how much he exerted himself. “Please, Astarion, look at yourself. You spend half your time getting poor wretches out of prison for no pay at all and the other half drafting plans to ensure that they get to live happily ever after in their little mud huts out in the wilderness. The papers may call you a visionary, a philanthropist, but do you know what people say about you in private?”

Astarion glanced at the golden door handle to his right. All he had to do was take it, push it down and leave. Go home and draw himself a bath, scrub off the memory of this evening until it dissolved into the hot water.

But Cazador was so very good at this. Getting his claws into him, making him second-guess what he thought he knew, what he knew he knew.

So against all his instincts, Astarion found his eyes darting back to meet Cazador’s, nearly black in the dim candlelight. “What do they say?”

Cazador poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle he always seemed to have on his nightstand. Taking his time with it, swirling and tasting it leisurely, knowing that Astarion would wait for him to continue.

“I take no pleasure in relaying this to you, Astarion,” he said gravely. “But everyone in Baldur’s Gate can see that this Gur woman has you just where she wants you. Leashed to her every word, like an obedient little lapdog. Following her whims and doing whatever new trick she asks of you, every single one of your decisions coming directly from her mouth. It wouldn’t surprise me if she mentioned that in her job interviews. To illustrate how … persuasive she can be.”

No.

Astarion’s jaw tightened as the image of Zoraya and Dekarios flooded back into his mind. The two of them huddling together away from the crowd, her back straight and her eyes full of adoration. How she’d smiled and laughed with the man, as if about a private joke.

Was he the private joke?

It couldn’t be. He’d been laughed at before, had even provoked it on occasion. But this was Zoraya. Zoraya was on his side. She was his friend, the one person who really, truly cared for him.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she was another attempt of your family to keep you in check,” Cazador said, still sipping his wine. “Sent by your dear mother to get her quarrelsome son under control with the power of love and friendship. It is just friendship, isn’t it? You’re not bedding her? Because in that case, I’d have to update my cleric on the necessary medical precautions. I have no desire to contract whatever filthy Gur diseases that woman is carrying.”

“N-no,” was all Astarion could get out, his head too full for anything else.

He’d wanted to, though. He’d wanted to feel her bronze skin shiver in ecstasy under his pale hands, to undo those tight braids of hers and run his fingers through her hair as she cried out his name. He wanted to hold her afterward. Scoop her into his arms and drift off into reverie to the sweet rhythm of her breathing.

I want something real, Astarion.

Was that what she’d meant? That she wanted to be with someone she actually liked, rather than a work assignment? Had she forced herself to let things go as far as they had gone, all for the sake of her career? He’d been the one to initiate it, after all. He had kissed her. And although she’d seemed to enjoy herself, Astarion knew all too well how much could be faked. Fabricated. Performed. He’d done it so many times, all to further his own agenda.

What if this time he’d been the one who got played?

Hells, it had been right there in front of him this entire time. His parents had sent her to him. Paid her to do this, to straighten him out and get him back on track. And she’d accepted because that’s who she was. Always ready to do whatever Quelenna Ancunin demanded of her. Always willing to go the extra mile.

Even if it meant betraying him.

“Come, boy.” Cazador poured a second glass of wine and held it out to him invitingly. “Have a glass and let’s not speak of treacherous women anymore. Let’s think about all the wonderful things you are going to do once you are a Duke, hm?”

Astarion was a firm believer in the holy trifecta of instant mood lifters: manicures, haircuts and custom-made doublets.

Today, he’d gone ahead and donned all three. He deserved a little pampering, after all. He deserved to look his absolute best, garnering looks and whispers all the way to city hall — a distance he chose to walk today, so all of Baldur’s Gate could admire its most majestic magistrate.

He made a point of smiling at a rather attractive florist girl to watch her drop the armful of flower pots she was carrying. Pretended to examine the wares on a market stall, just so he could listen in on the group of university students nearby, who kept elbowing each other, whispering, No! You go talk to him!

It was, in a word, a perfect day.

A day when nothing could possibly faze him. A day when he was so at peace with himself and the world in general that he could deal with just about anything the universe chose to throw his way.

Even Zoraya.

Especially Zoraya.

He wasn’t going to be moping about her betrayal; that would be utterly ridiculous. He’d simply pry her off her desk and explain, very calmly and collectedly, that she was free to seek employment elsewhere. He’d show her the termination papers he’d drawn up last night, and he was going to look devastatingly beautiful while he did it. Everything about him, from the glossy curls on his head to the intricate silver embroidery on his doublet, screaming that he was going to goddamn flourish in her absence.

All the more frustrating was it when he reached the office, only to find her desk empty. No flimsy jacket thrown over the coat rack, no beat-up purse kicked into the corner.

She simply wasn’t there.

It was nearly ten in the morning and the woman was not at her desk!

“Shadowheart?” Astarion ducked his head through the door, refusing to acknowledge the pang of concern in his chest. “Do you happen to know where Zoraya is?”

Shadowheart gave a very uncharacteristic jump in her chair. “She’s at court, Lord Magistrate,” she said, quickly pushing away a piece of paper that was covered in crossed-out scribbles. The word soup seemed to be the unifying theme. “One of her pro bono cases. And then after that, she has a lunch meeting. Why?”

“Oh, never mind,” Astarion said. “Thank you.”

He closed the door and very nearly reached his hands into his hair, destroying all that beautiful work his barber had done.

How dare she? How dare she not be here when he was ready to tell her how he was over her?

No matter.

Astarion sat down at his desk and poured himself a morning drink.

He could wait for her to return.

He was, after all, completely fine.

Midday came and passed and Astarion’s stomach was still a pit of misery.

Mostly anger, of course, but also misery. A good deal of alcohol as well. Which, unfortunately, seemed to enhance said misery. He’d hoped a drink or two would still his nerves, but instead, the alcohol had only made him shakier, his hands so unsteady, he’d given up on trying to answer mail for the day.

At least his voice was still fine. He’d tested it. Rehearsed his lines to Zoraya’s fountain pen collection, just to make sure.

Zoraya, darling, I believe it’s best if we part ways here. It’s not you, you see. It’s me. I have …

I have …

Wait, what was the line again?

He’d had such a good line all ready to go! Something classy, yet scathing. Something sophisticated, clever, a jab only half-veiled by his immense wit — Sweet Hells, what had it been?

Astarion grunted in frustration as he lifted his legs from where he’d flung them over the armrest of his chair. He’d have to come up with a new line. Write it down this time. No problem, not for a man like him!

All he needed was another drink.

He strode over to the liquor cabinet, the bottles wobbly under his fingers as he searched for something that tickled his fancy.

The door was flung open with a violent bang!, sending his law school diploma off its hook and onto the floor.

“Astarion!” Zoraya said, her voice unusually shrill.

“Oh, look who finally deigns to show up at work!” Astarion turned around with a smirk, waving the bottle he’d chosen for dramatic emphasis. “See, my darling, the thing is this: I have standards. And I believe—”

“It’s Ira!” Zoraya was rushing to her desk, thrusting aside her beloved fountain pen collection with a careless sweep of her arm in order to deposit a small bundle of filthy, blood-soaked … rags?

Where had she even found that? And why would she bring it here, into their office to bleed all over the floor?

Shadowheart followed in tow. “I can help,” she said, bending over the revolting thing. “I know a few spells from my church. Enough to ease the pain until we can get her to a proper healer.”

“Please,” Zoraya said. “Whatever you can do, do it.”

Shadowheart placed her hands over the filthy bundle and murmured something. Blue light collected around her fingertips, casting an eerie glow over the bloodied heap on Zoraya’s desk. There seemed to be something wrapped up in those rags. Soft, almost fleshy-looking bits, shaking and writhing under Shadowheart’s treatment. A few jagged splinters of ivory, sticking out at wrong angles — impossible angles. Somehow, Astarion knew that. Just like he knew that there was something truly dreadful about all this. Something he couldn’t quite see yet, but that he wouldn’t be able to un-see for the rest of his life.

And yet, he found himself stepping closer. Craning his neck in the age-old triumph of curiosity over self-preservation.

He didn’t feel the bottle slipping out of his hand. He merely heard it shatter on the floor, the splatter of expensive whiskey. Then all there was was the thumping of his own heart, blood roaring in his ears. Like his body was rising up against him in a wave of such horror, it felt like any moment now, it would simply swallow him up and take him under.

Because in that mangled heap of rags was a face. And the last time he’d seen that face it had been grinning up at him cockily, pigtails bobbing, as she made a quip about her rates going up again.

There was no way in all of existence that this thing could be her!

Astarion’s throat constricted and he just barely managed to reach for the wastebasket before he started retching. What came out was mostly liquid, pretty much exclusively alcohol. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his brand-new doublet, desperately trying to gather himself.

“What happened?” he managed, his voice nearly lost under the thundering of his heart.

“Those new guards happened!” Zoraya spat. “Karlach told me city hall has been deemed especially vulnerable to politically motivated attacks, and whoever they sent to replace her and Wyll is absolutely insane! It’s a public building, for fuck’s sake! Everyone should be allowed to come in here! And they just … they just …”

The sentence hung in the air unfinished, crackling with anger as she leaned down to run a hand through Ira’s matted hair. Whispered something Astarion couldn’t quite make out. Thanks to Shadowheart’s treatment, the child seemed calmer now. Her eyes were closed, almost like she was sleeping. Sedated.

“I … do not understand,” Astarion said slowly. “Ira is my messenger. I gave her an official letter of employment.”

“She didn’t use it, alright?!” Zoraya’s head snapped up, brown eyes piercing into his. “She’s a little girl and thinks she has all kinds of things to prove to the world, so she thought it would be fun to see if she could sneak past those guards. Maybe she tried telling them once they’d caught her — I wouldn’t know because when I found her, they had already beaten her into a pulp! A 13-year-old girl, Astarion! Right inside city hall, with dozens of people walking by, not one of them even thinking about lifting a hand!” She smashed her fist against the wall, glaring up him in vicious challenge. “And if you’re going to stand there, drunk like an entire dock’s worth of sailors, and say anything at all about just punishments or children needing to be disciplined, I swear, I’m going to beat you into a pulp, too!”

He felt the anger radiating off her, ready to set the entire world on fire. Burn it down until there was nothing left but rubble and then build it up again, better this time. Because that was the kind of woman she was. The kind of woman she’d always been.

Astarion swallowed against the filthy taste in the back of his mouth, the throbbing of his pulse. Then he set down the wastebasket, careful not to spill the contents.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll take her to Jaheira.”

The rest of it was a bit of a blur.

Opening doors for Zoraya, who was carrying Ira down the great staircase of city hall. One of the guards in the entrance hall saying something he really shouldn’t have said, which resulted in Zoraya thrusting Ira into Astarion’s arms and getting way too close to a full-on fistfight with the man.

The surge of panic at how light the girl felt in his arms. Like something made of paper, ready to collapse at the smallest touch.

Dashing out the door with her, while Shadowheart pried Zoraya off the guards. Jumping at the first coach he saw, cutting off a couple that had clearly been there before him without so much as an apology. The sickly smell of blood and open flesh filling the cabin as they sat there in silence, praying that the bloody horses would run faster.

This time it was Zoraya who marched into the clinic and demanded to see Jaheira. Who explained what had happened and did all the talking, while Astarion stood there, with the mangled heap of a child clutched to his chest.

He still stood there with his arms outstretched, even after they’d taken Ira into the operating room. Shadowheart guided him onto a chair in the waiting area and that’s where he collapsed, his head sinking against the cool wall. Letting his eyes fall shut, too bone-achingly exhausted to keep them open any longer.

Shadowheart and Zoraya were talking for a little while, until Shadowheart excused herself to return to city hall and make sure everything was locked up properly. After that, there was only the clicking of Zoraya’s heels on the floor as she paced up and down the waiting area.

Astarion had no idea how long he sat there. Time seemed to move differently through the thick, fuzzy haze in his mind. Like large parts of him were not quite there with him. Like they’d done the sensible thing and decided to kick back with imaginary pixie ciders somewhere far away from here. Leaving him in some sort of suspension, just short of realizing all that had happened.

When Jaheira came out of the operating room, she took one look at him and immediately turned to Zoraya instead.

“The girl is stable now,” she explained. “But her injuries are grave. She has broken her arm as well as several ribs. She will need to stay here for a while. Would you be able to inform her parents?”

“She’s an orphan,” Zoraya said. “But I will inform her clan right away.” She reached for Jaheira’s hands and shook them. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She sounded tired. She looked tired, too. Her face streaked with sweat and tears, her blouse wrinkled and spattered with blood. A thick strand of hair had come loose from her braids and was tumbling freely over her shoulder.

She did not seem to notice.

Astarion lifted his hands and cringed at the dried blood under his perfectly manicured nails. The way it clung to the beautiful silver embroidery on his doublet, a dark crust enveloping the delicate fabric. It shouldn’t be there. It was Ira’s blood. She needed it to fuel that frighteningly sharp mind of hers, to make all those inventions for her people. She needed it to run around and deliver messages at exorbitant rates. To grow and flourish as she deserved because she still had her entire life ahead of her.

“Astarion?”

There was something in Zoraya’s voice that told him this was not the first time she’d tried speaking to him.

“Yes?” he said, quickly letting his hands drop into his lap. Trying to hide his nails under the sleeves of his doublet.

“You didn’t drink your tea.” She nodded at a mug on a small table next to him. Astarion had no idea how it had gotten there.

Zoraya’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Astarion, are you alright?”

“Me?” He cleared his throat and tried to conjure up a smile that felt miles away from his face. “Of course, darling. Everything is … tickety-boo, as it were.”

He pushed off his chair in demonstration and immediately had to brace himself against the wall. His legs refused to hold him up, his muscles soft and gooey, like something people might spread on top of their breakfast. Astarion had his fair share of experience with alcohol and other questionable substances, but this went deeper somehow. Gnawing on his mind as well as his body.

“It’s okay.” Zoraya was in front of him, steadying him with her shoulder. “It’s just the shock. You need to get some rest and you’ll be fine.”

She felt warm, so warm. He hadn’t even realized the chill creeping into his bones, his teeth chattering as he nestled closer. His clammy fingers closing around her wrist as if trying to absorb her warmth, using it to fill that gaping hollow where the rest of him ought to be.

“My … coin purse is in my coat pocket,” he said. “Use it to pay for the coach and everything. If it’s not enough, I can get more.”

“I know” Zoraya said in a low, gentle whisper. “I will take care of it. Come on now. Let’s get you home.”

“We’re here.”

Astarion blinked several times before he was able to focus on her, the dim light of the coach lanterns dancing over the weary lines on face. They sat in opposite corners of the cabin, a full seat separating them, but his fingers were still clutched around her wrist. Holding on to her warmth, the only thing that felt real in the world.

“You’re home,” she said patiently, gesturing out the window where he could make out the iron fence surrounding his property. A large townhouse his parents had bought him right as he’d started law school.

“Oh. I see.” Astarion fidgeted in his seat, feeling for his overcoat with his free hand, only to realize that he was already wearing it.

Zoraya must have helped him into it. Eased him into his own clothes when he could barely keep himself upright.

He glanced at the iron fence, the imposing silhouette behind it, and his stomach sank at the thought of what awaited him in there. The sparklingly clean floors, the rigorously folded bedsheets and towels, each corner carefully wiped and dusted by his maids. Everything always tidy. Orderly. Lifeless, downright sterile.

“Can you come in with me?” The question tumbled out of him all on its own, like a stream of water through cupped hands. Impossible to hold in.

Zoraya swallowed, her eyes drifting away from him. “I … don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

It was almost comical. How she’d managed to keep her head through all this, taking charge where he’d all but crumbled to pieces, yet somehow, this simple invitation was more than she could deal with.

Because she remembered what had happened the last time she had been alone with him.

I want something real, Astarion.

I want this to be the biggest fucking deal since Cassius Carvilius’ Principles of Legal Thought and Practice!

And that was when it hit him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately realizing it wasn’t enough. But he had to start somewhere, didn’t he?

“W-what do you mean?” she stammered.

The muscles of her forearm flexed underneath his hand, but Astarion didn’t let her pull back.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. Sliding over to her corner of the cabin and then wrapping his arms around her very gently, enveloping her in the most delicate of embraces. The type she could have easily broken away from if she wanted to.

She didn’t. She just stayed there in his arms, tense yet immobile, so Astarion leaned his nose against her hair and breathed in her scent.

It was the deepest breath he’d taken ever since she’d flung open the office door that afternoon.

“I didn’t know …” he whispered. “I didn’t understand, I didn’t think …”

The words refused to arrange themselves into sentences, refused to make sense. And yet, he could feel Zoraya relax in his arms. Her cheek sinking against his chest as her hands found that spot on his shoulder blades that had always been her favorite, even when they were children. When he used to be the one she came to when she needed help reaching the top shelves of her ridiculously oversized bookshelf or when she couldn’t pry open a fresh ink pot.

At some point, she’d stopped doing that. He’d made her stop with the way he’d acted around her, pushed her away for no good reason at all. And now she was finally back, right here by his side, and he was already messing it up again.

“I’m sorry,” he said once more, pulling back just enough to cup her face with his hands.

Her cheeks burned under his touch. Her eyes darting away again as if his gaze was more than she could bear.

Gods, what an idiot he’d been.

To think that this woman was some sort of master seducer hired to work him into submission! That she’d been orchestrating any of this for her own gain when all she wanted to do was help build a world where little girls didn’t have to run from guards and people didn’t look the other way.

He’d been one of those, too. Too wrapped up in his own petty issues to see the bigger picture, to realize that the stakes were so much higher than him and his silly pride. He didn’t know if he could learn to see it differently. What sort of contribution he could even make, a corrupt, selfish magistrate. But he knew he wanted to find out. And he knew he needed her by his side.

She was so unbearably beautiful in the dim lantern light, trembling under his touch like his next move would decide the fate of the universe at large. Way too beautiful to be gobbled up in a dusty, old wardrobe, grimy bathrobes hanging in her face, hands groping in the dark. He understood that now. She deserved to be spread out on the finest silk sheets he owned, every inch of her admired and cherished.

That’s what he would do if he could convince her to give him another chance. A chance to do it right.

He didn’t ask her to come inside with him again, although he had a feeling she would have said yes. He just leaned in slowly and pressed a tender, little kiss to her forehead.

“Good night, Zoya.”

And then forced his body out of the coach and down the long trek toward his dark, empty house behind that fence.

Chapter Text

Zoraya pinched the bridge of her nose and lowered the letter. No matter how many times she read it, the contents refused to change.

Zoraya,

You have had your chance. It was your responsibility to protect our clan from vicious, greedy city dwellers, and you chose to let an innocent child of Selûne get hurt instead. Since you refuse to have Ira sent home, where she belongs, I have no choice but to revoke your right to enter my territory. The same holds true for any messengers you may send; they will be returned in pieces.

Rest assured that there will be consequences. My clan protects their own, no matter the cost.

May Selûne’s light guide us all.

Tatiana Morozova

Zoraya leaned back in her chair and squeezed her eyes shut, stifling a pained groan.

She’d tried her hardest to keep this from happening. The very night of the attack, she’d hiked out to the Gur camp, hoping to calm the waters before things could spiral out of control. She’d argued with Tatiana, pleaded with her, tried to make her see how further animosity really wasn’t helping anyone — least of all Ira.

But Tatiana’s mind was made up. Had been made up from the moment she heard that one of her people had been caught in the crossfire between city folk and nomads.

Whatever came next, it was going to be bad. Really bad.

“Zoraya?” Astarion’s voice, low and gentle. He regarded her from behind his desk, fountain pen in hand, a concerned crease on his brow.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Just thinking.”

She pushed away the letter and reached for one of her court documents, opening it with shaky hands.

“If you’re not feeling well, you can leave early,” he said. “We’ve had a lot on our plates recently.”

“I know. It’s fine. I just—”

Her mother’s voice rang in her ears, quiet and unusually tense as she’d pulled her into her tent that night at camp. You have to keep that girl away from Tatiana. She’ll make a symbol out of her. Parade her all around camp to get everyone riled up, so they’ll go and get even more people hurt.

Zoraya looked up with a sigh. “Would it be okay if I went to visit Ira again?”

“Of course.” Astarion capped his fountain pen and put it down. “May I come with you?”

“To the clinic?”

“I’d like to see how she’s doing,” he explained. “If … that is alright with you?” He regarded her with that new look on his face.

The one that had only started appearing a few days ago. Zoraya knew this because she had assembled a mental catalog of the many looks of Astarion Ancunin over the years and this one required a new entry. It was soft and hesitant, like opening your front door on a winter’s morning to find the entire street covered in ice, knowing you had to get out there anyway. Picking your way across the slippery surface very carefully, one foot in front of the other, fearing with each step that you might fall and never manage to get yourself up again.

She rather liked that look on him.

“Okay,” she said, a smile spreading on her face as she stood. “Let’s go.”

The journalists stormed them as soon as they left city hall.

“Magistrate Ancunin, when can we expect your motion to be submitted to the Parliament?”

“There are people who say that building a highway in an area so ripe with tension is ill-advised and bound to inspire further violence — What do respond to such claims?”

Every day there seemed to be more of them, both here and at the courthouse. Zoraya had no choice but to stay glued to Astarion’s side, her purse clutched to her chest. Without the guards— new ones, although she wasn’t quite sure what had happened to the previous set — it would have been near impossible to make it through the crowd. The journalists were waving their arms at Astarion as they bombarded him with questions, each one trying to drown out their competitors. Vying for his attention in any way they could think of, desperate for even just a few words from the man who was, for all intents and purposes, the hero of Baldur’s Gate.

Or “The Magistrate of the People”, as the infamous article by Yeshana Orbryn had first proclaimed.

It came out the day after the attack, a front-page article including a highly stylized drawing of a dashing nobleman with an injured child in his arms, bravely pushing his way past guards and pedestrians alike.

Zoraya had nearly spat out her coffee when she saw it. First of all, because it was miles away from what had actually happened that day. She and Shadowheart, for one, had been conveniently left out. Meanwhile, Astarion had been drawn to look taller, more muscular, practically towering over the faceless guards. He was dressed all in white, blood spattered aesthetically over his chest and face. Ira’s injuries were concealed by an imaginary blanket, her eyes open, so she could gaze up at her savior admiringly.

The image was ridiculous, its connection to the actual events so tentative, it shot right past artistic freedom and landed smack-dab in made-up bullshit territory.

Needless to say, the people loved it.

They ate it up like fresh, warm bread.

The beautiful nobleman selflessly carrying the poor, homeless orphan girl down the steps of city hall was an image so iconic that it had made Astarion’s opinion one of the most coveted in all of Baldur’s Gate.

“Magistrate Ancunin! The Council of Four is considering a citywide state of emergency — What are your thoughts about this?”

“I believe that is a mistake,” Astarion said, somehow managing to stay calm in spite of all the shouting. He signaled for a coach as he kept moving through the crowd, angling his body to make room for Zoraya without touching her. “The last thing we need is more guards out on the streets, eager to arrest people without sufficient cause.”

“What do you think needs to be done to resolve the current tension between city folk and outsiders?”

“Tension can only be resolved by calmness,” Astarion said. “Levelheadedness and temperance. We cannot afford to jump to conclusions and generalize based on our own flawed perception, least of all when it comes to the law. That is the kind of thinking that fills our prisons with innocent citizens. As for myself, I have joined a task force assembled by High Judge Gale Dekarios that will hopefully help the many unfortunate individuals that have been incarcerated under highly questionable allegations. Together, we seek to get these people the fair trials they deserve, for no matter the political tensions, the law needs to regard each case individually.”

He opened the coach door and stepped aside for Zoraya to enter first. “I’m afraid that is all the time I have for today. Good day.”

Zoraya’s heart was thundering all the way into the back of her throat, making her hands so shaky, she nearly didn’t manage to pull herself up and into the coach. She sat there with her purse in her lap, fidgeting with the buckles as the sound of hoofbeats downed out the yelling outside.

“You, er … decided to work with Gale after all?”

“Yes,” Astarion said, leaning back into the coach cushions comfortably. “I believe it’s worth the risk. Besides, if he’s going to backstab us, we’ll make sure to backstab him first, right?”

He shot her a grin and Zoraya nodded awkwardly. “Sure.”

She leaned her face against the window pane, hoping the glass might cool down the heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

It did not.

Because damn it all if this wasn’t the sexiest this man had ever been.

Ira looked tiny in the oversized bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets. Her arm was in a cast and the rest of her body had been bandaged up so tightly, she could barely turn her head toward the door to greet her visitors.

“Hello, Ira,” Zoraya said as she ducked into the room.

“Lady of Silver, finally!” Ira groaned. “I’ve been going absolutely crazy in here. Zoraya, you have to talk to those nurses. Tell them I need pen, paper and an abacus. My head is swimming with ideas for new designs and I have nowhere to write them down! Nowhere at all!”

“Oh.” Zoraya smiled with relief and sat down next to the bed. “Well, how fortunate I brought you these!”

Ira squealed as she saw the stack of books Zoraya pulled out of her purse. Her thin arms shot up, trying to grab them, only for her face to contort with pain at the rapid movement.

“Gods dammit!” she cursed and slammed her good arm onto the mattress. “I can’t do shit with this thing on my arm!”

“No worries,” Zoraya said quickly, trying to ease the tension. “That’s what we’re here for. I’ll flip through the books for you and Astarion here can take notes. He has much prettier handwriting than me.”

“Hello, Ira.” Astarion stepped up to the bed with a careful, hesitant smile. Like he was racking his brain for any pointers as to how to talk to an injured, bedridden child and came up empty-handed. “I hope your room is to your satisfaction?”

“It’s alright,” Ira huffed, letting herself fall back into the pillows.

Astarion cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to write for you if there’s something on your mind.”

Ira opened her eyes with a grunt and looked him up and down as if she severely doubted his ability to hold a pen and successfully bring it to paper. “You know your way around mathematical formulas?”

“The basics, I suppose?”

Ira sighed in the way of a 13-year-old girl forced to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Alright. I’ll explain it nice and slow. What are you waiting for? Sit down; I don’t have all day.”

It was late by the time not even Astarion’s most charming smile could convince the nurse to extend their visiting hours any further. They left Ira surrounded her notes and sketches for new inventions. She was so engrossed in her ideas, she hardly looked up when they said their goodbyes.

“I must say, this is not quite what I expected,” Astarion said as they made their way out onto the street. “She seems so … collected.”

“She’s always been a tough cookie.” Zoraya smiled.  “She’ll be alright, thank the Gods. I just need to find her a place in the city where she can stay once Jaheira lets her leave the clinic.”

“I take it Tatiana is still angry?”

“Furious.” Zoraya sighed. “She’s outraged that I—”

That I didn’t betray you.

“That I let this happen,” she said, looking down at her much lighter purse.

“We should have never endangered Ira by using her as a messenger,” Astarion said. “I agree with your mother though in that Tatiana would only use her as a symbol to fuel the hatred in her clan. If there’s one thing we do not need more of, it’s hatred.”

He waved the receptionist goodbye and Zoraya felt a wave of sympathy for the young man as he nearly toppled off his chair from the sheer force of Astarion’s smile. It was certainly a feeling she could relate to.

“Tatiana does not have any legal claims to the girl though,” Astarion said as he held open the door for her. “I checked. Since her tribe has never appointed an official guardian for Ira, that position is still up for the taking. Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yeah.” Zoraya grimaced. “But he might need some convincing.”

They stepped out into the cool night air. The streetlights cast a soft, hazy glow over the street, so different from the bright lights in the clinic. It reminded her of the night of the attack when she’d taken him home on her way to speak to Tatiana. The way he’d huddled into his corner of the coach, his eyes glassy with shock, his hands too shaky to even close the buttons on his own coat.

She’d never seen him like this before. Had never heard his voice so small and broken, like it was when he’d pulled her into his chest and whispered into her hair.

I’m sorry.

Over and over again. Until it felt as if he didn’t just mean Ira.

“Astarion?” She fought to keep her voice even as she turned toward him. “I meant to ask you … How have you been doing? You know, since the attack?”

“Better,” he said, his eyes darting away from her in something that almost looked like shyness. “I’ve been better. Thank you.”

She nodded, her throat too tight to respond to that, and for a while, they just stood there outside the clinic, shuffling their feet in awkward silence.

 “I’m doing what I can about those guards,” Astarion said. “At the very least, they should have to go through a formal hearing before their superiors.”

 “Safe me a seat, will you?”

“Of course. You and I, we’ll be front and center.”

We.

Zoraya felt the word sprawl throughout her body, like hot soup on a cold winter’s night. Warm and rich and filling and just a little too spicy.

And before she knew what she was doing, she heard herself say, “Hey, do you want to grab dinner?”

Astarion’s face froze.

“Oh …” He chuckled uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if the very question had him wanting to take flight. “I would, darling, I would. Only tonight I am otherwise engaged, I’m afraid.”

“N-no problem!” Zoraya choked out. “It was just an idea.”

What in the Hells had she been thinking? That Astarion Ancunin had nothing better to do than eat with her? Ridiculous. Of course, he had a life outside of work. He probably had a date with a beautiful bard who’d snuck him her contact information after spying him in the crowd at one of her performances.

Just because she had nothing apart from her work and her cat and exceptionally vivid dreams of a particular wardrobe didn’t mean it had to be the same for him.

“How about we move it to Fifthday?” Astarion suggested.

Zoraya’s head shot up. Her mouth opened, not quite managing to produce words for fear she’d misheard him.

“There is somewhere I’ve been wanting to take you. If you’re free, of course!” he added, an unusual tightness to his smile.

“Okay?” she said, too befuddled to think of anything else to say.

“Wonderful!” He broke into a smile, a real one this time. Giddy and lovely, his golden eyes gleaming with boyish joy. “We’ll go after work then! Good night, Zoraya.”

He disappeared into the night, leaving Zoraya utterly confused on the clinic steps.

Zoraya spent the following days not thinking about his invitation.

She didn’t have time for frivolous thoughts like that anyway because she was busy organizing the task force Gale and Astarion were assembling. Since they did not share a common office, she had to travel all around the city to meet with the other lawyers, figure out a system to distribute incoming cases as quickly as possible. The most she saw of Astarion was on the front page of just about any newspaper in town, swung around by overeager vendors as well as excited citizens.

New art pieces of The Magistrate of the People kept popping up, each more impressive than the one before. Astarion was now routinely carrying several injured children to safety, his obscenely exaggerated arm musculature bulging from the effort. Sometimes, he was fighting off dark-hooded guards at the same time, other times he was holding up a collapsing wall, so the children could escape safely.

Zoraya had mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the one hand, she didn’t appreciate how those articles twisted Ira’s pain and suffering into a story of hope and perseverance, while simultaneously ignoring countless other individuals that were currently rotting away in the dungeons after very similar run-ins with the Watch. On the other hand, there was no denying the fact that it got people talking. It provided a counterpoint to the usual rhetoric of the violent savages outside city borders and for that alone, Zoraya could deal with the fake heroism.

Besides, it wasn’t all fake. There was something different about Astarion ever since that night. He seemed to stand taller, no longer slouching or gesturing to divert people’s attention away from what he was saying. When he entered the courthouse, people made way for him to pass through the crowd. Sometimes they’d recognize him as the beautiful, heroic magistrate from the papers and wave their hands or call out his name. And he, in turn, held his chin a little higher as he returned their smiles.

It was a cycle of sorts. One that allowed him to be a version of himself Zoraya hadn’t dreamed he could be, that had her heart fluttering in her chest when she saw those silly drawings of him.

Not that it changed anything about their relationship, of course.

If anything, it meant that she would have an easier time telling him goodbye once the summer was over and her contract ran out. At that point, his highway should have been approved, and he’d be in the perfect position to join the Council of Four on his own merit, achieve everything he’d ever dreamed of. Zoraya would be there in the crowd, cheering and clapping for him as he received his titles. And then she’d watch him turn around and drift away once more. Become too busy to keep up with her because, surely, a Duke of Baldur’s Gate had too many obligations to meet his childhood friend for lunch.

And she’d be alright with that. She could let go of him so long as she knew that he was where he was supposed to be — happy, successful, at peace. She’d know that she was the one who’d helped get him there and that was enough for her.

That had to be enough for her.

So when Astarion ducked his head into the office that Fifthday evening, asking her if she was ready to go, Zoraya just smiled and nodded.

She did not blush when he helped her into the coach, did not stare at the curve of his mouth as he told her about his hearing earlier that day, did not even notice the brand-new jerkin he wore over his shirt. And most importantly, when they reached their destination, she was not at all disappointed to find herself in front of the National Library.

Because in order for her to be disappointed, she would have had to expect something other than another work-related outing past her regular hours.

Which she hadn’t.

Obviously, she hadn’t.

“More late-night research?” she said, conjuring up a perfectly professional smile. “Let me guess — it’s about the environmental impact of the highway again? The possible repercussions for the migration patterns of the local blue jay population or something like that?”

“Not quite,” Astarion said. He avoided her gaze as he held open the door for her, allowing her to step into the entrance area.

“Squirrel mating rituals? Mushroom maturation timelines?” She bit her lip, aware that she was blabbering now, and focused on shrugging out of her jacket.

Like a normal person.

When she went to find someplace to hang it, she was surprised that the usually crammed coat racks were entirely empty. Not a single jacket or umbrella in sight.

“Isn’t the library open until eight?” she wondered aloud.

“Not today.” Astarion was turned away from her, carefully adjusting his overcoat on the rack. “Today it is closed for a … private event.”

Zoraya watched as he pulled a keychain out of his pocket and strode over to the inner doors, opening them with a faint clicking noise.

“You rented out the National Library?” she blurted. “How?”

“I’m a magistrate, darling. It comes with certain privileges.”

“Yes, but …”

“Come.” He turned around with a smile, beckoning her closer. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

Calm down, Zoraya mentally yelled at herself as she stepped toward him. Don’t get excited. Don’t think this is … Don’t think he’s going to … Just — don’t think!

And then she stood there on the threshold and she truly didn’t think anymore.

The thoughts just seemed to … evaporate in her head. Turning into thick, milky white vapor and drifting off into the distance, leaving her in the soft, warm glow she found herself stepping into.

Astarion had pictured what she might look like, but his imagination had done a rather shoddy job of preparing him for the loveliness of her surprise, the wordless, breathless awe unfolding on her face.

She was motionless, save for the hand that shot up to cover her mouth, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. Her eyes were darting back and forth, racing from one corner to the next in an effort to take it all in. He could see them grow larger with each passing moment, gleaming and sparkling in the shine of the several hundred candles he’d placed all over the library.

He’d been there all afternoon, overseeing the preparations. Had taken it upon himself to stride through the corridors over and over again, making sure not a single nook or cranny was left bare, had directed his attendants to spread out the candles all the way up the staircase and into the gallery.

The result was, admittedly, quite spectacular. With the great overhead lights turned off, the library was bathed in golden candlelight, flickering and playing off the countless books, their titles sparkling like star constellations in the night sky.

“This is … beautiful,” Zoraya breathed. “So, so beautiful.”

Yes, Astarion thought, still feasting on the look on her face. Beautiful indeed.

She stepped forward slowly, hesitantly, as if she required an invitation to her own surprise.

“This must have taken forever,” she whispered, craning her neck to follow the trail of light up the imposingly tall shelves. “I mean, how did you even get the candles up there? They’re right there with the books and — Oh, gods, the books!”

She whirled around with a sharp intake of breath, her eyes suddenly wide with terror. “What in the gods’ names were you thinking, littering a library with candles? This is the greatest fire hazard since the Library of Saclea was burnt down during the Ozanthine War! We have to do something! Quick!”

She was so worked up, Astarion just barely managed to hold her back before she could storm off and dump buckets full of water all over her surprise.

“Zoya, relax,” he said, unable to bite back a chuckle. “They’re enchanted. Look here.”

He reached out for the nearest candle and held it to the sleeve of his shirt. The flame licked against the fine brocade without so much as heating it.

“Oh.” Relief washed over her face, followed by a sheepish grin. “I guess that makes sense.”

Under any other circumstances, this would have been the moment when he’d pull her in and kiss her. Maybe lift her up on the library counter, so he could wrap her legs around himself, get lost in the intoxicating warmth of her body.

But not today.

Today he had a plan and it involved him being the perfect gentleman.

Astarion cleared his throat and dropped into a half-bow, holding out his hand to her in offering. “Zoraya Naelgrath, will you peruse the National Library with me?”

“Will I — what?”

“The library.” He glanced up at her from his bow, trying to decipher what about this situation could possibly be unclear to her. “Surely you must know why I brought you here. You said this is what you wanted for your first date, back when we were children. A day in the library. Which, honestly, is such an utterly ridiculous thing to say, I really don’t think I could possibly misremember!”

“This is a … date?” The word came out like a hiccup, all squished and squeaky.

“Of course it is.” He rose from his bow with an irritated huff. “I thought that was obvious. I invited you on a Fifthday evening. I indicated there would be a meal involved. I prepared everything for you, I—”

Oh, gods below, this was a disaster. He’d dragged her here without her understanding the context of what he was trying to do, had practically lured her into this date.

Hells.

He was a dating predator.

“M-my apologies,” he said, taking a step backward. “I should have told you. I just … I’ve never really done this and I thought …”

“You’ve never been on a date?”

“Not really. Not like this. Not without the expectation that it would lead to … you know. And that’s not what this is!” he added quickly. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want! I just wanted you to know that I … I …”

Oh, Hell’s Teeth, why was this so difficult?

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Say it.

“I like you.”

Well, technically he’d told the floorboards, but at least it was out. It made the rest flow a little easier.

“I like you more than a friend or a colleague or my advocate,” he managed. “I … I want you to be more than that. I want us to be more than that.”

She didn’t answer.

Why in all nine circles of Hell didn’t she answer? Had she already run off halfway through his speech and he simply hadn’t noticed with his eyes glued to the floor, his heart thundering in his ears? Was she going to come back with a handful of city guards who’d throw him in jail for sexual harassment?

He had to look at her. No way around it.

“Zoya?” He drew himself up very slowly, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

Her hand was clasped over her mouth again, her face frozen in … shock? Disbelief? There was a glimmer in her eyes — not the candlelight this time. It was fragile and shaky and he wanted to take it into his hands and keep it safe.

“Yes,” she whispered. A tiny, little word that went right into his chest, catapulting his heart against his ribcage.

“You mean … yes to the date?”

She nodded. Hesitantly at first, but each nod grew a little surer than the one before and then the crease on her forehead disappeared, giving way to the most dazzling smile in all of Baldur’s Gate.

“Yes,” she repeated, her voice breaking into a chuckle. “Yes to the date!”

“Really?” Astarion felt his spine straighten, allowing him to stand taller than he ever had before. “Zoya, that’s—”

She kissed him.

Or he kissed her or maybe a bit of both — he really wasn’t sure. She was just suddenly there, her lips warm and soft against his, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw and dipping into his hair, gently pulling him closer.

And it wasn’t part of the plan, not at all. His plan was to hold off on kissing her until the very end of the evening. To wait until they were at the flimsy gates in front of her tiny house before he’d lean in close and place the most respectable little kiss on her cheek.

This was already way past respectable. His hands had found their way onto the small of her waist as if on their own accord, holding her flush against himself, and then she opened her mouth and …

Breathe.

For the love of all that is holy, breathe!

With a noise not unlike a fish out of water, Astarion took a step back.

“Apologies,” he said, straining to get air back into his lungs. “That was … unexpected.”

“What, you didn’t expect any kissing on your first first date?” Her cheeks were flushed and her grin so bright and beautiful, he didn’t know what to say.

“I …”

I had a plan.

A plan to show you that you’re more to me than that.

“I didn’t want to be presumptuous,” he said. “I thought we would take some time to …” He made an awkward gesture at the candlelit bookshelves around them.

“… peruse?” she offered.

“Yes.” He smiled, relief trickling through his chest. “If that’s still your idea of the perfect date, of course. We can do something else. Go to the theater or a restaurant or—”

“Nah, I think I’ll peruse with you.” She took him by the hand and pulled him along with her, making straight for the Legal Philosophy section.

Her steps were lighter now. She was practically floating down the aisle, a brilliant smile playing around her lips as she surveyed the heavy volumes stacked almost to the ceiling.

“I can’t believe you’d remember about the library,” she said. “We couldn’t have been older than … eleven? Twelve?”

You were twelve and I was fifteen. You were sweet and innocent and I had just lost my virginity to some boy who never even remembered my name.

“Legal professionals ought to have an excellent memory,” Astarion said.

“Then what did you say? What was your idea of the perfect date?”

“I’m afraid that part has slipped my mind,” he lied.

She shot him a sidelong glance, a grin curling around her mouth. “I bet it was something dramatic! Being saved from a dragon by a handsome prince in golden armor or something like that. You had that phase when you were really into princes, remember?”

“Around the same time you’d read all those ancient books and insist on using words like whooperups and chuckaboo as if anyone still knew what that meant.”

“Excuse me for striving for excellence!” She laughed and squeezed his hand and Astarion could have sworn that he was drunk.

His head was swimming, his heart pounding with bliss. Was this how people felt when they went on dates? This irresistible pull to the other person, this unspeakable, strange sort of magic, bathing her every movement in the most awe-inspiring golden haze?

He could not tear his eyes off her. He could have spent all night watching her, following her finger trace along the old, dusty book spines, her lips moving silently as she mouthed some of their titles. The way her eyes lit up when she recognized one, almost as if it was an old friend, and how she’d flip through the pages, eager to get to her favorite part.

Astarion wanted to buy her a library, just so he could watch her in it.

Initially, he’d been a little worried about the entertainment value of a library date. He’d prepared several strategies for battling any conversational lulls, had placed controversial legal essays and smoldering poetry collections all over the place, so he could pick them up and start reading from them whenever he felt she might be getting bored.

He didn’t reach for a single one of them. Their conversation flowed effortlessly from her favorite books to her previous job all the way back to that Holiday party where Astarion’s father had gotten so drunk, Quelenna had forcefully removed him from the dining room before he could butcher another Holiday song on the piano forte.

They spoke about law school, too. Possibly for the first time ever, even though their studies had overlapped for several years. Zoraya asked about the rumors of him cheating his way through Professor Dawnspell’s famously difficult final exam on account of a made-up eye disease that caused his pupils to move all sorts of ways without his conscious control. Astarion gave her the same vivid demonstration he’d given the faculty head back then, making his eyes roll around so wildly, she bent over with laughter.

His chest welled up with affection and pride at the sight of her, knowing he’d been the one to make her laugh.

He reached a hand to her cheek, wanting nothing more than to wipe off the little tear of laughter. But the candlelight caressed her face in a way that seemed to change the very physicality of the room. Suddenly, her lips were the sole center of gravity and he was plummeting toward her, his mouth drawn to hers like sand through an hourglass.

He managed to hold himself back mere inches from her.

“Is this okay?” he whispered hoarsely.

He didn’t know what the procedure was — if he had to ask for each kiss individually or if they came in a sort of grab-and-go arrangement, now that they were on a date. But he was determined to find out. To do everything in his power to make sure she was comfortable.

Zoraya looked at him like he’d just asked her to recite the constitution of Baldur’s Gate in Rashemi.

Then she smiled and nodded. “Yes. This is okay.”

And when he kissed her again, he could feel her melting into his arms, her tall, lithe body urging against his like she was a cat and he the spot where the sunlight filtered in through the windows.

That’s where the problems started, really.

Because as much as Astarion wanted this to be the perfect date, his chance to show her that he could be more than a sex-crazed seduction machine, it was really fucking hard to be a gentleman around Zoraya Naelgrath.

She kissed him like this was everything she’d ever wanted to do with her life. Her lips trembling under his, her breath hitching at the smallest touch. Astarion had been with many people who desired him, but there was something unmistakably pure about the way Zoraya thrust away the book she’d been holding, so she could throw her arms around his neck and pull him closer. How she ran her hands over his shoulders and up his jaw, chuckling in genuine surprise when her fingers brushed against his ear and he squirmed with desire.

She paused for a moment and looked at him as if she couldn’t believe she could possibly elicit such a reaction from him. And then she kissed him again and the world was spinning so fast, he had to brace himself against the edge of the shelf.

Soon they were practically just stumbling from aisle to aisle, giggling and clawing at each other, their mouths never apart for more than a few moments. Long gone was Astarion’s resolve to keep his hands to himself because how could he when she was leaning against the bookshelf like that? When he could feel her back arching for him, her fingers digging into his scalp, her every sigh and whimper going straight into his loins, making it painfully obvious that whatever was wrong with his body, it did not apply to her?

Astarion knew he was in trouble. He had wanted to flatter her, to impress and woo her, and now he had to angle himself away from her, so she wouldn’t be impaled by the pitifully oversized bulge sticking out of his trousers.

He had to calm himself. Had to think of anything that wasn’t her. Not her tongue swirling around his, not her hips pressing into him, warm and inviting — certainly not the curve of her butt and how perfect it felt in his hands.

Oh, damn it all. He was so screwed.

“Z-Zoya?” he whispered, his voice so strangled with desire, he could barely get it out.

“Mhm?” Her arms were locked tightly around his neck, preventing him from drawing away from her.

Gods, if she wasn’t a sight to behold with her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes hazy and unfocused. Screw any skimpy outfits or acrobatic talents — seeing Zoraya Naelgrath squirm against a bookshelf was his new favorite kink. He ached to unbutton those sensible trousers of hers, to lift her onto his hips and take her right here in between Jake’s Encyclopaedia of Eels and Morrison’s Theory of the Multi-Dimensional Social Pyramid. He would have taken her with Jake and Morrison crawling out of their graves and watching them, providing philosophical commentary as he slammed inside of her so hard, books would be raining out of their shelves en masse.

But even more than that, he wanted her to smile at him afterward. To stay curled up in his arms instead of running away, tears welling up in her eyes as they had the night of the ball.

That’s what the plan was for.

He had to go back to the plan!

“I have made dinner reservations,” he said, removing his hands from her butt and placing them on her waist instead. “We should get going, so we can make it in time.”

Zoraya blinked, her brain slow in catching up with what was happening.

“It’s part of the traditional structure of a date, isn’t it?” Astarion forced out a nervous laugh. “First an activity, then a meal. You see, I’ve done my research, darling.”

“Or we could … skip dinner,” she said quietly, her fingers tangling in his curls again.

“You mean you’re not hungry?”

She shook her head very slowly and let one finger trace along the outer rim of his ear. He could feel the look in her eyes all the way into his trousers.

Oh, dear.

She couldn’t mean what he thought she meant. There was no way Zoraya Naelgrath would want to come home with him after one measly date. He was going to have to provide a whole series of dates, each more extravagant than the last, for her to even consider it. Bards and jewelry and whatever else he could think of. He already had a list in his desk, ready to add new ideas as they came.

But the way she looked at him …

Astarion swallowed. “Then would you like to …?”

“Yes,” she said, a heavy, sinful smile dancing on her lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

And that, too, wasn’t part of the plan. He hadn’t prepared for this. He hadn’t stocked up on fancy wine or romantic snacks, hadn’t even told his maids to put on his best silk sheets!

But Zoraya was still smiling as he helped her into her jacket and snuck a little kiss to the back of her neck before they went outside to get a coach. And it made him think that maybe, she didn’t care so much about the bedsheets.

Chapter Text

They were making out in the coach.

Really, there was no other way of putting it.

Astarion made a half-hearted attempt at discussing the mild spring weather they were experiencing, but before he could fully delve into the blooming patterns of the trees around city hall, Zoraya grabbed him by the collar and silenced him with a bruising kiss.

She was only a little ashamed of it. It was hard enough to sit still next to a man like Astarion Ancunin even when he hadn’t just taken her on the most romantic date of all time. And maybe there was a part of her that still expected him to change his mind about it. To open his eyes and furrow his brow when he realized that, ugh, why in the world would he be kissing Zoraya Naelgrath, the little girl with the tooth gap and the fountain pens?

Granted, things spiraled a little out of control from there.

By the time the coach driver was banging on the door, Zoraya’s blouse was unbuttoned all the way to her navel. Astarion’s face was flushed, his carefully brushed curls sticking out every which way, and her neck was prickling from what she was pretty sure was shaping up to be the biggest hickey of her life. They were both breathing heavily, staring at each other as they tried to claw their way back into reality.

“Just a minute, please,” Astarion called out to the driver, who responded with a curse.

“We’ve reached our destination twenty minutes ago! This is a reputable transportation business, Sir, not a moving brothel!”

Zoraya winced and pulled her blouse over her exposed chest. Astarion ran a hand through his hair, not accomplishing much in terms of combatting the messiness, before he set about climbing out of the coach. His movements were awkward and stilted, probably due to the sizeable erection she’d felt on her thigh.

The driver was still ranting about waiting and cleaning fees when she followed him into the cool night air. Astarion eventually emptied his coin purse into the man’s hands and said, “Here. Take this and buy yourself a new coach for all I care.”

Then he opened the iron gates and led Zoraya into his house.

She vaguely remembered asking him to go to his place rather than hers — insofar as a few muffled words against his mouth counted as asking. No perpetually grumpy cat to worry about, for one. But also, there’d been something exciting about picturing herself strutting into his home, throwing the doors shut and pulling him onto the first piece of furniture she could find, not letting go until either she or the furniture shattered into a hundred pieces.

As it turned out, there wasn’t a whole lot of furniture in Astarion’s house. 

The space was large and empty, all bare walls and bright lights. Impeccably clean in a way that bespoke of an armada of maids and very few guests. There were no carpets covering the sleek hardwood floors, no pictures or trinkets or other signs that anyone actually lived here. Even barefoot, Zoraya’s footsteps echoed through the space as she followed Astarion down the hall and into a luxurious kitchen that seamlessly transitioned into a sitting area. A red couch in front of an immaculately swept fireplace seemed to be the extent of his furniture.

Zoraya could have hopped onto either the couch or the marble kitchen counter, but at this point, her heart felt heavy as she looked around herself. She could picture him coming home late at night from one of his parties or other after-work-engagements. Stumbling in drunk, fighting with the keys, then with the buttons of his shirt. Collapsing right there on the couch, only to wake up groggy and miserable in the morning, barely able to muster the energy to bathe before heading out to work in an equally bare-bones office, doing a job he’d never seemed to enjoy.

Astarion cleared his throat. “Shall I make us a … beverage?”

“Sure,” Zoraya said, trying to smile through the undeniable awkwardness of knowing that she had intruded on something that wasn’t hers to see. Not after a single date, anyway. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

“Tea. Alright.” He rushed behind the kitchen counter and began rummaging, cupboard doors banging open and closed as if to drown out the silence.

I shouldn’t have asked him to come here, she thought, biting her lip as she watched him. I should have just locked Objection in the kitchen with the entire bag of fish treats and it would have been fine.

“That’s a … beautiful fireplace,” she said in an attempt at making conversation.

“Thank you.” His voice was strained. “Never used it though, I’m afraid.”

“You’re kidding! There’s nothing better than working late at night in front of a fire!”

“I wouldn’t know. About either the working late or the fire.” He closed one cupboard and opened another, grunting in frustration at what he found there. “My apologies. It seems I do not have much to offer in terms of beverages. Unless you could be persuaded to try something more … spirited?” He gestured at the liquor cabinet and the last bit of hope died in his eyes when Zoraya shook her head.

“No, that’s alright, I—”

“I’m sorry! I should have sent the maids to buy something. Tea or coffee or biscuits — Why are there no biscuits?” He whirled around to resume his frantic search.

“I don’t need biscuits,” Zoraya said, as gently as possible without getting lost under his rummaging. “Come over here. I’ll make us a fire.”

“How in the world would you make a fire?” The agitated expression on his face froze when she opened a chest next to the fireplace, revealing a whole bunch of logs, all cut into shape. “When did that get in here?”

“It’s probably been here a while.” She weighed a log in her hand. “Feels nice and dry.”

Out of all the things Zoraya had done to impress men in the past, making a fire was definitely a first. His maids must be taking care of the heat during the winter, judging by the look of wonder on his face when she arranged logs and kindling and then lit them with one of his gas lanterns.

“That is rather … small,” he observed, studying the fledgling flames with rapt interest.

“It’ll grow,” she promised and settled down on the couch. “Come here. We’ll watch.”

“Oh. Alright.” Astarion sat next to her hesitantly, leaving a whole arm’s length between them. His back was rod-straight against the couch, his hands flat on his thighs. He picked at a tiny piece of lint on his trousers and flicked it off, his eyes darting over the fabric in search of more.

Zoraya had to stifle a laugh. Look at us. Two steps away from having sex in a coach, and now we’re sitting here like teenagers on a first date.

She pulled up her legs and tucked them underneath herself, leaning back into the cushions “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to come a little closer.”

“Can we talk first?” The words came out so earnestly that Zoraya’s breath caught in her throat.

“Of course. What do you want to talk about?”

“It’s just that … I don’t really know how any of this works. Not this, I mean” — Astarion gestured in between them and the fire — “The Gods know I have no problem with that! I mean the rest of it. The whole relationship part. I want you to feel comfortable with this. I want you to feel safe and respected and valued, but I have no idea how to do that. So, if you could just tell me — whatever it is you need, whether it’s flowers or poetry or putting people behind bars — you just say the word and I swear, by the power invested in me by the city of Baldur’s Gate, I’ll make it happen.”

In the soft glow of the fire, he looked so much like the sweet boy who’d climbed plum trees and raided cookie jars with her. A boy who’d always run ahead of her, a boy so full of mischief and tenderness, she’d loved following him on whatever new adventure he’d thought up for them.

But now he’d stopped. He was standing still before that threshold they were about to cross, asking her to lead the way.

Zoraya had to swallow against the clump in her throat before she could answer. “I don’t need you to give me things. All I really need is to know that we’re in this together. That this is something we’re both committed to.”

“Does that mean we are … exclusive? No other partners?”

Oh.

“I … hope so?” Her voice was small, her heart clenching in her chest. “All of my relationships have been exclusive. I’ve never wanted it any other way. But …” She trailed off, not knowing what to say.

What was there to say when she knew there was no conceivable way she’d be able to share him? To watch him disappear into dark corners with councilors and city planners and fucking Cazador Szarr of all people — their smell clinging to his clothes when he returned, his skin covered in marks that were not hers.

Gods dammit, she was an idiot. She’d known that this was the way he lived his life and yet, she hadn’t hesitated to throw herself at him the first chance she got.

“Actually, I find the idea sort of exciting.” Astarion was facing her, his posture more relaxed now. His legs were crossed, a small smile dancing on his lips. “I’ve never had the chance to fully devote myself to a single person. To really hone in on their pleasure, as it were. I expect it will be quite … invigorating.”

“But what about your work?” she croaked.

“Oh, I doubt the Magistrate of the People is going to need any special favors anytime soon.” He threw his head back with a chuckle.

“And Lord Szarr?”

His face went rigid as if the name alone had knocked all the air out of him. “Cazador,” he said carefully, “will have to make do without this part of our professional relationship.”

Zoraya thought of the man’s ink-black stare, piercing and relentless. “What if he’s not ready to do that?”

“Zoya, darling, we are not here to plan out my career. We are here for you to tell me what I have to do to earn your trust. You said you want me all to yourself — which, honestly, I cannot blame you for — so I will make it happen. Is there anything else?”

“Uh, not really,” she muttered, taken aback by his willingness. She’d always assumed he enjoyed playing the field, having unlimited options. But perhaps even that got boring after a while?

“Good. Exclusivity and commitment, that shouldn’t be too difficult, considering how you already occupy my every waking moment. Still …” He slid closer and propped his elbow against the backrest, regarding her thoughtfully. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask about our dear friend Dammon?”

“He’s a friend,” Zoraya said. “Nothing more.”

“So you two have never …?”

“No.”

“Never ever?”

“No.”

He huffed out a breath. “Forgive me, darling, but are you visually impaired?”

“What?”

“I mean, clearly you aren’t because here you are, on a date with me. But, Gods, that man is a divine revelation if I’ve ever seen one. A nine out of ten at least — and that’s considering the fact that he smells like the trash heap behind an iron factory. You cannot tell me you’ve known him for years and never even thought about making a move on him!”

“I was busy,” she said. Not technically a lie because yes, she had been busy.

Busy loving the same man she’d loved all her life.

But that wasn’t something she could just throw around on a first date. No faster way to crush the tender beginnings of a new relationship than by placing the weight of twenty years of unrequited love and yearning on its shoulders. Besides, she didn’t need him to love her the way she loved him.

She just needed him to stay right here with her, giving this whole thing the best chance it could have.

“Ridiculous,” Astarion scoffed. “To pass on the most delectable piece of tiefling this side of Avernus just to get ahead with your career! I suppose I have to count myself lucky we work together, or you would have never noticed me either?”

“Well, the newspaper drawings certainly helped.”

“Is that so?” He grinned and leaned in closer. “Remind me to send Yeshana Orbryn a Thank you note, will you?”

The words were a soft, tantalizing whisper against her skin, his eyes molten gold in the firelight. Zoraya was aware that she should probably throw in another log, but it was really difficult to focus on anything other than that look of his. Desire blazing up and then, very carefully, being pushed aside as he took a deep breath and peeled his gaze off her mouth.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “The fact that you came here with me does not mean you’re under any obligation to do something you’re not ready for. I am perfectly happy to hold your hand and watch the fire until you fall asleep on my shoulder. In which case I will carry you to bed — very gentlemanly, mind you — where you can spend the night in peace, while I stay out here on the couch.”

“Astarion.” She reached a hand to his face, smiling when his mouth twitched under her touch.  “I want to do much more than just hold your hand.”

“Oh, thank the Gods,” he sighed — and kissed her.

Zoraya had dreamed of kissing Astarion ever since she’d dreamed of kissing in general. She’d spent hours trying to imagine how it might feel to crush her lips into his, to tangle her fingers in his hair and have his heart beat against hers. And while they’d done quite a bit of kissing in the library and the coach, there was something wholly new about knowing that he was actually hers. It took the frantic edge off her desire, allowed her to sink into his arms in a way she wasn’t sure she ever had before. Luxuriating in the deep, leisurely rhythm he set for them, one arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. Like they had all the time in the world now that they were here, together.

Astarion sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, the faint suggestion of a nip, and released it with a sigh of pleasure. His hand traveled lower on her back as he tilted her head and brushed his tongue against the seam of her mouth. Always asking, never assuming. Which was ridiculous because of course, with him, the answer was always yes. Her heart was thrumming with it, her nerve endings buzzing.

Yes.

Gods, yes.

He leaned into the kiss, the delicious weight of him slowly guiding her lower. Zoraya wanted nothing more than to follow his lead. To let him spread her out on his couch and hit her with the concentrated power of two decades full of fantasies and daydreams, all but devouring her in the process. But she also knew that would be a step back to the lovesick little girl who used to blush under his gaze and cry at his taunts. And that just wasn’t her anymore.

She needed him to know that. To see that she was different now, a grown woman perfectly capable of an adult relationship.

Someone who was worth being with Astarion Ancunin.

He made a surprised noise against her lips when she pushed back, using both hands on his chest to drive him against the backrest, shooting him what she hoped passed as a smoldering look. They were not usually part of her repertoire, but she felt that they should be for a man like him who had just agreed to end all his love affairs for her. She pulled his shirt over his head, ignoring the lurch in her heart at the sight of all that smooth ivory skin, and then proceeded to climb onto his lap. That had worked out pretty well in the wardrobe, right? She could stay in control so long as she stayed on top of him. No way to melt into a puddle underneath him if she wasn’t — well, underneath him.

His head fell back when she ran her hands over his chest, a gentle shiver following her touch. Zoraya had seen him change shirts before, knew of his immaculate skin and the broad leanness of his torso. But now there was an unexpected hardness to his arms and shoulders, betraying a level of fitness that had not been there a month or two ago.

“Don’t tell me you kept up with the self-defense training?” She peered down at him with a grin, surprised to find the hint of a blush creep into his ears.

“I found a private instructor. A ranger from Rashemen. An insufferably dull creature, obsessed with his hamster, but, well …” He shrugged and smiled that new, uncertain smile of his. “You never know when you’re attacked by a horde of vagrants and need to defend your loyal advocate.”

His lips met hers, gently at first, but his grip around her waist tightened, clutching her close in a way that was almost possessive. One hand was cupping the back of her head, long fingers dipping underneath her bun. Holding her in place for the slow, mesmerizing strokes of his tongue into her mouth.

“Zoya,” he whispered and the word went directly in between her legs. Urging her to dip her hips lower, let herself grind against the familiar hardness that was straining against his trousers.

Only a little bit, she told herself. But then his thighs twitched underneath her, accidentally pushing him harder against her center, and Zoraya moaned, long and pitifully.

“I know, my love,” Astarion whispered, caressing the back of her head as if he was praising her for it. “You feel so good on me. I think about it all the time. The night of the ball, you on my lap. I see your face, the — mhmm — the earrings you wore, the way you’d done your hair. I … I think about all the things I should have done that night. Everything you would have deserved because, Gods, Zoya …”

Another kiss, his cock pressing against the seam of her trousers, and they were both groaning and clutching at each other.

Fuck. She had to hurry the Hells up if she wanted any chance of staying in control here. At this point, his usual conquests probably did something sexy, like folding themselves around those dancing poles or tying a cherry stem into a knot in their mouths. Zoraya had no such talents. All she could offer was a very mediocre blowjob. Which might be enough if she tried a little harder than usual. Got on her knees in front of the couch and took him all the way into the back of her throat, even though she hated the way it made her feel. Nauseous, borderline sick to her stomach. But it couldn’t be helped because there was no way in Hell that Astarion Ancunin would be satisfied with a normal, run-of-the-mill blowjob.

“Zoya?” he said, just as she was about to slide down onto the floor. “Do you think I could …?”

She stared at him, too wrapped up in her elaborate blowjob plans to understand.

He pressed his lips together wordlessly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. Then he pushed his fingers a little deeper under her bun and very lightly tugged on it.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” he explained. “To see you with your hair down. The way you used to wear it.”

“Oh, uhm … okay?”

His face lit up as he went to work on her bun, carefully plucking out the hairpins she used to keep it in place and letting them fall to the floor. He was moving slowly, gently, never pulling too sharply. Clearly, he still remembered how he used to have long hair as a boy before he’d decided to cut it short in one of his many acts of defiance against what his mother called proper Elven culture. He undid her braids, too, not stopping until her hair fell all the way down to her hip bones, dark brown and slightly wavy.

“There we go,” he said, smiling as he took a strand of hair between his fingers.

It was unexpectedly intimate how he brought it to his face and inhaled the scent of it, his eyes falling shut as he did so. Something shifted in the air with that one simple gesture. It had her throat close up, her pulse racing when he ran his hands through her hair, then placed them on the collar of her blouse.

“Zoya, can I—”

“Yes,” she said without thinking. “Everything, yes.”

She felt him exhale against her lips as he kissed her like he never had before. His mouth was searingly hot, utterly irresistible in its sheer confidence. Zoraya could have sworn the fire flared up behind her in some sort of spontaneous combustion, shooting a gust of thick, steamy heat right into her brain because next thing she knew, she was on her back, Astarion’s mouth swallowing her gasp.

He did not let up.

His hands moved down her body, his nimble fingers peeling her out of her white office blouse like she was a gift, made especially for him. Because all this time, she realized, he’d been holding back. Waiting for his turn like the polite, well-mannered nobleman that he was, when he was aching to strip her bare.

Her bra was gone so fast, she only noticed its absence when he sucked her nipple into his mouth and smirked at the surprised jolt she gave. Historically speaking, breast stimulation had never done particularly much for her, but his every touch was magic. Zoraya felt herself molding into it like hot candle wax, her spine arching toward him, seeking to get closer. Forgotten were her plans to stay in control of anything because, really, there was not a bone in her body that could resist the feverish hunger of his mouth, his determination to kiss every inch of skin he laid bare. When he reached the final button of her blouse, she hardly managed to pull herself up enough for him to ease her out of the sleeves. He had to steady her on her way back down into the cushions, chuckling at her utter lack of coordination.

“Just look at you, darling.” His golden eyes gleamed devilishly in the firelight as he gazed down at her. “The legendary Ice Queen of the Eastern Library, all thawed and … mhmm” — he slipped a hand into her trousers, his smirk widening when he found the soaked mess of her underwear — “delightfully wet for me.”

Zoraya tried to bite back a whimper.

“Tell me, my sweet,” Astarion said gently. “How about I take those off for you? That would feel better, wouldn’t it?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. Wordless, helpless, just like the little girl she’d always be around him.

He pulled off her trousers with practiced hands. Zoraya would have expected his own to follow suit, but instead, he grabbed a hold of her thighs and hiked them over his shoulders.

Sweet Hells, he can’t actually …

He could.

In fact, he did.

He’d already wedged a pillow underneath her butt, lifting her into a more comfortable position for him to sink down in between her legs. Zoraya sucked in a breath and dug her fingers into the couch cushions in preparation for what was to come.

Useless.

There was no way she could have been prepared for how it felt when he started kissing his way toward her center. The immediate spike of lust at the mere sight of him, his perfect lips on the taut muscle of her thigh, the pale ivory of his skin against the dark bronze of hers. She wanted nothing more than to watch him, but her head jerked back uncontrollably, heat swelling up in her lower body in merciless waves.

This was going way too fast. He was only on her thigh, gods dammit. She had to hold on, had to pull herself together. She could do this. She could …

Astarion drew his tongue over her folds in a long, generous swipe and Zoraya’s back lifted clean off the couch as she came with a miserably choked-up wail. Her body shot upward, writhing in a brief moment of bliss before collapsing in on itself, falling back into the cushions.

For several seconds, she just lay there. Squeezing her eyes shut in humiliation, fingers still clutching the cushions as she gasped and panted for air. Astarion did not say a word. What was he going to say, after all?

Are you sure you’ve had sex — like, ever?

It’s late. Maybe it’s better if you … leave now.

Bye.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and husky. “Is that … normal for you?”

Zoraya couldn’t bear to look at him. All she could do was shake her head pathetically, one arm thrown over her face.

This was it. Her one shot with Astarion Ancunin and she had ruined it by coming in his face before he’d even really started. She could never look him in the eye again. Could never look anyone in the eye ever again. She’d have to leave town and go into hiding somewhere in the woods. Use leaves as clothing and learn how to talk to animals, maybe join a druid circle.

Astarion chuckled. “Oh, Zoya, my darling.” He moved toward her face, her legs still thrown over his shoulders in the most obscene way. “You and I, we are going to have a lot of fun together, are we not? Why, you might just help me break my personal record.”

“Record?”

“Mhm,” he murmured, kissing at her neck. “Six times, as it stands currently. But I think you might be able to give me seven. Has a nicer ring to it, don’t you think?”

“I … really don’t think I can …” Zoraya trailed off, incapable of telling him the truth. That she’d never even had two orgasms in a day, not even when the attempts had been separated by several hours. She simply wasn’t one of those women who could dish them out like dinner rolls at a family meal. That one terribly timed orgasm just now was the only one she’d be able to give him for the next 24 hours. Which meant that she had to find a different way to keep this interesting for him, lest the whole evening turned completely disastrous.

“How about you let me …” She tried to wriggle out from underneath him, but Astarion used his body weight to hold her down, smiling that mischievous smile of his.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted, moving lower again. “I don’t think I’ll let you do anything tonight, darling. That is, anything other than help me beat my personal best.”

“Astarion,” she croaked. “You don’t understand. I can’t … I’ve never …”

“Shh.” His eyes darted up to meet hers, heavy with lust but also warm and familiar. As if right now, in this moment, he was both her best friend who’d helped her carry her books and also the man who was about to take her world and turn it upside down.

“I’ve got you, Zoya.”

And then he leaned down in between her legs again and any attempt at an argument or conscious thought shattered into a million pieces.

She’d always liked sex well enough. It was one of the few ways she managed to get her mind off work and while it usually took a bit of trial-and-error, some whispered directions and occasional demonstrations, the payoff was ultimately worth the effort. With Astarion, there was none of that. He devoured her as if her pleasure was an art he’d spent his entire life studying. Her second orgasm came nearly as abruptly as the first, ripping through her before he’d even put so much as a finger inside of her. She felt his smug little laugh more than she heard it, his breath tickling against her as he lapped up the taste of his success.

“You’re so pent-up, aren’t you?” he said, his warm hands stroking up the curve of her waist reassuringly. “It’s alright. I’m here. You just lie back for me, and I’ll take care of everything.”

He kissed the scar on her thigh where the bandit’s knife had torn into her flesh, giving her a moment of reprieve before diving back in. This time, he granted her a single finger, curled inside of her just right, and although Zoraya was panting with exhaustion at that point, she could do nothing against the upward pull that had her every muscle tensing and clenching until it finally shattered once more.

The experience he’d amassed over years of seducing people left and right certainly had something to do with it. There were things he did with his tongue that Zoraya could have never imagined in her most depraved daydreams. But then, another factor was undoubtedly that she had pictured this countless times before. Had writhed on her back with either her hand or another person between her legs, dreaming, wishing it was him. Picturing his silver curls, his raspy voice, his playful chuckle against her wet folds. Guilt twisting in her insides as soon as it was over. Knowing how deeply messed up she was, yet unable to stop herself because if she was truly honest with herself — in her mind, she’d always wanted it to be him.

And now he was, and he was guiding her from orgasm to orgasm in a way that made her question if she’d ever really had one before. Or if her entire life thus far, she’d only experienced the very edges of romance and lust, because she’d been too busy holding on to too many things.

There was no holding on with Astarion. He set out a path for them and dragged her along with him, no questions asked.

When he finally deigned to come out from underneath her quivering thighs, Zoraya was drenched in sweat. Her hair was sticking to her face, her lungs raw from gasping and panting and moaning like any cheap penny-whore out on the streets.

Astarion wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He, of course, looked aggravatingly composed, safe for a slight flush in his cheeks, a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes that really only made him more attractive than he already was.

Nothing about this man was fair.

“Zoya, darling.” Her name dripped from his lips like it was something filthy, something to hide in his sock drawer and hope no one would ever find it. “You’re a vision no matter what you’re wearing, but I must say: This has got to be my favorite look on you.”

“W-what do you mean?” she croaked. It was the most she’d been able to say for the past hour or so. The fire had burned down completely.

“Desire.” He brushed a strand of sticky hair out of her face. “Naked, desperate desire.”

Zoraya tried to focus on her breathing. It was all she could do, the ruthless stimulation having let her so exhausted, even her thoughts came slow and muddled.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already?" Astarion leaned down to her ear and whispered, "I’m only getting started with you.”

Her mouth opened, but everything that came out was another whimper.

A low chuckle on her neck. A tender kiss to the hickey he’d left on her, followed by the most mind-numbingly delicious pressure against her wet folds.

Zoraya gasped. She didn’t know when he’d taken off his trousers, but here he was, tracing his cock over her entrance in slow, teasing strokes.

“Are you quite certain, my dear?” he whispered, all feigned innocence. “You can’t give me one more? One more, just for me?”

Her arms shot up and closed around him, nails digging into his back in a sudden fit of neediness. Shaky knees came up to open herself to him, hips canting upward weakly. Every muscle in her body tapping into some hidden energy reserve that seemed to be exclusively dedicated to Astarion Ancunin’s cock.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me,” he said, making no move of his own. “I am big on consent, you know. I’d never do anything you are not enthusiastically agreeing with.”

He was actually making her say it. Making her beg for it when he’d already turned her into an incoherent mess. She’d fucked up. Went ahead and discarded any shred of dignity, any hope of ever being anything other than the desperate little girl pining for his attention, his touch, literally anything he might give her.

“Please,” she murmured. “Please, Astarion … Please, just … just one more.”

His grin was wide and brilliant, oozing with satisfaction. “Anything for my darling advocate.”

He pressed a kiss to her mouth and moved a hand to her thigh, adjusting its shaky hold on his hips before he pushed inside of her slowly. Inch by inch drawing a new sound of her, a series of moans that kept spiraling, kept getting louder and thinner, like she felt herself getting stretched, physically as well as emotionally.

Zoraya was never this loud. She was also never this wet or this pathetically needy, even after he’d already made her come, like — what, four times? Five? She didn’t even know. She didn’t know anything anymore, except for how perfect he felt inside of her. Each thrust was hitting just right, making her clench around him in an urgent frenzy, using every bit of muscle tone she had left to crush herself against him.

“Zoya,” he said, his voice strained now. Darker. “Look at me, Zoya.”

She blinked her eyes open, incapable of denying him anything. Sweat glistened on his forehead, fixing one silver curl just a little lower than where it was supposed to be. All the teasing playfulness had vanished, replaced by something fierce and raw. His shoulders were heaving, his thrusts long and deep like he couldn’t get enough of her, not even now that she was wrapped around him.

“Gods above,” he groaned. “How have we waited so long to do this? We should have been doing this for years, for decades, gods dammit!”

He gripped a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, baring her neck and pressing his mouth to the column of her throat, all tongue and teeth and desperation. His thrusts were getting faster, more erratic. He was babbling into her neck, hushed sounds she couldn’t quite make out until his voice shot up and she realized it was Elvish. Choked-up words like mine and gods and something about time and the stars. She tried to make out more, but he was too far gone.

He came with an Elvish curse on his lips, his face buried into the side of her neck. And as bone-achingly tired as she was, the sound of Astarion Ancunin coming apart inside of her was enough to send her over the edge once more. Her arms and legs clenched around him as tightly as they possibly could, anchoring herself to him as she came and came and came …

She sank back onto the couch like a sack of flour. She was so utterly spent, all she could do was lie there, her chest heaving as she tried to gather the splintered pieces of herself, collecting them all in one place, so she could try to put them back together later.

Who was she kidding.

There was no coming back from this.

Astarion lifted himself off her neck with a beautifully messy smile. He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth and laughed when she couldn’t even coordinate her lips to reciprocate.

“A little tired, hm?” he crooned. “I understand, my love. Not to worry. We’ll make it to seven next time. We have all the time on earth.”

“I need to …” She tried to push onto her elbows, to get cleaned up before she collapsed on his couch in her own filth, but her body was not cooperating.

“It’s alright, my sweet.” Astarion eased her back into the cushions with gentle hands. “I’ll take care of the pretty little mess I’ve made of you. You rest, okay? Can you do that for me?”

The invitation was too much to resist. Zoraya’s eyes fell shut, velvety darkness surrounding her at once. She was vaguely aware of a soft, damp towel between her legs, then a muffled grunt when her body was lifted off the couch and moved somewhere else, a place that felt cool and luxurious against her heated skin.

A kiss on her forehead, small and tender. And then a familiar voice, saying something she used to hear every night, once, a long time ago.

“Good night, Zoya.”

Astarion awoke with his thighs comfortably sore and the other side of his bed warm, but empty.

He turned over and stretched out his arm, just to make sure she had really left. It wasn’t like this was anything unusual. Quite the opposite, in fact; most of his conquests snuck out the door before he’d even fallen into reverie, let alone woken up in the morning. They’d scuttle off into the dark of night, much like the stray cats that came to his balcony to devour the meals he’d set out for them, only to disappear as soon as their hunger was sated. And that was fine. Preferable even to the inevitable awkwardness when, come morning, they’d realize that apart from Harder and Again they didn’t have very much to say to each other.

But that was them. And this was Zoraya.

And last night had been different, hadn’t it? Not just the way she’d reacted to him, although — Gods below, the memory alone had him writhing under the sheets. He’d known he wasn’t going to last long with her, so he’d made sure to give her everything he had to offer before he even thought about burying himself in her for the pitifully short time it took until he came apart whimpering like a teenager. He’d scooped her up in his arms afterward, so enamored with the feel and smell of her that he hadn’t managed to fall into reverie before sunrise. She must have pried herself out of his grasp when she decided to leave. And it wasn’t like she was obligated to stay with him; he’d just assumed …

Well, what exactly?

A loud bang from the kitchen distracted him from his own gloominess. A burglar? Astarion climbed out of bed with a frustrated sigh. Just his luck that this would happen after his unofficial bodyguard had left.

He slipped into a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt — no reason to face the intruder with his dick out, after all. Usually, he would have offered his coin purse in exchange for peace and quiet in his own home, but after last night’s coach debacle, the contents were less than impressive. Besides, he was in a mood to shove his dagger into someone’s face.

The banging continued, as if the burglar was determined to take apart his kitchen in the hopes of finding a secret compartment behind the cupboard. Property damage in addition to forced entry. That could get the bastard a good ten years at least. Which was still not nearly enough, seeing as how he’d disturbed a magistrate’s brooding over his failed date, but you had to start somewhere with justice.

Dagger in hand, Astarion pressed his back against the wall and peeked around the corner into the kitchen, trying to gauge his opponent before charging them. The benefit to training with someone as large and, well, dense, as Minsc was that he felt fairly confident in his ability to restrain a common street thug in his own kitchen.

The sight of Zoraya, however, had him nearly dropping his weapon and stabbing himself in the foot with it. She was barefoot and lovely in nothing but her wrinkled button-down shirt, cracking eggs into a bowl as she whistled a melody he’d heard at the Gur camp. Some sort of folk song about the joys of traveling without the need to worry about things such as taxes or personal hygiene. It sounded utterly endearing, coming from her.

Astarion sheathed his dagger and strode into the kitchen. “Good morning, darling.”

She whirled around with a start, one hand flying to the necklace that peeked out of her leisurely buttoned blouse. He remembered looking at it last night when she’d been asleep in his arms, wondering what might be inside the little locket. Surely not a picture of one of her parents. Perhaps one of her cat? Some legal philosopher who had passed hundreds of years ago?

“Oh, good morning,” she said. “I … didn’t realize you were up.”

“Indeed I am.” He leaned against the kitchen counter with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “And you, my dear, are still here.”

He’d meant it teasingly, but her eyes widened in shock. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Gods above, no!” He laughed, trying to mask the urgency in his tone, and slung an arm around her waist. “I’d never blame you for wanting the … morning program.”

He pulled her flush against himself, one hand dipping lower to where her shirt was ending and her ass began, just as he’d done hundreds of times before. If she was still here, it meant she hadn’t quite gotten yet what she’d come for. Which was honestly a little ridiculous, given how many times he’d made her orgasm last night, but he’d be sure to provide.

He’d give her everything she wanted.

“Actually …” Smiling nervously, she took a half step backward. “I thought we could have breakfast? I’m starving.”

Astarion followed her gesturing to the bowl full of eggs, next to it a loaf of fresh bread that definitely hadn’t been in his house yesterday. “Breakfast?”

He eyed her, trying to gauge what this was. A fantasy of being spread out over the kitchen counter as he licked scrambled eggs out of her navel? Not that he’d be opposed to it — the Gods knew he’d facilitated odder fantasies in the past. But she didn’t look like there was anything carnal on her mind. In fact, most of her attention was on the dab of butter she’d deposited in the pan, watching with excitement as it started sizzling.

“I went to the market this morning,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind I brought all this stuff here. I was just really hungry after … you know.”

Her blush was so disorientingly pretty, he couldn’t even come up with one of his usual innuendos. He just watched her in dumbstruck silence as she cut the bread into thick slices and poured him a cup of coffee, his hands accepting it automatically.

She was still here.

He’d fucked her to the brink of passing out and she was still here.

Puttering around in his kitchen as if she had nowhere better to be on her day off. As if she was … comfortable.

“Could you set the table?” she asked, stirring the eggs in the pan. “I’m not sure where you have your silverware.”

Astarion also wasn’t sure, but he was glad to occupy his mind with a more solvable conundrum. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually sat down at the kitchen counter, rather than bend someone over it until they screamed his name.

It felt nice.

He held on to his coffee as he watched her shovel scrambled eggs onto a slice of bread and then devour it with large, reckless bites. There was something unrestrained about her, the way she clattered with her silverware and licked grease off her thumb and let out the occasional sigh of enjoyment. She even wore her hair in a simple ponytail rather than the usual elaborate knot.

“You’re not hungry?” she asked after her third slice of bread.

“I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so shaky in the morning.”

“Excuse me?” he huffed. “I am not shaky.”

“At first I thought it’s your hangovers, but those honestly don’t seem to do very much to you. My guess is it’s something to do with your blood sugar. Which …” She glanced at his untouched plate. “Regular meals might help with.”

“It’s just a habit,” he said defensively, reaching for his fork.

A habit born out of a desire to avoid family meals just like any other opportunity for his mother to criticize him. Be it for the way he held his shoulders or how he cut his meat — any one of the infinitely many ways in which he was never quite good enough.

Astarion took a few bites and was surprised to find a pleasantly warm feeling settle in his stomach. Before he knew what was happening, he’d finished everything on his plate.

“Better?” Zoraya asked, smiling as she poured more coffee.

“Well, I’m certainly feeling more energetic than before.”

“Lucky you!” She leaned back and stretched her arms over her head, the blouse rippling over her body in a way that had him thinking of firelight dancing over her bronze skin. “I’m so sore, I’m not even sure I’ll make it up the hill to my house.”

“You don’t have to go.”

Her brown eyes settled on him, one brow raised quizzically, and Astarion swallowed. “I mean … it’s a Freeday. If you want, we could, uh …”

“Okay!” she said before he could even decide which of his date ideas might work on such short notice. The smile on her face was brilliant, downright dazzling, when she pushed off the bar stool and brushed her lips against his cheek. “I’ll just freshen up real quick and we can go?”

Astarion had been kissed many ways over the years, but never like this. He sat there for several minutes after she’d disappeared into the bathroom, touching his cheek and trying to come to terms with any of it. That she was still here, although she didn’t want any more sex for a few hours at least. That she’d agree to spend her Freeday with him, regardless of the haziness of his plans. That she was still … his.

Even the morning after.

Somehow, that was even better than anything else that had happened between them.

Astarion left the dirty dishes for the maids to clean and strode into the bedroom, a spring in his step. As much as he relished the heady scent coming off last night’s blouse, she would probably feel more comfortable if he gave her a fresh set of clothes to change into. They were almost the same height, after all, and her adorable little breasts posed no danger of stretching out his doublets.

He had narrowed it down to three options when he caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror. On any other day, this would have been one of the first things he did after getting out of bed, but this morning had been unusual in more ways than one. The armful of carefully selected outfits dropped to the floor as Astarion reached both hands to his head, releasing a yelp so piercing, it wouldn’t have surprised him if the mirror had shattered into pieces.

“Astarion?” Zoraya came running out of the bathroom, an unfinished braid tumbling over her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“How could you not tell me?” He turned to face her, torn between horror, shame and bewilderment. “How could you not tell me that my hair is …”

There were no words for what he knew was mockingly glaring out of that mirror. Because as luscious and alluring his silver curls might be when properly brushed into place, they were a frizzy, tangled mess after a good night’s reverie. Factor in all that time he’d spent between her legs and what he was left with was hideous enough to rival even a clown’s wig.

Astarion was horrified. Horrified that he should look like this in front of her, that he’d had breakfast with her, forcing such an unseemly sight on her as he asked her to spend the day with him!

And now she was laughing at him. A low, warm laugh as she sat down on the bed next to him and put a hand in the despicable mess on his head, gently brushing it out of his face. “You know, I kinda like it.”

“You’re just saying that because you pity me!”

“I’m saying that because I think it’s hot that I know exactly how it got to be that way.” She giggled and kissed him and after enough kissing, the ugly slimy feeling in his stomach wasn’t all that bad anymore.

They did eventually leave the house, after he’d tamed his bed hair and generally made himself presentable, as befitting for a magistrate of Baldur’s Gate. And much to his surprise, Astarion found it wasn’t all that difficult to spend a full day in a relationship without planning ahead. They were walking through the markets and strolling around the harbor, stopping for a bite to eat here and there, or simply sitting down on a park bench to enjoy the sun and exchange slow, tender kisses.

It was the most relaxing Freeday he’d spent in a good, long while. It felt like it was filling some hollow spot inside of him, much like the breakfast he’d had in the morning. Even his house felt warmer when he returned in the evening after he’d seen her home. There were dirty dishes in his sink, a loaf of bread on the counter, her smell in the sheets.

It wasn’t until Astarion had bathed and gone to bed that he realized he’d completely forgotten about his meeting with Cazador.

Chapter Text

Zoraya looked up the white stone walls of the Ancunín estate with a familiar sense of dread.

“I’m feeling sick,” she murmured, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the white gravel of the driveway crunching under her heels. Quelenna had always liked things white. Pristine, spotless, orderly.

Perfect.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Astarion turned on his heel and lifted a hand to signal for the coach driver to return. “We better get you to a healer right away. I’m sure they’ll understand. Health is the most important thing after all.”

“Astarion!” she hissed and yanked down his hand.

“What?” he huffed. “What are they going to do about it? Cut me out of the will for refusing one too many dinner invitations? That’s nothing a Duke of Baldur’s Gate has to concern himself with.”

“They’re your parents.”

“And yet, neither of them is half as pleasant as my good self. Genetics is funny that way, isn’t it?” Chuckling, he pulled her in close and kissed her.

Zoraya still couldn’t believe that this was her life now. A life where Astarion Ancunín would just decide that he wanted to kiss her right this moment — and then do it. It wasn’t something she thought she’d ever get used to. Her heart practically jumped out of her ribcage every time he touched her, no matter how casually. Which really wasn’t helpful when she was already shaking with nerves about this whole dinner invitation.

“You remember what we talked about, right?” she asked, using every bit of willpower at her disposal to push away from him. “About keeping things quiet?”

“Of course, my dear.” Astarion sighed dramatically. “You’re still recuperating from when Shadowheart walked into the office at a … less than opportune moment.”

Zoraya blushed. That had been rather unpleasant, true — the gods knew she wouldn’t have wanted to find her colleague pinned against the wall with her boobs on full display and the soup lady in between her thighs. Her embarrassment at being found in this state was only second to that of Shadowheart rolling her eyes at them and saying, “Lady of Sorrows, finally!” before turning around and leaving them alone.

But today was different. As complicated as her feelings toward the Ancuníns might be, there was no denying the fact that they’d raised her. They’d taken in an unwanted bastard child and given her everything she had and for that, Zoraya would never stop being grateful. Showing up hand in hand with their son, flaunting a relationship that was hardly even a tenday old, just didn’t seem like the right way of repaying them for their kindness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We can tell them later. When my contract has ended, perhaps. I just don’t want to …”

“I know. Don’t worry, my sweet.” Astarion trailed a line of gentle, tingly kisses up the side of her neck, pushing down the collar of the high-necked blouse she’d chosen to hide the embarrassing number of hickeys he’d left on her. “We’re doing this in whatever way you think is best. I can keep my hands off my ravishing girlfriend if need be. Although” — a soft laughter against her ear — “As far as I remember, our agreement really only pertains to my hands. A glaring oversight, given how much I can accomplish with my mouth alone, don’t you think?”

His lips pressed against the skin just below her ear, sucking with the practiced ease of a man who reveled in leaving his marks on her. A man who couldn’t wait to sit at the dinner table with her, internally giggling and kicking his feet as the bruise grew right on top of her collar.

It was at that moment that the double doors of the Ancunín estate swung open, revealing none other than Voron Naelgrath. Chamberlain of House Ancunín and biological father of the woman currently getting herself another hickey.

He was rather stocky for an elf, a good deal shorter than Astarion, and so bulky from the waist upward that he perpetually looked like he was on the verge of bursting out of his doublets. Not that something as trivial as the need to supply his body with oxygen would have stopped him from wearing precisely what was expected of his station, of course. Voron Naelgrath took great pride in his position and had always done his utmost to serve his house, filling the role of the dutiful servant with unwavering commitment.

Even if it required keeping a perfectly straight face as he bowed down before Astarion.

“Welcome home, young master,” he said, completely ignoring Zoraya who was frantically pulling her collar back into place. “What a pleasure to see you again. Please, follow me. Her ladyship is awaiting you in the sitting room.”

“Thank you, Voron. Ever so kind of you.” Astarion reached for Zoraya’s hand. When she flinched back, he huffed out an irritated breath. “Oh, please, darling. The cat’s out of the bag now. Let’s just go and get this over with, shall we?”

His smile was way too smug for her liking, but she could hardly argue with his logic. Reluctantly, she accepted his hand, cringing as he laced their fingers together and pulled her inside the house.

Zoraya felt smaller whenever she entered the Ancunín residence. Like she was a child again, scurrying up the grand staircase to study in her room, careful not to make too much noise on the polished floors. The tastefully arranged art collection glaring down at her from the wood-paneled walls: landscapes from faraway places she’d never been to or still lifes depicting a single pear next to an empty milk jug. She remembered staring at that painting for a good thirty minutes once, desperately trying to understand its meaning.

She’d never figured it out.

Voron answered her greeting with a curt nod, which made it a fairly standard interaction between them. He’d never had much interest in her, hardly even looked at her for longer than the fraction of a second. As if there was something slimy and gross about her that made his gaze glide off her form.

Her hands grew sweaty pretty much immediately, but Astarion refused to let go. He moved through the lavish estate with all the careless grace of a nobleman in his own house, following Voron’s heavy steps.

“We have arrived!” he proclaimed as they entered the sitting room, a bright, sun-lit space with a full view of the plum orchard.

“Astarion! Zoraya!” Aquilan jumped up from where he’d been reclining on the couch, throwing aside the magazine he’d been reading. “We’re so glad you could make it!”

Quelenna, meanwhile, took one look at them, her son’s hand intertwined with Zoraya’s, and pinched the bridge of her nose with an agonized snort. “You two have got to be joking.”

“We are not joking, mother, we are dating,” Astarion explained.

Zoraya briefly considered stepping on his foot and using the ensuing chaos to jump out the window and flee. She probably would have if it hadn’t been for Aquilan pulling them into a hug, his slender arms stretching out as far as possible to crush them both into his chest.

“What wonderful news!” he exclaimed. “You two make a gorgeous, gorgeous couple, oh my word! Didn’t I always tell you how marvelous they’d look together, sugar plum?” He glanced back at his wife, who rose from her armchair in a slow, elegant movement.

“I suppose it was inevitable,” Quelenna said, smoothing her cobalt blue gown as she made her way through the room. “Please do consult your cleric, Zoraya. You do not want to contract whatever filth he’s picked up over the years. Neither will there be a child — is that understood? Excellent. Now let us move to the dining room. I have no desire to watch the two of you paw at each other on my couch. Ecaeris!”

“Yes, my Lady?”  Ecaeris, one of the maids, hurried into the room, lifting her skirts into a curtsy.

“Dinner may be served now,” Quelenna informed her.

“Right away, my Lady!”

It was an unspoken rule in the Ancunín household that no meal would begin before the family matriarch had tasted and approved the dish.

Quelenna favored traditionally Elven cuisine, lots of soups and vegetables, the occasional piece of locally sourced meat. Everything came in small, artful arrangements, topped off with fresh herbs or tiny flower petals rather than something as crude as salt or butter. Usually, Zoraya had to plan a few snacks around those meals to satisfy her half-Elven stomach, but today the clear vegetable broth looked just about as much as she could swallow.

The silence at the table was deafening when Quelenna lowered her spoon into the delicate porcelain dish and tasted the soup. She took her time with it, swirling it around in her mouth like a sommelier, while the maids stood with their trays clutched tight and their faces tense with fear.

When she nodded her head, it felt like a collective exhale of relief around the dining table. Aquilan refilled his wineglass, using the opportunity to top off Voron’s as well, then lifted his glass over the table. “Let us drink to the beautiful couple!”

Glasses clinked without much enthusiasm and Zoraya had to force herself to at least pretend to take a sip of wine.

“So,” Aquilan said, smiling brightly across the table at her and Astarion. “I’m sure we would all love to hear how the two of you finally got together!”

“We most certainly do not,” Quelenna said coolly. “We’re here to discuss Astarion’s political ambitions, not his foolish little love affairs. If we wanted to keep up with those, the gods know we’d have to employ a few extra accountants for that purpose alone. ”

The words were ice in Zoraya’s stomach. She’d been prepared for Quelenna’s disapproval, but the fact that she didn’t even recognize it as a relationship? That she’d reduce it to a fling, something that was sure to resolve itself before the next dinner invitation and thus wasn’t even worth learning about?

That hurt.

More than she could have anticipated.

She glanced at Astarion, trying to gauge his reaction, and found him wholly focused on his meal. Dragging his spoon through the pale broth over and over again, scooping up herbs and looking incredibly busy altogether without ever bringing the spoon to his mouth. There was a tense, faraway look in his golden eyes that she remembered from countless other family dinners over the years. A look that she’d interpreted as boredom, perhaps even annoyance, but now she knew better.

This was him trying to distance himself, so he could get through the evening.

“Now, tell me about that road you’re aiming to build,” Quelenna said, gesturing impatiently with her napkin. “When exactly are you planning to submit your motion to the Parliament?”

Zoraya made a split-second decision to answer for Astarion. “Within the week. And then it’ll take another six to eight weeks for them to vote on the matter.”

“In the meantime, Larkin will be sure to redouble his efforts at riling up the refugees and generally causing havoc,” Quelenna said thoughtfully.

Zoraya nearly choked on a bite of bread. “You know about Larkin’s sabotage?”

“Of course,” Quelenna scoffed. “Everybody knows High Judge Larkin would throw his own mother off a cliff to keep his choke hold on the sea trade.”

“And you didn’t … try to stop him?”

Quelenna’s brow furrowed in genuine puzzlement. “Why would I? It is not my job to ensure my son’s professional success. If it was, I can assure you, there would be decidedly more … well, success.”

“Because there are lives at stake here, mother.” For the first time since he’d sat down, Astarion looked up from his soup. His voice was sharp, his eyes piercing. “Because while you were sitting by, waiting for me to prove once again what an utter disappointment I am, people got hurt. People were thrown into prison. An innocent child was attacked and nearly trampled to death in a public building and no one even thought about intervening!”

“Oh, spare me your philanthropic musings, Astarion,” Quelenna sighed. “If I was interested in those, I’d simply read the paper. I have called you here for the truth, not whatever pretty stories you spin for the press. Clearly, Larkin needs to be kept in check, so what are you planning to do about him? Threats, blackmail? Have someone mess with those potions he enjoys so much?”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed. “All our efforts are focused on helping the people he and his group are targeting. Making sure none of them are going to prison for crimes they have not committed.”

Quelenna barked out a dry laugh. “You think taking a few pro bono cases will calm the angry mob we have outside city gates?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, mother, but justice is very much part of my job description. Which is why I’m planning to—”

“It’s not just us, by the way!” Zoraya added, desperate to relieve the tension. “We’re working as part of a legal task force, a collaboration with—”

“Zoraya, not now,” Voron said sharply. “The young master was still speaking.”

Her mouth hung open for several seconds in which she stared at him, trying to comprehend that he’d really just said that. That this was the first complete sentence he’d spoken to her in years — telling her to keep her mouth shut. In front of Astarion, no less!

She was still reeling from it when a warm hand closed over her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you for your concern,” Astarion said, his voice dripping with fake gratitude as he leaned forward, brushing his shoulder against Zoraya’s quite deliberately. “But I can assure you, whatever it is I’m saying, my darling advocate can say a thousand times better. That is the whole point of hiring an advocate: the fact that they speak on your behalf, making you sound much smarter than you actually are. Which, incidentally, you might have use for, my dear Voron.”

Voron’s face turned beet red. “Of course, Master Astarion!” he blurted, bowing his head so deep, he early knocked over his soup bowl. “My apologies!”

Astarion wrinkled his nose in distaste before turning his attention back to her. “Zoraya, dearest, would you be so kind as to pass me the bread?”

She complied, too flustered to do anything else.

“Thank you, my treasure.” He breathed a kiss to the back of her hand, his voice all silky smooth devotion. “Whatever would I do without you?”

Quelenna brought her wineglass onto the tablecloth with an audible thud. “If you’re quite done with your little performance, I’d like to hear how you’re planning to finance the construction of your road. My sources tell me that your preferred route is on the costly side due to your insistence not to disturb any of the riffraff lingering around out there. A bizarre choice, but I suppose it fits the altruistic angle you’re playing at.”

Astarion opened his mouth as if to interject something, but Quelenna silenced him with a wave of her hand and a click of her tongue. “I will take care of it for you.”

“Take care of what?” he asked.

“The financing of your highway.” Quelenna sat back and signaled for the maids to bring in the next course. “Just send me an estimate of how much gold you need and I’ll get in touch with my contacts in the city planning offices to see it done.”

“Actually, mother …” Astarion tore his bread in two, a sly smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “We have the finances all sorted out.”

“Excuse me?”

He took his time dipping the bread into the soup, making sure it was soaked before he popped it into his mouth. “We are happy to report that we have received rather generous financial support from Lady Iastar.”

“The weapon merchant?” Quelenna snorted. “Impossible. She has invested a fortune in the harbor, same as Larkin. She would never back something that poses a direct competition.”

“As it turns out, she can be convinced with the right sort of incentive,” Astarion explained, leaving an intentional beat of silence in which he finished his bread and reached for more. “There are certain hobbies the woman relishes in, you see. Hobbies of rather acquired tastes. We were approached by the owner of her favorite establishment, a gentleman who wishes to remain unnamed. He wanted to express his gratitude for how Zoraya saved several of his girls from a horribly unjustified prison sentence, and we were able to work out an agreement with him. One in which he uses his sway over Lady Iastar to suggest that supporting the highway is in her best interest. So yes, our pro bono work has been paying off.”

Excitement rushed through Zoraya’s veins at the sight of him, leaning onto his elbows with all the casual confidence she’d always admired about him. This was Astarion at his best. Wielding the sharpness of his intellect as well as his tongue to maximum effect.

Quelenna, meanwhile, was fighting for composure. “And you’re absolutely certain about this? Lady Iastar is a duplicitous snake. She might—”

“Yes, mother, I have it in writing. Notarized and everything. But thank you so much for offering.” Astarion flashed her a sickly sweet smile and placed his spoon next to the nearly empty soup bowl, his hand returning to its spot on Zoraya’s thigh.

She covered it with her own, their fingers threading under the table.

I’m here.

I see you.

I’m so proud of you.

“Thank you, Ecaeris, darling.” Astarion nodded at the maid as she cleared away the dishes, not noticing the violent blush on her cheeks. He was too focused on his mother, preening in the glory of the moment. “Now, with Lady Iastar as our generous sponsor, we have all the funding we need. Why, the Ancunín Highway practically builds itself! Isn’t that wonderful, mother?”

“Well …” Quelenna’s sharp, blue eyes darted across the tablecloth as if in search for an answer, her manicured fingers straightening imperceptible wrinkles.

It was probably the first time Zoraya had ever seen her speechless.

“Wonderful indeed,” Aquilan chimed in. “Your mother and I are so proud of you, Astarion. And you, of course, Zoraya. I knew you two would make a phenomenal team.”

Quelenna looked like she was ready to bite into her wineglass. Or hurl it at someone. Which was incredibly unfortunate timing for the maids, who chose this moment to bring in the entrées.

“Gods below, is there butter on these mushrooms?” Quelenna hissed, glaring at her plate as if the word butter was on par with cockroach.

“I … I don’t think so, my Lady!” Ecaeris stammered.

Quelenna pushed the plate away from herself with the back of her hand. “Butter is for commoners, Ecaeris. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”

“M-my apologies! I will have the chef prepare something else immediately!”

Ecaeris and the other maids gathered the plates and rushed out the door, their heels clicking hurriedly on the polished floors.

“Go with them, Zoraya,” Quelenna said with an aggravated flick of her wrist. “Make sure we get a proper meal before we starve to our deaths.”

“Oh.” Heat was rushing up Zoraya’s neck as she took the napkin out of her lap to obey. “Of c—”

The hand on her thigh tightened, pushing her down onto the chair. “Zoraya is not going to the kitchens,” Astarion declared icily.

“Ugh, don’t be ridiculous, Astarion,” Quelenna said. “It’s just a small, little favor. Zoraya doesn’t mind.”

“Well, neither do I.” He stood, his face shrouded in anger as he leaned down to whisper in Zoraya’s ear. “When I return, your pretty ass better be right here in this chair or else, I swear to god, I’ll make you come under the table before we’re done with dessert.”

He kissed her on the cheek, then strode off to the kitchens to hunt down some unbuttered mushrooms.

Astarion didn’t know how he made it through the entrée without spilling the whole goddamn bottle of wine over the tablecloth, just to see the look on his mother’s face.

He stood as soon as the dishes had been cleared away. “Excuse us, please,” he said, pulling Zoraya to her feet without waiting for his parents’ permission. “There is something we need to retrieve from my rooms. It’ll only be a moment.”

“You’ll be back in time for dessert!” Quelenna called after them. “Ten — oh, who am I kidding — fifteen minutes!”

Astarion practically jogged up the stairs, taking two steps at once. Zoraya was struggling to keep up with him in her heels, but his legs kept moving on their own accord. Stuck in a pattern he’d repeated countless times after countless family dinners just like this one.

Get it over with, get out of there, forget it ever happened.

“Astar-”

He slammed the door to his childhood bedroom shut and silenced her with a kiss. She gasped at the suddenness of it, a sound quickly swallowed up as he grabbed her by the waist and guided her backward, step by step.

“On the bed,” he said, his voice raspy in his throat.

The thought of having her here, in his childhood bed, was everything that had gotten him through that dreadful dinner. He’d show them all. He’d leave the sheets sullied for the maids to find — Hells, he’d make himself come a second time, just so he could spill all over her and the bed. He wanted her to smell of sex when they returned downstairs to the dinner table. He wanted her hair to be messy, her blouse wrinkled, her cheeks aglow from the multiple orgasms he’d inflict on her in the span of fifteen minutes. An unmistakable sign to everyone that she was the one he’d chosen and that there was nothing they could do about it.

The mattress hit the back of her thighs, but Zoraya held her ground.

“Wait,” she said, struggling to hold him off long enough to speak. “Astarion, wait.”

He was rock-hard in his trousers, but her hands on his chest made him stop all the same. “Please,” he whispered, his forehead sinking against hers. “I want them to hear. I want them all to hear what I do to you.”

He could see the blush rising up her cheeks, a mixture of shame and arousal. The idea excited her, maybe because it was so at odds with the flawless girl she’d always been in these halls. And yet, she took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Let’s talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” he grunted, plopping down next to her. “I want to bury my cock inside of you and fuck you so hard that my mother’s precious Waterdhavian wineglass collection shatters to bits from how loudly you’re screaming my name.”

“Okay.” Another deep intake of breath. “I see.”

“So …” He reached for the curve of her butt, trying to pull her into his lap, but she just laughed and pushed him off.

“Come on, Astarion!” Still laughing, she pressed a tender little kiss to his mouth.

The type of kiss that even Astarion with his limited relationship experience could tell was indicative of a lengthy conversation rather than shameless sex in his childhood bed.

“Ugh, fine!” He pulled back his hands with a sigh, folding them over his throbbing erection. “If it’s because of what she said, I can promise you, it’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been taking … precautions for a while now. The most I can pass on to you is the flu. I should have told you earlier, I just got …”

“Distracted. I know.” Her smile was unexpectedly bashful. “Me too.”

Astarion peeled his gaze off her, trying to breathe through the near-painful tightness in his trousers. He’d expected his desire for her to settle down after a while, but so far, there was no relief in sight. If anything, he only craved her more. Especially now that they were here in this house, where it was all too easy to fall back into old patterns. Storming off from the dining table to do something he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of.

Hells, he truly felt like a child in these halls.

“I don’t understand why you’re so worked up.” Zoraya reached a hand to his cheek, gently running her thumb over the spot where he was gritting his teeth. “I thought it went really well, all things considered. I mean, did you see her face when you told her we don’t need her help with finances? She was seriously impressed we had that all figured out already.”

“She seemed angry rather than impressed.”

“Well, that’s what she does. When things don’t go her way, she gets angry and starts acting up. Not unlike someone else in the family,” she added with a grin.

“How dare you!” Astarion protested, even as he felt himself leaning into her touch. “I have nothing in common with that woman, save for our impeccable hair structure!”

“Sure. Your mother might have a tendency to throw temper tantrums, but you’d never do that.”

He tried to scowl at her, but his anger was already softening. How had he ever managed to get through a single one of these dinners without her?

“Fine.” With a sigh of defeat, he let himself fall back onto the mattress. “Perhaps you have a point about the Ancunín heritage. But you do understand now why I struggle with the idea of family meals, don’t you?”

“Of course.” She lay beside him, her cheek resting right above his collarbone, her smile warm against his neck. “What I fail to understand is how she still managed to get you upset today when you literally had all the cards in your hands. We have the task force with Gale, the motion finished and fully financed, the press absolutely adores you — really, Astarion, you’re the golden boy.”

“On the outside, maybe,” he murmured. “But that’s just because they don’t know how we had to strong-arm Lady Iastar into supporting the highway. What kinds of people we had to collaborate with to make it happen.”

Astarion had had his fair share of unconventional sexual experiences, but his skin was still crawling when he thought of his meeting with the brothel owner. A slimy, bony man who’d made a career of facilitating deals that didn’t just involve consenting adults, but also procuring whatever his clientele demanded to find tied to their usual bedpost. Working with him had secured them funding from Lady Iastar, but Astarion couldn’t help but think there should have been a different way. One in which he wasn’t indirectly supporting her gruesome brothel habits.

“I know what you mean,” Zoraya said. “We’ll take out that guy as soon as your motion has been approved.”

Astarion blinked. “You think that’s possible?”

“Sure. I’ve been collecting evidence against him while you were meeting with him. The girls I bailed out of prison also helped. We could start a case now, but I’m thinking it would be safer to wait until the highway has been approved and constructions are underway. Less of a risk that Lady Iastar might find a way to wriggle out of her financial commitments once she realizes her favorite brothel has been shut down anyway.”

“You’ve been planning all that?” Astarion breathed, his hand freezing on her hip. “And you never even told me?”

“It was while we weren’t … talking much. After the ball,” she explained. “Besides, you were playing the bit of the corrupt magistrate so well with that guy. That’s the whole reason he offered you a deal to begin with — because he thinks your philanthropic efforts are just a media stunt. Same as your mother. But, really, it’s all thanks to your reputation that we get to make Lady Iastar pay for the highway and then also take out that creepy brothel. Not a bad deal, huh?”

She pushed onto her elbows and smiled down at him, pride gleaming in her eyes. As if any of this had been his idea! As if he hadn’t sat in that meeting seething with disgust, forcing himself to push through because that was the only path he’d been able to see. Because those were the kinds of decisions he’d made all his life.

But now he had her. And she had the uncanny ability to find so many other paths for him, a whole plethora of options he’d never known were there. She just pulled them out of thin air and presented them to him, allowing for futures he’d never considered possible.

A future where even a selfish, careless bastard like him could turn into the man they called The Magistrate of the People.

“Zoya,” he whispered, her name heavy on his tongue.

He knew he didn’t deserve her. That there was absolutely nothing he had ever done in his wretched life to warrant this woman choosing to fight for him, to support him, to be his advocate in so many ways.

“I am sorry for how my mother is treating you,” he said.

“Well …” She grimaced. “You can hardly expect her to be elated that her only son and heir of her house is dating the chamberlain’s bastard child.”

“It doesn’t make it right though.” He pulled her into his chest again, wrapping his arms around her tightly, as if he could shield her that way.

It wasn’t possible, of course. Not in this house that came with so many expectations and demands, an infinite arrangement of bars for him to pass until he inevitably fell short. He saw the reminders scattered all throughout his childhood bedroom. The unread schoolbooks on the shelves, the expensive lute he’d been forced to learn how to play because a nobleman ought to know at least one musical instrument. The oversized mirror where he’d been fitted for suffocatingly tight outfits, waistcoats and neckties and leather shoes he’d grow out of within a few short months. All so he could look the part of the dapper, little nobleman.

“I’ve never wanted any of this, you know,” he said, his hand tracing idly along her back. “The great Ancunín name and everything that comes with it. This mold she’d been trying to force me into, just so she can have her perfect noble family.”

“Your mother has worked very hard to get where she is now,” Zoraya said. “Not many daughters of common merchants end up taking over their husband’s business and making it so successful that they end up joining the nobility of Baldur’s Gate.”

“Yes, but why would I have to follow in her footsteps? Why can’t I make my own future? Why does she feel she has the right to control my every step, to judge whatever little thing I do, just so I won’t sully her precious family name? That’s the only reason she invited us here tonight — you know it is! Because my mother cannot fathom the thought that I would set out to do something of my own and not make a complete and utter fool of myself. I’m so tired of it! Of having everyone act like they get to decide what I ought to do to keep them happy! It’s like people look at me and all they see is a puppet on a string! A pretty thing to be dragged along to do whatever it is they want of me!”

Astarion hadn’t realized how loud he’d gotten until he gulped down a much-needed breath. His throat was sore, his heart thrumming heavily in the silence that followed his outburst.

“They?” Zoraya repeated gently. He felt her shifting in his arms, sliding higher on the mattress, so she could rest her head on her elbow and look at him. “Did you talk to Lord Szarr?”

The question sounded so innocent and yet, it cut through all his agitation like an icy gust of wind. A chill that had settled somewhere deep inside his bones, ready to creep back out again as soon as the name fell from her lips.

“Yes.” Astarion cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone light. “I told him about the two of us and he said that he was happy for me.”

“And his support with the council?”

“Unwavering. Really, Zoya, you’re overthinking this. There is nothing you need to worry yourself with.” He kissed her on the forehead, ignoring the lurch in his stomach.

It wasn’t that he was lying to her. He was simply omitting what she didn’t need to know about his meeting with Cazador.

Astarion had called him into his office the previous night, after Zoraya had left for the day. He’d made sure to stay behind his desk, firmly seated on his chair. A sign that this was how their relationship was going to be like, moving forward: strictly business.

And indeed, Cazador seemed to take the news well.

“A relationship?” he’d said, tilting his head and offering one of his pale, ghostly smiles. “That’s what you’ve called me here to speak about? Oh, Astarion, my boy, how silly of you! Why would that be of interest to me? I am happy for you, of course. It was getting rather embarrassing how you and the Gur woman kept making eyes at each other like cattle in heat. But really, your romantic endeavors are no concern of mine.”

“I just thought that …” Astarion’s hands curled into fists under the table as he struggled for words. “I just wanted to know whether I still have your support. For the council opening, I mean.”

“Why, you most certainly do!” Cazador drawled pleasantly. “As much as I enjoyed our nightly encounters, they were never part of our deal — I sincerely hope you know that. All I want is to see you elevated into the position you rightfully deserve. And then once you’re there, you’ll remember who helped you along the way, won’t you?”

He came a step closer toward the desk, his face still friendly, but his eyes dark and inescapable.

“Because that is very much part of our deal, you see,” Cazador continued, his voice soft and comforting, almost like a lullaby. “Once you’re a Duke of Baldur’s Gate, you will remember who supported your career. You will remember who picked you out of the trenches of irrelevance and made you what you are. You will be so grateful, you won’t mind helping out an old friend when he asks for the occasional favor.”

Astarion’s head felt fuzzy, so all he did was nod.

Cazador lifted one thin eyebrow. “You are grateful, are you not?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then what are you doing behind that desk of yours, boy?”

Astarion was on his feet in an instant. He rounded the desk and dropped to his knees before Cazador, reaching for the man’s cold, pale hands and pressing them to his lips.

“Thank you,” he heard himself say, kissing the rings on each finger. “Thank you, my Lord, thank you.”

He couldn’t describe what had come over him. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, although it had been a little while since he’d last felt this sudden, overwhelming desire to please the man, to do everything in his power to earn his approval. He’d always thought it was part of their role-play, some primitive aspect of his mind fitting itself into the role a little too neatly, carrying it out a little too enthusiastically. But last night had been different. There had been nothing sexual about their meeting — although Astarion couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that, if Cazador had initiated anything, his body would have joined in despite his promises to Zoraya.

And what in the Hells did that say about him? How weak-willed and pathetic was he that a few days after promising her an exclusive relationship, he fell to his knees before another man, all but ready to be his plaything once more?

“I’m glad to hear it.” Zoraya was still smiling at him. Not suspecting a thing because she trusted him. She believed in him. She always saw the best in him.

Astarion felt the meal churn in his stomach when she kissed him and sat up. Her eyes scanned the room, looking to switch topics to something less depressing.

“Gods, this place hasn’t changed at all since I was last here,” she said.

“I suppose it hasn’t.” Astarion drew himself up, one arm around her waist to fend off the knowledge as to why it had been so long since she’d last been here.

You’re such a child, Zoya.

A teacher’s pet, an utter drip. I don’t have time to look at your stupid pens; I have plans this evening.

“Actually, I take it back.” She rose to her feet and took another exaggerated look around herself. “Something’s missing from your rooms. Something really important.”

“And what would that be?”

She turned around, one hand braced against her hip dramatically. “Sir Hopperson!”

The laughter shot right past his glumness, spilling out of him like sparkling wine from a poorly opened bottle.

“Where is he?” Zoraya demanded. “I know he can’t be far!”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Lies!” She opened the wardrobe, rummaging for all of thirty seconds before producing a stuffed bunny. “Aha!” she exclaimed, holding it up accusatorily like a piece of evidence in a court hearing. “Hidden behind your undershirts, so far back he can’t even see the sun — you should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Apologies, your Honor,” Astarion said. “I truly didn’t know.”

She scoffed and cradled the bunny against her chest. Stroking the long, scruffy ears that were not quite as white anymore as they used to be about twenty years ago when she’d last held him like this.

He remembered how she used to beg him to let her play with the bunny. She’d gaze up at him, her brown eyes all childish yearning and desperation when he taunted and teased her about it. In hindsight, maybe that was the whole reason Sir Hopperson had been his favorite toy.

Because it had been hers as well.

Astarion strode up to her with a smile. “Trying to make me jealous, are we?”

“Is it working?”

“Oh, yes. I am just about ready to chuck the fluffy bastard out the window for trying to tempt away my girlfriend.”

She glanced at the window and back, one corner of her mouth lifting into a grin. “You know, that’s not a terrible idea.”

Astarion recognized the sparkle in her eyes, that rare, beautiful gleam of mischief. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him, but he liked to imagine that it had been him who had placed it there. He would have agreed to anything, so long as she asked him with that look in her eyes.

“Whatever you have in mind — I’m all pointy ears, my love.”

Aquilan Ancunín had many secrets. Some of them bigger, some of them smaller, all of them well-kept. Like the pipe his wife didn’t know he was smoking because in her mind, that was a hobby for fishmongers and schoolteachers. She also didn’t like the smell, but that was secondary to the principle of the thing.

And Aquilan was a reasonable man. He knew he wasn’t going to convince his wife that a nobleman could indulge in the occasional smoke without immediately losing all of his respect and titles, so he did it in secret. Outside. He just grabbed one of the many pipes he kept hidden all throughout the estate and stepped out the door whenever the craving arose.

He stood in his usual spot under the small ledge that shielded him from rain and wind when he spotted two figures running across the lawn. One of them was pale and silver-haired, the other dark-skinned and barefoot, holding a pair of high heels in one hand and a white bunny in the other. Both of them were laughing. Giddy, childlike laughter, the likes of which had not graced the Ancunín estate in decades. They were pulling each other through the plum orchard, their bodies colliding every few steps, drunk on youth and happiness.

The man’s graceful hands closed around her waist and leaned her against one of the trees they used to climb when they were younger. He whispered something in her ear for the sheer joy of seeing her burst into laughter, then kissed her long and slow. Her arms came to rest around his shoulders, bunny and shoes and all, their silhouettes melting into one against the tree.

Aquilan had always known that this was going to happen. He’d hoped it would happen much sooner and without requiring quite so much aid, but it was a beautiful thing to witness all the same.

In his many years of marriage, he’d always been careful about picking his fights. His wife had a much better head for business, so he’d gladly given her full control over the family trade — something to do with numbers and investments he’d never fully gotten the hang of anyway. He let her decide which parties they attended and what he ought to wear and who he ought to involve in a bout of polite small talk because she was good at all those things and he was not.

It had been a very conscious decision then when he’d chosen to oppose her plans of adopting Zoraya Naelgrath, the brilliant child they’d taken in as a ward. Quelenna had been furious. She wouldn’t speak to him for weeks, left the room as soon as he entered it, but Aquilan remained steadfast in his decision. Because what was the point of adopting a girl that he knew would make her way into the family anyway?

He might not know much about investments or the many rules of propriety among Baldur’s Gate’s nobility, but he knew about love.

He knew about the kind of love that had been growing inside that girl for so many years, sprawling and thriving to such an extent that his son would probably never be able to reciprocate it in quite the same way. Just as he knew about the kind of love that was building inside Astarion right this moment. A love that burned slower, lower, but was equally difficult to reciprocate, no matter how hard one might try. For as long as she’d admired, cherished and desired him, he needed her. Needed her like air and sunshine and fresh, warm food in his stomach.

Aquilan knew about love like that.

It was love like that which made it so easy for him to see his wife for who she truly was. The young woman that had stood here on this very lawn all those years ago, tears streaming down her lovely face as he showed her the first plum tree he’d planted for her, secretly in his parents’ backyard.

“There’ll be one for every time you’ve proven them wrong,” he’d told her. “One for every time I get to gloat in their faces because I have chosen the most incredible woman to be my wife.”

Aquilan puffed his pipe. The smoke billowed out into what was now an orchard, well over a hundred trees, bearing his wife’s favorite fruit.

At the far edge, his son was climbing up the fence, wriggling his way out of one more family meal he didn’t feel like attending. Only this time, he wasn’t alone. This time, he pulled her along with him, holding her shoes to help her scale the fence. Laughing as she fell down the other side and landed on her rear, only to jump after her and gather her in his arms, holding her close like something precious he couldn’t bear to share with the world.

“You’re welcome,” Aquilan murmured to no one in particular.

He brought the pipe to his lips again and that’s when the shouting started inside the house.

“Where in the Hells have they gone? Is this another one of his juvenile games? Ecaeris!”

Aquilan sighed and put out the pipe. He placed it back inside the empty vase and took a mint leaf out of the tin can next to it, popping it in his mouth to mask the smell of smoke.

“It’s alright, sugar plum,” he said as he went back inside. “Astarion and Zoraya had to take their leave. Urgent magistrate business, I’m afraid. They send their sincerest apologies.”

Chapter Text

Astarion sat in his courtroom with a sizeable problem under his bench.

The good news was that it was a fairly clear-cut case in terms of evidence. The defendant had found out about his wife’s affair and run off screaming and cursing, only to be caught two blocks away from where the unfortunate lover had collapsed into a puddle of blood, still clutching the knife that perfectly matched the hole in the other man’s stomach. He didn’t even have a proper defense, other than claiming he “couldn’t remember” how he’d got there. Which raised the question as to who was the bigger idiot: the man accused of murder or his utterly incapable lawyer.

Still, Astarion was trying to be more careful with his verdicts. More conscientious with the people that were brought before him, trying to see their side of the story, no matter how annoying their voices or how unpleasant their faces. He wanted to give them a chance, even if their tasteless outfits and grimy, unmanicured hands made him want to gauge out his eyes. Because anything else, he’d come to realize, really only put him one step above those guards that had decided to take out their anger on a small, defenseless child.

Astarion was immensely proud of himself for his new-found resolve. His determination to leave the past behind and be a gracious, well-reflected magistrate from now on — a true Magistrate of the People, as it were.

All the more annoying was it that he was thoroughly distracted by the unusual tightness in his magistrate robes, the molten heat coiling in his lower body as the prosecutor continued with her cross-examination.

“The evidence is indisputable!” the prosecutor said, gesturing at the defendant. “We have the murder weapon, we have eyewitnesses placing you on the scene as well as the wife’s rather colorful account of your motive — I believe it is time for you to confess, Mister Harrows!”

She slammed her hand onto the table and Astarion’s eyes fell shut, his mind racing back to the last time he’d heard those words.

I believe it is time for you to confess, Miss Naelgrath.

It had been right here in this room, Zoraya bent over the counsel table, her hands braced against the smooth, wooden surface. The fabric of her modest office trousers stretching most immodestly over her ass as she pushed it up in the air, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

“Please, Lord Magistrate,” she’d said, a needy quiver in her voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

In his defense, it hadn’t even been his idea.

The gods knew Astarion had had a lot of sex in his courtroom, most of it following a particular type of plotline, but he would have never suggested it to her. In his mind, those were things he did with his conquests. People whose only purpose was to keep him entertained or get him ahead with his career, not the woman he’d sworn to cherish as his partner.

As it turned out, relationships were infinitely more complex than he could have anticipated.

He approached her from behind, his robes rustling as he leaned in to her ear and whispered, “Oh, I think you do. I think you know much, much more than you let on.”

She shivered, goosebumps racing down the gorgeous curve of her neck and disappearing under the collar of her blouse. He pictured them spreading all over her body, from the column of her throat down to her long, well-shaped legs.

“Please, Lord Magistrate,” she repeated. Her eyes flicked over to meet his, dark and ravenous. Practically starved for his touch.

He placed a single finger at the nape of her neck and slowly trailed it down her spine, watching with satisfaction how she arched along with the movement. Her shoulders pulling back and her ass coming out further, trying to make more contact. Every part of her an invitation, just for him.

One he couldn’t follow quite yet because she’d asked him for a game.

“You see, there have been complaints about the noises coming out of your office,” Astarion said. “Noises of a rather … scandalous nature, I’m afraid. People are wondering about the origin of those noises. They’re wondering just what exactly the great Zoraya Naelgrath, beacon of virtue and righteousness, might be doing behind closed doors. And, perhaps even more importantly: Who is accompanying her in those despicable acts?”

His hand reached her butt and closed around it firmly, eliciting a strangled gasp. She wriggled her hips, managing to bump into him once before he pushed her away with a scolding click of his tongue.

“I’m going to need you to confess, Miss Naelgrath,” he said. “Tell me what you’re doing in your office that has all of city hall in an uproar.”

“I …” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Yes?” He slid two fingers in between her legs and nearly let out a curse when he felt the wetness seeping through her trousers, her core squirming into his hand immediately. Gods below, this woman!

“Tell me, Miss Naelgrath,” he hissed. “Tell me and I promise, I will be lenient.”

“I’m sleeping with my boss.”

Astarion’s cock gave a violent twitch under his robes.

“Oh,” he said, fighting to keep his voice neutral. Smooth and alluring, the way it ought to be during these games, when all he wanted to do was to growl and snarl and bite and fuck. “And why, my dear, would you do something like that? Does he buy you pretty things? Jewels and dresses and such?”

“Y-yes, but — mhmmm …” The thoughts seemed to slip out of her grasp when he rewarded her with a few well-placed strokes of his fingers, wanton noises spilling out of her. “That’s not why I do it.”

“Then why do you do it?” he whispered, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “And please remember that you’re under oath.”

“Because I love …” There was a pause, a shaky intake of breath. “I love … sleeping with him.” Her eyes were shut, a beautifully depraved expression on her face. “I love his hands and his mouth all over me. I love shoving the folders off his desk, so he can have me right there. I love coming on his court documents. Coming on his magistrate robes. Coming all over his cock when he holds me up against the wall of the file room. I sit in his hearings and all I can think about is how much I want him to fuck me right then and there. And then I have to go to the bathroom and put my hand down my trousers and I think of him when I — ah!”

She was clenching around him from the first thrust, her trousers pooling around her high heels as he slammed inside of her with a groan of relief.

He couldn’t keep up with the game as he normally would. Couldn’t go a moment longer without being inside of her, enveloped in her heat and her cries. All he could do was fuck her and hold her and fucking treasure her.

Because no matter how many games he’d played in his courtroom over the years, they’d always been just that: games. Meaningless little distractions, enjoyable in the moment, but quickly forgotten in the stream of time. He’d never once lost his composure like that. Had never allowed them to make their way into his everyday life.

“Your verdict, Lord Magistrate?”

Astarion returned to his hearing with a start, his fully erect cock connecting with the underside of his bench.

The prosecutor was staring at him. So was the rest of the courtroom, the defendant, his useless excuse for a lawyer and the entire audience, including …

Zoraya.

She was seated front and center, an open notebook in her lap. Working on her own cases while she was waiting for him, so they could leave together.

“The verdict, Lord Magistrate?” the prosecutor repeated tersely.

Right.

The verdict.

A task that should be exceedingly simple in a case like this, where he had evidence, eyewitnesses and what he was pretty sure had been a confession on his side. Except for the part where he had to get up and retreat to his chambers before returning with his decision, thus showing the whole entire room what was currently bulging out his robes.

There was no way anyone could miss it.

There was no way she could miss it.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how furious she’d be with him. How humiliated to be dating a man who was sporting very public boners during a murder confession. She’d break up with him on the spot. Probably get a restraining order as well, just in case.

“I …” Astarion cleared his throat, frantically toying with his fountain pen. “I believe we must defer.”

“Defer?” The prosecutor’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “The defendant has confessed to trying to murder his wife’s lover and you wish to defer?”

“The court is adjourned! Thank you all for coming!” He slammed down the gavel and kept slamming it until the woman stopped protesting.

Astarion remained seated, even after the room had cleared out. He kept his eyes trained on his desk, shuffling around his documents and begging the tightness to ease from his robes.

It did not.

Certainly not when he heard the clicking of Zoraya’s heels approach his bench, her elbows coming to rest just inches away from the folder he was staring at. “Feeling indecisive today?” she said sweetly.

“Well,” he grumbled, “I haven’t been feeling my best and did not want to risk putting an innocent man behind bars.”

“How very noble of you.” There was a playful lilt in her voice that made him look up despite his better judgment. Her head was cocked to the side, a smile dancing on her lips. “Ready to go home?”

“Not yet,” he said, ignoring the little jump in his chest at her choice of words. Home. They weren’t even living together, but that’s how she referred to either of their houses. “I’d like to double-check a few things, so why don’t you go on ahead without me?”

“Hmmm, I think I’ll stay.” Eyes never leaving his, she slunk around the bench over to his side. “Who knows, maybe there’s something I can help you with?”

“N-no need, darling.” He scooted his chair forward as far as it would go, trying to look like this was in fact his preferred position, jammed against the edge of his own desk “I am really quite alright.”

Zoraya just smiled and reached for his chair, pulling it to the side so as to force his legs out from under the bench. Her gaze settled on the bulge in his robes, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “Hard day, hm?”

“It’s not what you think!” Astarion sputtered, shame burning all the way into the tips of his ears. “I wasn’t …”

“I know.”

“You … know?”

“Mhm.” She sank down onto her knees and reached for his robes, working her way through the layers with practiced fingers. “I guess that’s why they say lawyers shouldn’t date. Makes cross-examination a real pain to get through.”

Her hands closed around him, warm and tight and perfect, and Astarion’s head fell back, his fingers curling around the armrest in desperate search for support.

“Zoya,” he croaked. “Zoya, please. The door … Someone could—”

The words disintegrated under a low, needy groan when she took his tip into her mouth and started sucking oh-so gently. Teasingly almost. Like the promise of what she could do to him, what only she could do to him.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I suppose someone could come in.” Her voice was soft and sensual, daring in a way she’d only started exhibiting recently. He’d always loved watching her let go of her rigidity, but the fact that she did it with his cock in her hands?

It had him throbbing in her grip, his teeth clenching with the desire to shove himself back into her mouth.

“And now’s not the time to risk another scandal, so I suggest you try and stay very quiet.” She flicked her tongue over him briefly, then sat back on her heels, gazing up at him. “Can you do that, Astarion? Can you be quiet for me?”

He nodded, knowing it was a lie.

He was whimpering her name as soon as her lips closed over him, the hot wetness of her mouth engulfing him slowly, inch by inch. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing but make sure his eyes were squeezed shut because he knew, one glimpse down to where her pretty lips were wrapped around his cock, her cheeks hollowing out with each irresistible motion, and he’d be sure to come apart on the spot.

That was exactly what had happened the first time she’d offered this. She’d been a little shy about it, asking him to provide feedback, when really, there had been no need for feedback. The sheer sight of her dropping to her knees and reaching for his belt had him so worked up that by the time she took him into her mouth, he barely lasted thirty seconds before spurting onto her tongue. Which was utterly ridiculous because Astarion used to spend entire meetings with a willing person under his desk! Dragging it out for as long as possible until their lips were so numb, he had to push to his feet as soon as the meeting was over, boxing them in between his pelvis and the edge of the desk and forcing himself all the way into the back of their throat, just so their gagging would provide the final impetus to push him over the edge.

Now he was in danger of climaxing just from seeing her. From knowing it was her who was cowering between his thighs, dragging her mouth up and down his cock in relentless pursuit of his pleasure.

He could hardly believe that he used to scoff at the concept of relationships, waving them away as dull and boring when in actuality, everything they did was amped up by the fact that it was her.

Zoraya Naelgrath who had somehow, miraculously, decided to give him a chance. Who was willing to overlook his many flaws and missteps and believe in his ability to do better, be better. He’d never felt more seen by anyone. Desired in a way that felt safe, allowing him to let himself fall into her touch, trusting her and wanting her, tearing down walls he’d never known were there.

“Magistrate Ancunín?”

Astarion’s eyes flew open, his body jolting with white-hot panic at the sight of High Judge Gale Dekarios entering his courtroom.

“Ah, you’re still here!” Gale said pleasantly. “I was hoping I might catch you before you’re heading out for the day!” He made his way over to the bench, all purple robes and good-natured smiles.

“H-High Judge Dekarios!” Astarion croaked, stuttering for the second time that day, if for entirely different reasons.

Zoraya came up from his cock with a sharp intake of breath. He could feel her panic, nails digging into his thighs, and he placed a reassuring hand on her head, fingers curling into her hair protectively as he leaned forward, using his torso as a shield to cover her from view.

“Forgive the intrusion.” Gale stopped on the other side of the bench, not an arm’s length from where Zoraya was kneeling on the floor. “I know you’re awfully busy, I just wanted to pass along my edits for your motion.”

Astarion accepted the leather-bound folder with a tight smile. “Why, thank you, High Judge Dekarios. I didn’t expect you to get through it so soon.”

“It’s a solid motion. Very little to nitpick, even for me.” Gale laughed and Astarion gritted his teeth to keep from yelling at the man to get the Hells out of here.

He didn’t care that Dekarios might find him in a compromising position — the heavens knew that had happened plenty of times before. But Zoraya was looking up to the man. Was so in awe of his work that Astarion wouldn’t be surprised to find a diary full of newspaper clippings featuring his most seminal casework in her house, complete with little stars and hearts drawn in the margins. And he wasn’t exactly a fan of that because, in an ideal world, he would be the only man she looked up to — whether it be from in between his thighs or not.

But those petty feelings were far outweighed by an overwhelming desire to protect her. Help her save face in front of this obnoxious man she’d chosen to admire, no matter how stupid his haircut or how cheesy his earrings.

“You and Zoraya did a phenomenal job with this,” Gale continued, still refusing to turn into mist. “Is she around, by chance? I’ve been meaning to speak to her about one of her pro bono cases.”

“I’m afraid she’s a little tied up at the moment,” Astarion said. “You know Zoraya. Always has a lot on her … plate.”

He’d only meant it as a harmless little joke, but Zoraya clearly did not find it funny. Her head snapped back down again, swallowing him up so suddenly that Astarion couldn’t stifle the obscene noise that shot up his throat.

Gale’s brow furrowed in concern. “Everything alright, Magistrate Ancunín?”

“My apologies,” Astarion choked out, desperately trying to catch his breath.

A task that was pretty much impossible while he had her on his cock, her tongue swirling around his length slowly, gently and most of all, soundlessly. Leaving the responsibility of whether or not they’d be found out in his hands — or, well, his mouth.

Fuck. Talk about a woman full of surprises.

“I haven’t been feeling so well today,” Astarion said, hoping he sounded pained rather than stupidly turned on. “I just didn’t want to miss my hearing.”

“You do look a little ill,” Gale agreed. “Let’s get you to the court healer, shall we?”

He made a step toward his side of the bench and Astarion threw up his hands. “No! I mean … I’m sorry, Dekarios.” He chuckled awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that … it’s a rather private matter, you see.”

Gale looked at him with the innocent expression of a man who did not, in fact, see.

Luckily, it was at that moment that the door swung open again and in came a creature that Astarion would have described as a cat if he hadn’t made that mistake years ago and paid the price for it.

“Mister Dekarios, there you are!” Tara said, her stern voice very much at odds with her small, feline body.

She was in fact a tressym. A magical creature Gale seemed to have conjured as a sort of animal companion, most likely in an attempt at combating the loneliness that came with being a socially crippled overachiever.

“You are needed in your chambers at once!” Tara said. “Your secretary has brought that vile cucumber dish for lunch again and I need you to — Good heavens!” She stopped halfway through the courtroom, tail shooting up in the air and ears flattening against her head. “Mister Dekarios, get away from there at once!”

“Now come on, Tara,” Gale said kindly. “Don’t be rude to Magistrate Ancunín.”

“Oh, I can assure you, I am not the one being rude!” she hissed, baring her teeth at Astarion.

He wasn’t sure exactly how Tara could tell — whether it was the smell of his arousal or Zoraya’s saliva — but one way or another, she knew.

“Let’s go, Mister Dekarios!” She turned with a very catlike swish of her tail. “You do not want to be associated with this debauchery!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Gale said as he hurried after her. “Good luck with the motion! Give Zoraya my best!”

The door closed behind them and Astarion released a long, tortured breath.

“You, my dear, are going to be the death of me,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Zoraya released him with a lewd little pop. “You said you could keep quiet.”

“I lied,” he admitted, allowing himself to gaze down at her. She was gorgeous with her wet lips right next to his swollen tip, that unmistakable glint in her eyes that was very quickly becoming his favorite thing in the whole damn world.

“Besides,” he said, “I thought it was my advocate’s job to keep me out of scandals?”

“Usually, yes.” She nodded, looking very serious as she kept pumping his slick length with her hand. “But you heard Gale. The motion is ready to submit and so solid, not even he could find a lot to nitpick. And you know what else is part of my job?”

“What?” he whispered.

“Making sure you know what a good job you did with it.”

The praise blazed through him, lighting up his nerve endings, and then her mouth was on him again and Astarion came before she’d even reached his shaft. A wave of pleasure so overwhelming, he was pretty sure Gale could hear him from the other side of the building. Tara certainly could, the poor creature.

He was gasping for air for what felt like minutes afterward. His body all but melting into the chair, hips twitching and thrusting helplessly as he spilled the last drops into her mouth. He blinked open his eyes, just so he could watch her swallow. Picture his cum going down her throat, her tongue eagerly licking up every last drop of him. It had something coil inside of him, something dark and possessive he’d never felt before.

When Zoraya made to get up, his hand shot out and pulled her into his lap. She landed a little awkwardly, laughing as she settled against the crook of his arm and stroked back his hair. Kissed the side of his face and nudged her nose against his ear, whispering soothing words. Tender, sweet little touches he hadn’t known he needed until he felt his body shiver with pleasure.

He wanted to say something daring, something sexy. Something that made up for the fact that he was drenched in sweat and panting like most of the older High Judges whenever the magic elevator was malfunctioning. But all he could think about was how good she felt, fully dressed in his lap. Holding him as he recovered from his orgasm like no one ever had.

So he just sat there with his arms wrapped around her, luxuriating in the feel of her, right there with him.

“Will you come with me to submit the motion?” he asked after a while.

Zoraya looked up from where she was resting her head against his shoulder. “Sure,” she said, smiling. “If you want me there?”

“Yes.” Astarion’s arms tightened around her, his lips brushing her forehead.

I always want you there.

Submitting a motion was, in theory, a rather anticlimactic affair. Since the Parliament of Peers didn’t have time to invite every single applicant into the Great Hall, they’d opted for an elegant mailbox out in the courtyard. What you were supposed to do was slide in the documents, get yourself a flimsy little paper receipt and then return back home and wait.

Which wasn’t anywhere near sufficient for what Astarion had been picturing as the culmination of months of grueling paperwork, negotiations and backroom deals, so naturally, he’d gone ahead and made his own arrangements.

“What in the world …” Zoraya muttered as their coach approached the Ducal Palace.

“Why, I told you it would be nice to get a little publicity, didn’t I?” Astarion said innocently.

“Sure, but when you said a little, I didn’t think you’d—”

“Clearly, there’s much you still need to learn about me, darling.” He kissed her cheek and waved at the crowd through the coach window, causing a few shouts of excitement.

The turnout was quite spectacular, even better than he had anticipated. Apart from the journalists he’d so graciously informed of this momentous event, there were a good number of interested citizens as well. All of them eager to witness history in the form of Astarion Ancunín, securing his spot as the next Duke of Baldur’s Gate by submitting his much-anticipated motion to start construction on the Ancunín Highway.

Why, in just a few months, he’d be crossing this courtyard every day, on his way to important meetings with important people. Filling the very position his mother had coveted, yet never quite managed to snatch, only to return home to find Zoraya draped over his couch.

Granted, she’d probably be covered in work folders rather than red lace, but that was a detail he could live with.

“Come on, Ira,” Astarion said, balancing the motion in the crook of his arm as he helped her out of the coach. “Time for your big moment.”

Ira hopped out, seemingly unbothered by the crowd. Astarion was glad to see that the new dress he’d bought her was still mostly clean, save for a few scuffs at the hem. He’d also gone ahead and hired one of his stylists to tame her unruly hair, resulting in a glossy braid cascading down her back. Even her hands were clean for once, not a trace of dirt under her nails when they paused to smile and wave at the press.

“You remember what you have to do?” Astarion whispered.

“So long as you remember my payment.”

“Wonderful.” He took her small hand in his and together, they made their way toward the mailbox.

Thankfully, the palace guards were used to commotions such as this one and had put up a few wooden barriers to create a sort of walkway for him to pass through. Astarion recognized one of the guards from her shifts at city hall, a large tiefling woman with a greataxe and a rather infectious smile. Karlach, if memory served. She didn’t seem to enjoy her current post quite as much, judging by the tense look on her face, her eyes scanning the crowd ceaselessly.

“Here you go, darling.” Astarion handed Ira the folder, then reached around her waist carefully and lifted her up toward the mailbox.

The crowd went wild.

And, really, how could they not? It was fucking adorable. The Magistrate of the People lifting up the poor, abused Gur child, so she could be the one to submit his motion — a motion in direct defiance of the recent racial tensions, calling for the construction of a highway that would connect people, rather than keep them divided?

Honestly, not to flatter himself, but it was brilliant. Downright poetic. An image so undeniably beautiful, every newspaper in town would be itching to slather it all over their front pages. It would be the talk of the city, garnering so much attention, the Parliament would have no choice but to fast-track their decision and approve his motion.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” Astarion said, flashing the crowd his most dazzling smile as he turned this way and that. Giving them a chance to pick their favorite angle for their artistic renditions.

Eventually, however, he was forced to put Ira back on her feet on account of her threatening to start screaming for help.

A hand shot up in the first row. “How certain are you that your motion will be approved, Magistrate Ancunín?”

“Oh, very certain, of course,” Astarion said. “I have full faith in the Parliament’s ability to see beyond the prejudice and petty fearmongering and do the right thing for our city.”

“Petty fearmongering,” Yeshana Orbryn repeated sharply, her voice slicing through the crowd. “Is that what you call unprovoked attacks such as the one last night? Eleven members of the City Watch being blown up in their sleep — that is petty fearmongering?”

Astarion hesitated. He hadn’t actually read the morning paper that day; he recalled pushing it out of the way when he’d lifted Zoraya onto the kitchen table.

“I’m afraid I do not have all the available information on that particular case,” he said.

“It was a series of coordinated explosions targeting the guards stationed around Wyrm’s Crossing,” Yeshana said helpfully. “Eight people died, three are severely injured. No one has explicitly claimed responsibility, but there was the usual letter.”

Astarion swallowed, knowing what she meant. The letters had popped up a few times in the past weeks, always following an attack against the City Watch. A single arrow rammed into the soil, attached to it a note reading, The land takes back what has been stolen.

So far, the attacks had been fairly minor. Vandalized guard posts and the occasional robbery, always with minimal casualties. Irritating, yes, but harmless enough to overlook. If Yeshana was telling the truth and this time, they’d purposefully blown up several fully manned guard posts in the middle of the night, that would change everything.

And while the papers referred to the perpetrators as an anonymous group, Astarion knew there could be none other than Tatiana Morozova behind these attacks. Out of all the tribes residing around Baldur’s Gate, she was the only one with a trained fighting force. The Gur had made their living in many different ways over the centuries, often as soothsayers and herb witches, but also as traveling monster hunters. They had weapons and strategies and a whole lot of anger because of what had happened to Ira.

It was a disaster all around. One he should have seen coming because Tatiana had quite literally sent Zoraya an announcement letter. But he’d been so busy with the motion and his hearings — and thinking of new ways to fuck his girlfriend — he’d just hoped the Gur would contend themselves with a tolerable amount of anger and outrage.

He should have known better.

Of course, these people didn’t know what was good for them. Of course, they couldn’t be happy with what he and Zoraya were working so hard to provide for them. They just had to go ahead and ruin it all by slaughtering guards in their sleep like the ruthless savages most people already saw them as.

And as a result of their stupidity, Astarion now found himself on the wrong end of Yeshana Orbryn’s triumphant smile.

“How very disappointing,” she said with a dramatic shake of her head, “that a political figure such as yourself wouldn’t bother to stay up-to-date on local events directly pertaining to your work. One can only speculate how many other factors you might have neglected in your motion.”

Astarion’s jaw tightened. He would have loved to give her a painfully detailed rundown of how much effort had gone into the plain, little folder Ira had just deposited into the mailbox, but there was a noticeable shift in the air. It drew his attention away from Yeshana and toward the rest of the crowd that suddenly didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic anymore.

“I assure you, my motion has been drafted with the utmost care,” Astarion began, but his words were swallowed up by the hum of anger that rose up like a tidal wave.

No one was interested in what he had to say anymore. People were discussing amongst each other, faces turning red and knuckles white as their voices grew louder and louder. The situation had taken on a dynamic of its own, one in which arguments turned to insults and then to raised fists. Already the first man stumbled into the barrier, the person who’d shoved him following, oozing hatred and violence.

“Let me through, please!” a woman shouted somewhere in the chaos. “I have a child!”

No one seemed to answer.

Instinctually, without even thinking about it, Astarion grabbed Ira and pulled her behind himself.  It wasn’t like he could fight his way through this many people, but he felt for his foldable dagger all the same, sweat collecting on his brow.

“All good, Lord Magistrate.” Karlach appeared next to him. “My pal Wyll and I, we’ve got your back. And your front. And the whole rest as well. You just take the girl and we’ll get you back to your coach.”

The wooden barriers seemed incredibly flimsy all of a sudden as they made their way through the crowd, Karlach leading the way and her colleague Wyll bringing up the rear. Astarion had never been more grateful to be boxed in between two heavily armed individuals. He kept Ira close to his hip, his head bowed down so as to evade any flying missiles.

The screams were deafening at this point. Part of the crowd was going on about filthy vagrants and terrorists and scorching all that filth off our soil, others were holding against it with racist pigs and principles of our city. Fists were flying all over the place now, people jumping and shoving each other, while others tried to get out of the way, often crawling on their hands and knees. Palace guards were breaking up fights wherever they could, handcuffing people to streetlamps and then moving on to the next group.

It felt like trying to empty a bathtub with a delicate little teaspoon.

“I suggest you circle around the city for a bit before you get out,” Karlach said as she lifted Ira into the coach. “Just in case anyone gets any ideas of following you.”

Astarion nodded, too stunned to respond. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, then she and Wyll disappeared into the crowd.

More guards came streaming out of the palace, but there were simply too many people in the courtyard. Too much pent-up anger breaking free all at once, swallowing everyone who couldn’t get away fast enough.

Yeshana Orbryn stood on the sidelines, her hair a little tousled, but otherwise unharmed. She was scribbling into her notebook furiously, glancing up at the rioting crowd every few moments.

Astarion wanted nothing more than to grab the notebook and smash it into her face.

“Come.” Zoraya reached out a hand and pulled him into the coach.

The driver set off as soon as the door had closed behind him, but the screams were still ringing in Astarion’s ears.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he murmured, his voice weirdly hollow.

He looked at Zoraya, begging her to understand that this was not what he’d intended to do. He’d only wanted them to cheer for him, for their work. To make sure they’d get their motion approved as soon as possible, so they could help those stupid, short-sighted vagrants out there.

“I know.” Zoraya took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers in her lap. “We’ll deal with it.”

How? he wanted to yell. How were they going to deal with Tatiana Morozova starting a war she couldn’t possibly win? How was he supposed to keep telling people that the Gur were harmless and misunderstood when they were blowing up guards in their sleep? What was the point of any of this when they insisted on acting like gods damned terrorists?

“Is this … because of me?” Ira’s voice was small, her shoulders slumped forward.

“Of course not!” Zoraya said without hesitation. “This is about a bunch of adults acting like idiots. That’s all.”

She pulled the girl into a hug and Ira made a valiant effort to conjure up her usual scowl as she nestled into Zoraya’s side.

“Well, nothing new there, I guess,” she scoffed, hiding her face in Zoraya's sleeve. “Just so you know, we’ll have to adjust my payment because I sure as hell didn’t sign up for any of that.”

Chapter Text

Objection was angry.

To be fair, Objection was angry a lot of the time. Several years of living on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, forced to bear witness to the deepest pits of the human psyche, had instilled a sort of general, overarching anger in him. The type that wasn’t directed at anyone or anything so much as at the world at large and his boundless disappointment at being forced to live in it. Now, however, Objection’s anger had shifted. Focused and sharpened, like the little rays of light Zoraya would occasionally send through the house with her hand mirror for him to hunt down. The sheer might of his anger concentrated on a single individual so utterly despicable, Objection had no choice but to devote the entirety of his disdain to him and him alone.

The idiot.

The intruder.

The foppish, ugly little man who had had the gall to saunter into Objection’s home without an invitation, without the customary rodent offerings or so much as a formal bow! Never even realizing that this was in fact Objection’s house. A space he shared with Zoraya on account of an arrangement they’d made years ago: fish treats in exchange for a roof over her head. It had seemed a fair trade at the time, all things considered.

Objection was beginning to revise this assessment. No amount of fish treats could compensate him for the agony of having to watch the idiot get down on all fours and hold out his stupid hand and coo, “Come here, kitty cat! Look what I’ve got for you!”

Objection turned away majestically, making sure to knock the proffered treat off the idiot’s hand with a swish of his tail. He did not, as a rule, react to nicknames. His name was hand-picked just for him, and he was very fond of it. It was intimidating, frightful even — a name with a bang, so to speak.

Really, the idiot ought to be grateful that Objection refrained from chastising him with a well-placed slap across his extremely slappable face. Instead, the man would sigh and hand the rejected treat to Zoraya, his ridiculously oversized ears practically hanging down with misery.

“Give him time,” Zoraya would say encouragingly. “He’s shy.”

And then she’d pet his idiotic face or press her mouth to his or wrap her whole entire body around him and this — this was what made Objection angriest of all.

Not the idiot’s presence in his house, but what he did to Zoraya.

Objection had chosen her for a reason when he’d decided to settle down after several years of reigning the Lower City with an iron fist. Zoraya was dependable and level-headed, she had excellent taste in treats and was generally quiet enough not to bother him. As soon as the idiot came prancing over the doorstep, that all flew out the window. Her pupils would go wide and the blood would rush to her face when she went to greet him, practically throwing herself into his scrawny arms. Sometimes she’d stay there for an unreasonably long time, making all sorts of odd noises Objection couldn’t decipher, no matter how close he came to listen in. But when she’d pull the idiot into the bedroom — rudely closing the door in Objection’s face — he could make out a sickeningly sweet note in her scent that reminded him of what a female cat in heat smelled like.

Which really only added another layer of horror to it all. Because Objection had not signed up for more than one person in his house, let alone a whole litter of idiot-shaped kittens.

There’d been other suitors over the years, of course, but none of them had ever had this sort of influence on her. For Tuna’s sake, she’d started giggling. More and more often, she’d leave her hair unbraided at home, so she could take a strand of it between her fingers and fucking twirl it as she listened to the idiot go on and on about his idiotic day and all the idiotic things he’d done.

Whether as a result of acute brain damage or some sort of sinister voodoo spell work — the woman needed help.

Fortunately for her, Objection had it all planned out. He was going to strike at night, a time when the idiot tended to wander around the house since he belonged to one of those races that didn’t need as much rest as others. He was going to make it look like a tragic accident, let Zoraya cry into his immaculate fur for a little while, and then curl up into a well-deserved nap, hoping for her mental faculties to recover.

Step one consisted of luring him out into the front yard. This was simple: A little bit of suggestive stretching, a coy meow or two, and the idiot was pattering after him into the hallway. The door posed an intellectual hurdle for him, but with enough scratching and the strategic usage of a particularly pitiful look he’d perfected over the years — no judgment, please; a cat does whatever necessary — Objection eventually succeeded in getting the idiot to open the door.

He went outside first, making a show of sniffing at the grass while luring his prey further away from the house. Thankfully, it was a warm summer night, and the idiot squatted down next to him happily.

“Do you have to go potty?” he inquired, smiling the kind of idiotic smile no self-respecting cat wanted to see, whether it was urinating or not.

Objection almost caved and slapped him right there, just because he deserved it. A light breeze rolled over the lawn, redirecting his attention. It cut through the lingering heat of the day, gently swaying the dry grass at Objection’s paws, and it brought the smell of them.

The smell of death and decay.

Not the fun kind, mind you — not the kind that suggested a small, furry creature scuttling away in a wonderfully futile attempt at getting to safety when you had personally ascertained the absence of viable escape routes. This was the smell of a hunt that was over. That had been over for quite a while, the remains of it rotting away in the sun.

Objection did not know what they were, but he’d been watching them for a while. He knew they only came at night, skulking around the outer walls of the house on alarmingly light feet. He knew they’d started showing up around the same time as the idiot, their visits becoming more frequent at a suspiciously similar rate.

He also knew that they were dangerous.

Very, very dangerous.

One did not become the Baron of the Lower City’s West End without developing instincts like that. And right now, despite his careful scheming and planning, all of his instincts screamed at him to get the Hells away from here.

Objection jumped in the air, using his considerable athletic talents to turn a full 180 degrees and then sprint back into the house before the idiot could do so much as blink.

This is my house! he hissed at the ghastly creatures in the dark. You may take the idiot and do with him what you will, but if you set a single claw over this threshold, I swear, all of my remaining lives will be devoted to the enactment of my revenge! I will rip off your heads and fill them with warm milk and drink it straight from your skulls! I will dance and mate on your graves and my offspring will continue to do the same until the sun falls out of the sky and the earth shatters to dust beneath our paws!

The attackers seemed to accept those conditions because they went straight for the idiot.

They looked mostly humanoid, save for the unnatural glow of their eyes and the sharp, pointy teeth sticking out of their mouths. Their movements, however, betrayed all the vicious efficiency of a predator. They came at the idiot from several sides at once, and he exhibited unprecedented levels of intelligence by screaming and scrambling for the safety of the house.

Not that Objection would let him, of course. He was already jumping for the door handle, reaching out with his paws to slam it into the idiot’s face and leave him out there with the foul-smelling monsters that hopefully wouldn’t make too much of a mess on his front lawn.

This was, unfortunately, the part where things did not go quite as planned. For as carefully as Objection had crafted this scheme to use the influx in the local monster population to take care of his idiot extermination needs, he seemed to have underestimated how soft he’d grown while living with Zoraya. He was no longer as spry as he’d been, his once-mighty arms falling just short of actually reaching the door and throwing it shut.

Like a goddamn kitten.

He landed awkwardly, just barely managing to get his paws under himself before his face could make contact with the floor. He was still reeling from the embarrassment of it all when he was lifted by a set of gentle hands, a soft, silky material enveloping him as the door slammed shut on its own accord.

Objection stared at the door, waiting for the glowy-eyed monsters to break through and devour them all.

Weirdly, they didn’t.

I must have scared them off, Objection thought, but failed to gain any relief from it.

His breath still came in shallow bursts, same as the idiot’s. He could feel it through the soft material of his sleep shirt, both arms clutching Objection against his idiotic chest in a way that would have been protective, had the idiot been capable of offering any sort of protection whatsoever.

Objection glanced up at his pale face and found his mouth tense, his golden eyes fixated on the door. It was the stupid, pointless look of a man willing to let himself be trampled and mangled for absolutely no tangible benefit. But it made him look marginally less idiotic, so Objection contended himself with jumping out of his arms with a disgruntled meow.

“ …’starion?” Zoraya came out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was wearing one of his idiotic shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the front mostly unbuttoned, clothing standards having deteriorated together with everything else. “What’s going on?”

“A group of burglars, I think,” the idiot said, slowly turning away from the door. “Objection and I were out for a potty break when they suddenly came at us. Must have been scouting the area, checking for open windows.”

Zoraya’s sleepy gaze darted between the two of them. Objection did his best to telepathically signal to her that, no, he had not urinated in his own front yard, he was a cultured cat with a litter box, and he knew how to use it and did not need a refresher.

“Burglars?” she repeated. “We should leave a description with the city guard. It’s very important to report these things.”

She made to open the door, but was cut off by the idiot. “No!” he said firmly. “You are not going out there.”

“Astarion, come on …”

“I am buying you a new house! One that comes with guards and a fence and a gate with a lock!”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck.

And because he was an idiot who was easily distracted by just about anything, he did not press the matter. He let himself be dragged into the kitchen for a hot beverage and probably some more hair-twirling and mouth-touching and staring at each other.

With a heavy sigh, Objection took up position on the windowsill. The street was quiet and unmoving once more, the smell of death and decay dwindling away. But he knew they’d come back. There was something they wanted, and he wasn’t sure anymore whether they’d be happy with just the idiot alone.  Perhaps he had to reevaluate his priorities. Tolerate the idiot — if only for the time being — while he focused on this new threat.

This was Objection’s house. It was his street, his territory, and Zoraya was his human. It was his job to keep her safe from whatever wicked creatures were lurking out there in the night.

Karlach rapped the knuckles of her fist against the window of the coach. “All clear, guys!”

Zoraya gestured for Ira to hop out first, then followed with Astarion in tow. Karlach shot them her signature smile, but only for a moment; her eyes were wandering, always wandering. Surveying the surrounding buildings so as to catch sight of the point of an arrow or the neck of a glass bottle being hurled their way.

Zoraya did not like the idea of having a bodyguard. Didn’t like the idea of needing one for coming to a part of the Lower City that used to be on her daily walk to and from law school.

But things were different now. The city was different, for one. The streets were quieter, except for when they weren’t. When people started yelling and pointing fingers at each other — usually at those that looked like Zoraya and Ira. Or of course at Astarion, who had publicly sided with the so-called savages and terrorists on multiple occasions.

There had been nothing major, although that might very well be because he’d hired Karlach as his personal bodyguard right after he’d been on the receiving end of a glass bottle being flung out of a second-floor window. It hadn’t actually hit him, but it was the sort of thing that got people a little antsy around public places.

Even someone like Astarion.

He’d avoided official public appearances ever since that day at the palace. The papers still called him the Magistrate of the People, although some had begun to embellish the title with coy questions such as, “but which people, exactly?” Once, Zoraya had been horrified to find what she could only imagine was a caricature of herself, drawn with her hair down and her skirts billowing, a crystal ball about to fall out of her bag as she bent over a miniscule version of Astarion, holding out a hand to pat his head.

The implication was gut-wrenchingly clear. A tale as old as time, a tale that was familiar, comfortable, safe.

So many people in the city were desperate for something that felt safe.

And while they reached for ancient ideas of Gur witches enthralling helpless magistrates to do their bidding, Zoraya had to look for different strategies to make sure that Ira had a safe place to stay in an increasingly hostile city.

“And you are certain he will agree?” Astarion asked as they walked up to the forge.

“I got him about ninety percent of the way there,” Zoraya said, careful so Ira wouldn’t hear them. “But seeing her will take care of the remaining ten percent.” She flung open the door with a bright smile on her face. “Dammon! I brought your new apprentice!”

The forge was always hot, but now with summer in full force, even Zoraya had to hold her breath for a moment as she stepped into what felt like a wall of sweltering heat. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of soot burning up her nostrils. Astarion started coughing immediately, reaching for a handkerchief and pressing it to his face.

“Ah,” Dammon said, grimacing as he came up from his anvil, hammer in hand. “I thought maybe you’d call ahead, but sure. Just come right in.”

Zoraya mouthed an apology, her lungs slowly adjusting to the smoke.

“Hi, Dammon.” Karlach stepped forward with an awkward wave of her hand.

Dammon missed the hook on the wall where he kept his tools, his hammer clattering to the floor noisily. “Oh,” he said. “Karlach. Good to see you.”

“You too,” Karlach said, swaying from one foot to the other. “Everything going alright?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Everything is great.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

“How wonderful,” Astarion snapped, his voice muffled through the handkerchief. “Now that we have ascertained everyone’s well-being, could we perhaps get to the point of this visit?”

“Of course.” Dammon tore himself off the sight of Karlach long enough to pick up the hammer, then beckoned them into his courtyard, where the heat was significantly more forgiving. “So, I suppose you must be Ira?”

“Ira Petrova, artificer and inventor,” Ira introduced herself, holding out her hand for him to shake. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my firesticks? Or my Immortal Lamp?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” Dammon wiped his hands on his apron before accepting hers. “But Zoraya has told me a lot about your inventions.”

“I know what this is, you know.”

“You do?”

Ira nodded, looking up at him with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “I do not need your charity, Dammon. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Dammon said, a smile tugging on one corner of his mouth. “In fact, Zoraya wanted us to meet because she knows that I could use your expertise. See, I am a blacksmith, but I like to dabble with my own inventions here and there. Zoraya’s foldable dagger, for instance. Took me ages to get right because I had to rely on a whole bunch of trial and error to figure out what worked and what didn’t. It was fun, but not terribly efficient.”

“You bet,” Ira scoffed, scrunching up her nose in distaste.

Dammon’s smile broadened and Zoraya knew she’d won. “If I had someone with more of a formal background in math and physics in the forge, I reckon my next invention would go much more smoothly. An assistant, of sorts.”

“Hmmm,” Ira said thoughtfully.

“You would be paid, of course,” Dammon continued. “You could live here in the forge as soon as they release you from the clinic; I have a spare room upstairs. More convenient, if you come up with an idea late at night, right?”

“Right.”

“We’d have to sign some paperwork since you’re a minor. But if you’d consider working for me, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“Alright,” Ira said. “We may be able to work something out. Make me an offer, and I’ll have my lawyers look it over.” She waved her hand at Zoraya and Astarion, then strode back into the forge, mumbling to herself. “We’re going to need ventilators here, here and here … tools need to be reorganized, fireplace secured …”

“See?” Zoraya whispered, grinning triumphantly at Dammon. “I knew you’d like her.”

“I guess we’ll get along.” Dammon’s smile was reluctant, but she could tell from the look in his eyes that he’d be cooking her favorite meals in no time. He’d buy her pajamas with little hammers and screwdrivers on them, and he’d make room for her books and paint the walls in whatever color she liked best, all while grumbling about what a hassle it was to have an apprentice.

“What marvelous news!” Astarion exclaimed. He wrapped an arm around Zoraya’s waist and pulled her into his side, nuzzling at her sweat-slick temple as if it wasn’t a million degrees. “Please take good care of little Ira,” he purred, his gaze set on Dammon all the while. “My darling Zoraya and I are putting our faith in you to make sure that girl flourishes the way she deserves to.”

“Certainly,” Dammon said, the arch of his brow making Zoraya’s face burn in a way that had very little to do with the heat.

Astarion remained oddly clingy throughout the rest of the afternoon. He never strayed far from her side as they moved Ira’s belongings from the clinic to the forge — most of which were books they’d given her to pass the time. While Karlach took care of the heavy lifting and Zoraya did her best to stay out of the way, Astarion busied himself adjusting her hairpins or bringing her snacks he’d bought from a local vendor, not letting up until she’d agreed to try them. When Dammon invited them to stay for dinner, Astarion agreed enthusiastically and then proceeded to spend the meal practically on Zoraya’s lap, fussily asking for her help in keeping all the grilled meat inside of his bun.

It could have been cute if it hadn’t been so annoying. Not to mention, still too warm for that much physical contact.

Zoraya really only understood later, after the meal was over. Karlach was up in Ira’s room, helping her arrange her books on the shelves she couldn’t quite reach, while Dammon was doing the dishes. Zoraya had sent Astarion to help him with little hope of him being actually helpful.

She was on her way to the kitchen, the final stack of dirty dishes in hand, when she heard Dammon’s voice over the splash of dishwater and stopped dead in her tracks.

“So,” Dammon said. “You and Zoraya, hm?”

Astarion chuckled, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “Oh, is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” Dammon said. “It is.”

More chuckling. Zoraya remained just outside the kitchen, guilt twisting in her stomach as she peeked through the half-closed door to get a glimpse of Astarion. He was leaning against the counter with the expression of a cat that had finally, after much scheming and plotting, managed to lure the pretty, colorful bird out of its cage and was just about to pounce on it.

“Ah, you know how it is,” he said as Dammon continued scrubbing. “Young love and all that. She has told me all about your arrangement, of course — we do not have secrets, Zoraya and I. And I’d just like you to know that I am not holding any grudges against you. In fact, I might have suggested a different sort of arrangement, moving forward, but my darling wants me all to herself. She can be so wonderfully possessive, I—”

“Yeah, that’s alright,” Dammon interjected calmly. “I don’t swing that way anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Astarion scoffed, the smile toppling off his face and into the sink. He drew himself up, one hand on his hip. “And what way would that be, exactly?”

There was a pause in which Dammon pulled the clean pot out of the dishwater and handed it to Astarion. “Your way, magistrate boy.” He patted him on the shoulder, his wet hand leaving a damp spot on Astarion’s silk shirt. “And listen — you better don’t fuck this up. Else, you’re going to be in really big trouble, got it?”

After that, Zoraya made sure they left as soon as possible. She thanked Dammon at the door, earning herself an irritated snort.

“You brought me an apprentice who might actually do something other than stand in the way,” he said. “Now go and take care of your boyfriend. I’m not as skilled at reading people as you lawyer folk, but I think he’s sulking.”

Zoraya winced and pulled him into a quick hug. “Good night!”

Karlach offered to get a coach for them, but Zoraya insisted on walking instead. They’d barely made it a few streets when she stopped in what she hoped was a convincing display of surprise and said, “Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter?” Karlach hefted her great ax, her eyes scanning the area for threats.

“I left my bag at Dammon’s! All my court documents are in there!”

“No problem!” Karlach said, already turning around. “I’ll get it for you! You just stay right here and don’t move, okay?”

“Thank you!” Zoraya called after her, feeling just a tiny bit guilty.

“You didn’t carry a bag,” Astarion observed.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “But you looked like you needed a hug.”

Astarion released an annoyed little huff, but didn’t protest when she reached her arms around his neck and let her forehead sink against his. It was still fairly warm, the heat lingering in the narrow streets of the Lower City even after the sun had disappeared behind the horizon. But it wasn’t quite as sweltering anymore, which made this way more comfortable than most of his antics earlier in the day.

“Astarion,” Zoraya said gently. “I told you that Dammon and I were never a thing, right?”

“I know! It’s not exactly the type of night I’m likely to forget, my dear.”

“Then why did you spend the entire afternoon acting like a jealous teenager?”

“I did not!”

Zoraya drew back and looked at him. His golden eyes darted away from her immediately, the pouty curve of his mouth slackening into something more akin to misery.

“I just … wanted him to know,” Astarion said. “I saw the way you were acting around him. How you talk to each other. How you don’t talk to each other and communicate in cryptic smiles and stares like it’s your own secret language.”

“Dammon and I are friends.”

“Well, so were we,” he reminded her.

Yeah, I walked right into that one, she thought, sighing as she ran her thumb along the line of his jaw.

She wanted to tell him. Wanted to tell him that there was absolutely no comparison between her friendship with Dammon and being madly in love with one and the same man for two decades of her life. But she couldn’t. Not yet anyway. Not when he was only starting to come to terms with something as simple as jealousy, forcing her to initiate this conversation because he clearly didn’t know how to go about it.

“Dammon likes Karlach,” she said instead, forcing a smile. “Really, I’m surprised you didn’t notice. They’re both such idiots. Completely crazy about each other, but neither manages to make the first move. It’s part of the reason I made her go back there. With any luck, Ira is already in bed and the two of them can use the search for my bag as an excuse to finally go at each other like they’ve been wanting to since she first came into the forge.”

“You’re playing matchmaker?” Astarion asked, his scandalized tone indicating he very much approved of the idea.

“Trust me, they need it.” She leaned in for a kiss and was glad to find his mouth welcoming hers, the tension draining out of him as he rested his hands on the small of her waist. A real, genuine touch, she knew. Not a performance for whoever was looking.

“Well,” he said after a while, “not everyone has the courage to set up a romantic date for the woman of their dreams and bare their whole entire heart to her. Such gestures require an enormous degree of emotional maturity, not to mention creativity, foresight and attention to detail.”

Zoraya laughed and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “You know I would have been happy with a bowl of noodle soup, don’t you?”

“Of course, my dear, but where’s the fun in that?” He took her face in his hands and regarded her, his golden eyes warm and bright even in the dim glow of the street lamps. “You deserve the world and I will give you as much of it as I can.”

She could feel the truth in his words, the honest conviction he was hiding behind that playful tone. It called for her own truth, buried deep inside of her. Words edging closer to the tip of her tongue, aching to be sent out into the world.

One day, Zoraya thought as she shoved them down again.

One day she’d find the right moment to tell him how she truly felt for him — how she’d always felt for him. That there was no need for him to reciprocate any of it, that all she wanted was for him to know that he’d been loved all this time.

The sound of footsteps in the dark, so light they were nearly imperceptible.

“Karlach?” Zoraya called out, even as part of her realized that Karlach couldn’t have moved this quietly any more than a boulder could balance atop a piece of string.

She whirled, trusting the instincts she’d built over years of walking home through seedy neighborhoods after late nights in the university library.

There, at the other end of the alley, stood a man. He was tall and lean, his face obscured by some sort of highly unseasonal hood as he approached them with deceptive quickness, his feet nearly soundless on the cobblestones. He stuck to the shadows, moving with a smooth, practiced determination that made Zoraya reach for her dagger even before she saw the gleam of a blade in his hand.

A curse on her lips, she pulled the dagger from where she’d strapped it to her belt. With her other hand, she pushed Astarion behind herself. “Go hide somewhere!”

“But I—”

“I’ve got this!” she hissed, thrusting back her elbow for emphasis. “Now go!”

The man was on her in an instant, the quiet efficiency of his movements even more unnerving up close. She sidestepped his attack and kicked out her leg, hoping to trip him over, but the man simply leaped into the air. There was no other way of putting it — he hurled himself up a good six or seven feet, where he rotated and pushed off the wall, only to plummet back down toward her.

Alright. Either a circus acrobat or something supernatural.

Zoraya was really, really hoping for the former.

She ducked out of the way, seeing as how there was no conceivable way to block an attack as clinically insane as this one. She scrambled back up immediately, stabbing more or less blindly in an attempt at keeping her opponent from going for Astarion. Her dagger collided with the man’s blade and, through sheer luck, managed to veer his attack off course before it could take out her eye — and a good bit of the rest of her face as well. Zoraya rammed her elbow into his side, pushing him back a few steps, so she could at least take a breath.

Fuck, she thought, the hilt of her dagger sweaty in her hand. This was not going well.

“Zoya, are you alright?” Astarion’s voice, telling her that things were about to get a whole lot worse. He appeared at her side, unfolding his own dagger and falling into a defensive stance she did not recognize.

“What the Hells do you think you’re doing?” Zoraya spat. “I told you to go and hide!”

“I’m not going to watch you get skewered again!” he countered, so horribly obtuse, she wanted to beat him over the head, just so he’d lose consciousness and stop being stupid.

She probably would have if the hooded man hadn’t come for her again. Usually, Zoraya would have kept her distance and waited for an opening before charging an opponent as large and well-trained as this one, but with Astarion at her side, she had little choice but to throw herself at the attacker. She aimed for his stomach and was met with a kick that sent her tumbling backward, the world exploding into pain as the back of her head connected with something hard and unforgiving. Her legs gave out underneath her, fingers still clutching her dagger.

Up! she screamed at herself. You have to get up! Keep him busy. If you don’t keep him busy, he’ll—

But when she blinked her eyes open, the man was already there, towering over her. Which made no sense at all because he was here for Astarion.

Astarion was a public figure. He was a nobleman, the Magistrate of the People, the visionary behind the Ancunín Highway — the number one person everyone in Baldur’s Gate currently had an opinion on.

And now he was the one who came up behind the hooded man with all the effortless grace of a trained rogue, the light of the streetlamps catching on the blade of his dagger as he delivered a picture-perfect backstab.

The man screeched. He swerved to the side and retreated against the wall, his movements choppy but still unreasonably fast.

“Zoya!” Astarion reached out for her, his face tight with concern. “Can you stand?”

“I, uh, think so?” She accepted his hand, too flabbergasted to even register the dulling ache at the back of her head.

He pulled her to her feet, careful to steady her with his free hand. With the other, he held his own version of Dammon’s foldable dagger, the blade now covered in blood.

“When you said you were learning self-defense, this is not what I was picturing,” Zoraya said.

“Well, when I was keeping myself motivated by envisioning your reaction to being saved, this is also not what I was picturing, darling.”

The hooded man pushed off the wall with a snarl and Zoraya and Astarion moved as one.

They didn’t talk much — didn’t need to because somehow, Zoraya could tell what he was about to do from the set of his shoulders or the twitch in his jaw. Astarion’s fighting style was so much like the rest of him, quick and ruthless and elegant. His tendency to lure his opponent into little traps he’d set for them and then charge in with an exaggerated swing of his blade, showy, yet undeniably effective. Leaving himself open as he was preening with success after a hit, requiring her to step in and cover for him until he fell back and gathered himself.

It was so easy to fill in those weaknesses for him, play into his strengths and help them flourish. Because after years of watching him, she knew him — knew him better than she did anyone else. And although she’d never really fought alongside someone else before, this felt effortless. Instinctive, almost. Both of them blocking and baiting and dodging for each other just as easily as they passed documents back and forth in the office, littering the margins with comments as they honed their work to perfection.

On their own, neither of them would have stood a chance against the hooded man. But together, they had him with his back against the wall in just a few minutes.

Zoraya knocked the blade out of his hand and Astarion kicked it aside before the man could try and reach for it.

“Easy now,” Astarion said, resting the tip of his dagger against the man’s throat. “All we want is a little chat.”

The man hissed, his mouth the only part of his face not covered by the dark hood that had miraculously stayed in place throughout the fight. For the fraction of a second, Zoraya saw a set of teeth, long and pointy, almost like …

“Why don’t we start with a round of introductions?” Astarion said. “My name is Astarion, but I’m willing to bet you already knew that. And you are …?” He reached out his free hand and pulled back the hood.

Zoraya screamed.

It was all the distraction the man needed to break free from Astarion’s grip. He threw himself forward, clawed hands reaching for Zoraya’s neck with supernatural speed, and all she could do was drop into a crouch and roll sideways until she collided with a wall for the second time that night.

When the world stopped spinning, the man was writhing on his back, shrieking with fury as Astarion held him down, both arms pinned under his knees. His dagger had disappeared somewhere in the man’s ribcage, blood blooming over both of them.

“Wait!” Zoraya said, heart pounding as she scrambled to her feet. “Astarion, wait! That’s Boris!”

“Well, Boris is a dead man if I have anything to say about it!” Astarion hissed and twisted the dagger in his chest.

Boris thrashed against the cobblestones. At least she thought it was Boris. He was a good bit skinnier than the last time she’d seen him. Angrier, too. Boris had never been angry. He was one of the kindest people in the clan, had always had a smile for her when she’d come by for a visit. His wife, Katarzyna, had become First Healer after Nadya’s demotion, and both of them had often brought her gifts as thanks for her counsel.

“Astarion, stop!” she said, prying his hand off the dagger before he could carve out the man’s chest like a holiday goose. There was a ferocity in his golden eyes she could not remember seeing, not in all those years. Certainly not what she would have expected from his first actual real-life fight. “I know him! He’s part of Tatiana’s tribe. We need to question him, ask him what the Hells he’s doing here!”

That, at last, seemed to get through to Astarion. “Alright,” he said, glaring down at Boris. “You, my friend, are going to answer our questions. And then maybe — if we’re happy with your answers — we are going to see about getting you to a healer.”

Boris glared back silently. An expression of such visceral hatred, Zoraya’s stomach clenched as she studied him in the glow of the street lamps.

“Are you Boris Varga?”

She knew the answer even before he nodded his head.

Boris looked sick, like he’d gotten involved with some kind of illegal substance. His skin, once dark like Zoraya’s, was now deathly pale, the color of old chalk on a blackboard. There was the weight loss, too, causing it to hang off his sunken cheeks like a sail in the middle of a calm ocean. His cheekbones were painfully prominent, his eyes seemingly disappearing into the depths of his skull. And perhaps it was the burning malice in those eyes or a trick of the light, caused by the perpetually flickering streetlamps, but for a moment, Zoraya could have sworn his eyes were red.

Which was impossible, of course, because Boris was human.

“Did Tatiana send you?” Astarion asked, resuming the interrogation in her stead.

Boris shook his head.

“Of course, she did! Who else would send a Gur after us?”

“Father,” Boris said. It was the first word he’d spoken, his voice rough as if he hadn’t used it in a while.

Astarion growled and shifted his weight, using his knee to put extra pressure on the man’s arm. “I can really only advise you to start telling the truth.”

“It’s the truth!” Boris spat. “It was Father who sent me!”

“Who is this Father person?” Zoraya asked. As far as she knew, Boris’ father had died years ago before they’d even made it to Baldur’s Gate.

“My lord and master,” Boris said, the words rolling off his tongue with fervent devotion as if this was something he’d said many times, in exactly the same way, over and over again. “My beginning and my end. My creator, my tormentor, my destiny.”

Zoraya hesitated. “I’m not sure he’s lucid.”

“Why did this person send you after us?” Astarion pressed on.

This time, Boris didn’t respond immediately. His mouth opened and then closed again, swallowing a thought that never quite made it to the surface. “I … cannot answer that question.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Father said so. Father said to take care of it quickly, then return home at once. Father said if I fail, I must …” Something shifted in those impossibly red eyes. Something urgent and desperate, tearing through all the loathing and replacing it with fear.

Terrible, all-consuming fear.

Boris reared up in a sudden fit of strength, knocking off Astarion as if he was made of tissue paper. He ripped the dagger out from where it was lodged between his ribs and then weighed it in his hand for a moment too long. By the time he turned to run, Karlach was there, her great ax connecting with his legs, resulting in a bang that Zoraya knew she’d hear for many nights to come.

"Fuck!" Karlach said as Boris landed in a heap of useless limbs. “Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, I—”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you — gods dammit, I’m so, so sorry! Please don’t make me go back to the Watch. I don’t want to go back there; it’s the fucking worst.”

“It’s okay,” Zoraya said, trying to smile at Karlach despite the insistent throbbing in her head. “It was my fault, really, for sending you back. We’re fine. Right, Astarion?”

“I guess so.” He was back on his feet, rubbing at a stain on his trousers, but otherwise unharmed. “Just make sure you hold on to our friend Boris here. I hope the Watch gets something more useful out of him than all this nonsense he was spouting.”

“I’m pretty sure he was under the influence of something,” Zoraya said. Or someone, an overly dramatic part of her mind added, but she did her best to ignore it.

She made a step toward Karlach, wanting to help her with Boris’ limp body, but her knees buckled and nearly delivered her back onto the cobblestones. Astarion caught her, gathering her against himself with an exasperated intake of breath.

“We’ll need someone to look at your pretty little head,” he said. His voice was low and steady, but she could feel his heart racing in his chest, his fingers curling around the back of her head. “Also, I think it’s time for dear Karlach to get some backup. She can be Head of Security, choose whichever of her former colleagues she considers trustworthy and build a proper private guard force for us.”

“On it!” Karlach nodded, flinging the limp body of Boris over her shoulder.

“Good. As for you, my dear …” Astarion brushed his lips against Zoraya’s forehead, his arms tightening around her. “You are moving in with me.”

“What?” Zoraya was pretty sure she had a concussion. Her head was spinning, her pulse roaring in her ears.

But Astarion’s hand felt smooth and steady on her cheek as he lifted her face, the determined look in his eyes grounding her, just as his arms around her waist. “I am not letting you stay another night in that flimsy, little house of yours,” he declared. “I do not know what happened with the burglars I saw the other night. But what I do know is that this man had two perfectly good opportunities to kill me and both times, he went for you instead!”

Zoraya blinked. She could tell on some subconscious level that he was right, that this confrontation had not gone the way it should have. But she was too dazed from the fight, her battered brain incapable of putting it all together.

Astarion’s gaze softened as he realized it. He ran his hand along the side of her face very gently, dabbing a drop of blood off her cheek with his thumb.

“Whoever sent this man was not aiming for my life, Zoya,” he whispered. “They were aiming for you.”

Chapter Text

Zoraya entered Wyrm’s Rock Prison with her purse in one hand and a bag full of pastries in the other.

“Hi, Archie!” she said. “How are Beth and the kids?”

“Oh, you know.” The guard at the front desk ran a hand through his thinning hair and pushed a saucy-looking magazine under a pile of ledgers. “Dylan is struggling with calculus and all Tiffany talks about is that bard with the weird haircut.”

“It’s a phase, I promise. Here.” Zoraya handed him the pastry bag. “For you and the boys. And don’t worry — if Beth asks me, you’re keeping up with your diet.”

“Thanks!” Archie beamed, losing no time to dig into the apple strudel. Buttery crumbs rained down onto his desk, sticking to the edges of the questionable magazine.

Zoraya couldn’t help but think that the cheerful dwarf who owned the bakery near city hall should be on Astarion’s payroll, given how many favors his products had garnered her.

“Who’s your friend?” Archie asked with his mouth full of strudel.

“Just a colleague,” Zoraya said, ignoring Astarion’s annoyed little huff. Obviously, he was less than pleased with being relegated to the sidelines for this interaction, but Zoraya hadn’t spent months cultivating this particular connection to have him destroy it all with a rant about Archie’ haircut or his lack of table manners.

“We were hoping to speak to a prisoner,” she explained. “A middle-aged man. Came in a few nights ago for an attempted robbery near the Forge of the Nine?”

“The pale one?” Still chewing, Archie opened his ledgers and ran a greasy finger down the page. “Ah, here we are! Boris Varga, attempted robbery, assault and battery. Admitted at ten-fifteen, found dead in his cell the following morning at six-thirty.”

Zoraya’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean, dead?”

“Well, usually, that means the chap’s heart stopped beating, Miss.”

“I know what dead means, Archie; I am wondering how he could have died in a prison cell within a grand total of eight hours!”

He glanced past his strudel and onto the ledger. “Says here he choked on his stew. We always make sure the lads get a good meal before they go to bed, you see. Helps them sleep.”

“He choked?” Zoraya repeated, her voice growing shrill with disbelief. “On stew?”

“Happens all the time, Miss. Cook has a bad day, dumps a bunch ‘o little bones in the stew and next day — bam! — we find ‘em in their own puke. Pardon my Cormanthan.”

Zoraya was shaking with the need to unleash a verbal hurricane regarding the importance of prisoner safety protocols. Thankfully, Astarion stopped her with a hand on the small of her back, gently nudging he away from the unsuspecting Archie, who was eyeing the pastry bag for seconds.

“I’m sure it does,” Astarion said. “Cooks are notoriously unreliable! Never trust someone who wields a whole assortment of knives for their living, that’s what I always say!”

Zoraya breathed in through her nose, forcing herself to count to ten before she spoke again. “Do your ledgers say anything about the prisoner’s eye color?”

“Blue, Miss!”

Zoraya frowned. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive. If it says blue, that means they were blue.”

Zoraya nodded, although she knew that couldn’t possibly be right. Even if the crimson eyes she’d seen the other night had been the result of fear and adrenaline and the mild concussion Jaheira had diagnosed her with afterward, she knew with absolute certainty that no one in Tatiana’s tribe had blue eyes. They were all various shades of brown, hazel and gold, even with mixed couples such as her parents.

“Thank you, Archie,” Zoraya said, trying to conjure up a smile for the man.

“No problem, Miss. But since you’re here anyway” — he let go of the pastry bag and produced a set of keys for her —“There’s someone else you might wanna see.”

Zoraya stared at the familiar face behind the iron bars, desperately petitioning her brain to reevaluate the visual input it was receiving from her eyes. “Mother?”

“Hello, Zoraya,” Nadya said, smiling as if they’d just run into each other at the market.

She sat cross-legged on a small, wooden stool, the only piece of furniture in her prison cell. Her feet were bare, as far as Zoraya could see, and the hem of her long, oversized dress covered in mud.

“What in the Hells are you doing here?” Zoraya asked.

“Thinking about the errors of my ways,” Nadya said. “Or at least I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m not entirely sure why anyone would consider it a crime for a woman to live a peaceful life out in nature.”

“According to the court documents, the official charge is loitering.”

Nadya rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t loitering, I was collecting mushrooms.”

“Of course, you were,” Astarion interjected. “I am so sorry, Nadya, dear.” He lowered his head into a little bow, somehow managing to look princely rather than ridiculous. “I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances than this. The City Watch has been getting a bit hasty with their incarcerations, but we’ll have you out of here in no time at all.”

“You’re going to have to promise not to draw any more attention to yourself though,” Zoraya said sharply. “The last thing we need is Tatiana getting upset about a member of her clan being imprisoned for collecting mushrooms.”

“Oh, not to worry,” Nadya said, smiling brightly. “I’ve left the clan.”

“You did what?” Zoraya hissed.

Really, she should have known better than to expect a single conversation with her mother — least of all one conducted in front of a prison cell — to go without a hitch.

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Nadya explained. “You know I’ve always respected Tatiana and her decisions as clan leader, but the whole situation with Ira has her so upset that there is simply no more reasoning with her. I told her to let it go. To pack up our tents and move on, as we’ve done before, but she won’t listen. She’s determined to make this into a stance for the Gur. And while that seems to be the hill she intends to die on, it most certainly isn’t mine.”

“So Tatiana really is the one behind the attacks?” Astarion asked, stepping up to the bars.

Nadya nodded gravely. “She has the whole clan up in arms. Everyone is making weapons and patrolling around camp with express orders to shoot anyone who comes too close. And those bombs they’ve been using? They’re based on Ira’s blueprints. I think Ira was planning to use them to get some kind of rare mineral out of the soil. Now they’re blowing up people in their sleep.”

Zoraya swallowed, remembering the look on Ira’s face when the journalists had mentioned the concerted explosions. She must have known those were her inventions, used in a way she’d never intended. Was there no end to the weight adults were going to place on her shoulders?

“I suppose Tatiana was not exactly joyous when you made your decision to leave,” Astarion said.

“Oh, I didn’t bother telling her,” Nadya scoffed. “Just packed my stuff and left. Figured I could live by myself for a while until I found another clan to join, but, well …” She glanced around her prison cell, grimacing. “That obviously didn’t go so well.”

“We’ll get you out of here,” Zoraya said. “No problem.”

“You can stay at Zoraya’s house,” Astarion offered, snaking an arm around her waist in that extremely obvious way of his. “She won’t be needing it in the near future, isn’t that right, love?”

“Oh!” Nadya’s eyes lit up with interest, her current situation immediately forgotten. “Are you two finally sleeping together?”

“Mother!”

“We most certainly are.” Astarion chuckled, glowing with pride as he placed a kiss on her cheek. “In fact, we’re a couple.”

Zoraya’s face felt like it was about to burn off her skull. “Yes, but we’re also very busy!” she snapped, grabbing his wrist. “Come on, Astarion. Let’s get back to the office and write up the paperwork to get my mother out of here.”

She tried to pull him with her, but Astarion could be remarkably stubborn.

“I shall see you very soon, Nadya, my dear,” he said, the two of them exchanging a smile that had Zoraya ready to go up the walls. “Perhaps Zoya and I can invite you over for dinner sometime. She’s not much of a cook, I’m afraid, but she looks so darling in her little apron, I’d eat just about anything she serves me.”

“Astarion!” Zoraya hissed. “Now!”

Zoraya wandered through her old kitchen, feeling weirdly nostalgic even though she and Objection had only moved out a few days ago.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asked, mostly in an attempt at breaking the silence. Maybe it was a sign of her growing co-dependent, but she really wished Astarion wouldn’t have had to go back to court for a hearing this afternoon. He was so good at talking to people, even people as aggravating as her mother.

“No, thank you.” Nadya emerged from the bedroom, smoothing out the bright yellow dress she’d changed into. It was just as hideous as the previous one, but at least it was clean.

Archie had returned her belongings when he’d released her from her cell: a walking stick and a small leather backpack. Zoraya’s skin was crawling at the thought of her mother’s entire life packed up like that. How did anyone choose to live like this? Wandering around the countryside with two articles of clothing to her name, sustaining herself on mushrooms and berries when she could have easily gotten herself a job at a local pharmacy or clinic?

But Nadya had always loved the nomadic lifestyle. She loved the freedom, loved being on the move, never staying long enough to lay down roots.

Not even for her own daughter.

“There is some food in the pantry,” Zoraya said stiffly. “Tea and flour and dried lentils and stuff like that. I can move it if it bothers you.”

“No need. I’ll make use of it.” Nadya went to fill the kettle over the sink, moving through Zoraya’s kitchen as if she’d lived here all her life. Probably another trait that came with her lifestyle: the ability to make herself at home pretty much anywhere.

“So,” Nadya said, choosing the most colorful mugs from Zoraya’s cupboard and placing them on the kitchen table. “You and Astarion, hm?”

Zoraya did not answer. What was there to say? Yes, I am dating my boss; no, it does not make me a whore, thank you for your concern?

“You know I’ve always liked him,” Nadya continued cheerfully. “I am a little surprised you are already moving in together though. Things must be getting pretty serious.”

“It’s temporary!” Zoraya said. “Only until we’ve found a new place for me.”

Nadya looked up from the tea jars she was inspecting. Her smile was full of warmth and understanding. “Of course.”

Zoraya hated when her mother spoke to her like that. Like there was some sort of bond between them even though she’d pushed her off to live with her father at the earliest possible convenience. Zoraya didn’t care that her mother hadn’t wanted her, that she’d used her as a bargaining chip to appeal to a man who couldn’t have cared less about either of them. What really bothered her was that Nadya still had the audacity to presume that she knew her daughter. That there was something they had in common, falling for men that were way outside of their league. Both of them destined for heartbreak and loneliness.

Zoraya drew herself up to her full height and glared down at her mother. “I don’t know if you’re aware, mother, but the bodyguards outside are not for show. Astarion is a public figure, and with all the recent turmoil, he has attracted some unwanted attention. In the past month, we have been attacked twice, possibly a third time right here outside my house. It should be safe for you — Astarion has had the locks changed and reinforced — but he believes there is a chance I am also being targeted. Whether it’s due to my ethnicity or through sheer association with him, we do not know. But I already ended up in the clinic once, and he wants to make sure I’m …” Zoraya trailed off as her mother walked right past her.

Ignoring her daughter and her perfectly reasonable explanation as to why she’d moved in with her boyfriend after barely two months of dating him in favor of opening the kitchen window and greeting a bird that had settled outside.

“Why, hello there!” Nadya cooed. “How wonderful to see you again!” She reached out a hand and petted the bird, ruffling the brown feathers from its slender head all the way down its long, skinny neck. It looked like one of those species that made a living by picking absent-minded fish out of rivers and springs. “Yes, I’m doing just fine, don’t you worry. I was simply preoccupied for a little while.”

Zoraya felt her teeth clinking together with barely constrained rage. “I would really prefer if you didn’t bring any wild animals into the house, mother.”

“Wild animals?” Nadya broke into laughter, trying to soothe the visibly indignant bird with gentle hands. “Oh, Zoraya, don’t tell me you don’t recognize First Healer Katarzyna?”

Zoraya froze. “Katarzyna?”

“She’s keeping me in the loop as to what’s happening back at the camp, aren’t you, dear?” Nadya said, fiddling with a little vial around the bird’s neck and removing a message which she quickly shoved into her pocket.

Under normal circumstances, Zoraya would have asked to see the message, but her mind was racing full-speed into the past, landing on the memory of a willowy woman with a sharp, birdlike nose. She was sitting next to the campfire, grinding herbs with mortar and pestle, as her husband was talking animatedly about the day’s hunt. He was round-faced and jovial, the very opposite of the pale, vicious creature that had attacked Zoraya the other night.

“Katarzyna Varga?” she asked.

The bird inclined its head ever so slightly. A quintessentially human gesture, as was typical for druids in their animal forms.

Zoraya sucked in a breath and rushed over to the window, her heels clicking on the floor. “Misses Varga, may I ask a few questions about your husband?”

The bird screeched and flew off — whether as a result of her hurried approach or the sheer volume of her voice, Zoraya didn’t know.

“Wait!” she called after it. “Misses Varga, please! I just want to talk to you!”

“She doesn’t like to talk about Boris,” Nadya said, returning to the stove where the kettle had started whistling. “Understandably so, given the fact that he disappeared weeks ago.”

“You mean Boris left her?”

Nadya snorted. “That man wouldn’t have left her for all the gold in the world.” She lifted the kettle off the stove, taking her time to swirl it, so as to cool it down to the correct temperature before pouring it. A technique Zoraya had never had the patience for. “No, people have been disappearing for a while now. At first, we thought it was the City Watch, throwing them into prison on one of their made-up charges. But then Marek came back — Daniil’s father, you know. He said one of your lawyer friends got him out of prison and that he didn’t see any of the other clan members there. It’s like they just disappeared off the face of the earth. Tatiana still tries to blame the city for it, but Katarzyna and I believe there’s something else at work.”

“Like what?” Zoraya asked. Her throat felt dry, her palms sweaty as she closed the window and bolted it, making sure it was locked before turning toward her mother.

“We can’t be certain, at least not yet,” Nadya said cryptically. “What’s your sudden interest in Boris, anyway?”

“I, er … I met him the other night.”

Nadya’s hands stilled so suddenly, she nearly spilled the hot water. “You did?”

Zoraya swallowed, shuddering at the memory. “He was … different.”

“Different how?” Her mother was looking straight at her, the kettle forgotten in her hands.

“Well, first of all, he attacked us — me and Astarion, that is. He just came for us without any warning. Said he’d been sent by someone, a person he called Father.”

“Father …” Nadya repeated quietly.

“He honestly didn’t seem perfectly lucid,” Zoraya continued with a half-hearted shrug. “He had that really intense look in his eyes. A bit like an addict, you know? He definitely looked like one: pale and incredibly skinny, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. But he was also ridiculously strong. If Astarion hadn’t been there to help me, I don’t think I could have taken him.”

“And he spoke to you?” Nadya’s tone was urgent now, clipped in a way Zoraya had only ever heard from her when she was rushing to tend to a serious injury. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

“Not much. He kept going on about this Father person that sent him. Some sort of master he’s serving — probably his dealer, is what I’m thinking. Do you know if Boris has a history with drugs?”

“Are you sure he called him master?” Nadya asked, ignoring her question.

Zoraya nodded and her mother turned away from her. She placed the kettle back on the stove and then stayed there for a while, her posture unusually rigid as she dabbed the dishtowel over invisible stains on the counter.

“What color were his eyes?” she asked at length.

“I’m not sure,” Zoraya murmured, kneading her hands. “Maybe it was a trick of the light or the adrenaline …”

“Tell me what color his eyes were.”

Zoraya swallowed. “Red.”

Nadya’s fingers flexed around the dishtowel, bunching it into a tight ball on the kitchen counter. “What about his teeth?”

“What do you mean, his teeth?” Zoraya asked, her mind filled with the memory of Boris hissing at them, the gleam of something sharp and pointy just behind his lips.

Nadya turned around to face her. “You know exactly what I mean, Zoraya.”

“It could be that his great-grandfather was a tiefling! Recessive genetics, that sort of thing!”

“And these attacks that you mentioned — I suppose they all happened at night?”

“Yes, but statistically speaking—”

“And when they came to your home, did they cross over the threshold uninvited?”

“No, but for all we know, that could have been a group of common street thugs!”

Nadya cocked her head to the side, her brow arching mercilessly. “You would really rather believe in a hundred coincidences than one simple truth?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Zoraya.” Nadya’s tone was firm as well as gentle. “You’ve been trained by the best monster hunters Tatiana’s clan has to offer. You know the signs.”

“You can’t be serious, mother!” Zoraya snorted out a laugh, but it felt scratchy in her throat. “You can’t actually think that we’re being targeted by a vampire!” The word sounded so ridiculous, it drew another bout of high-pitched laughter out of her. She had to lean her weight against the kitchen table, the abandoned tea mugs shaking with the force of her outburst.

“All the evidence points toward it,” Nadya said. “It would explain what happened to Boris and the other clan members that disappeared. They were turned into vampire spawn, forced to do their lord’s bidding.”

“There haven’t been any vampires in Baldur’s Gate for centuries!”

“Vampire lords are notoriously good at hiding themselves.”

“Oh, sure! They stay inside their coffins, not bothering anyone for a hundred years until they suddenly decide to come out and target one entirely inconsequential lawyer!”

“Now, that is the interesting question.” Nadya reached for one of the two mugs and took a sip without sitting down, her eyes never leaving Zoraya. “What could a vampire lord possibly have to gain from taking out a magistrate and his advocate?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea!” Zoraya blurted. Yet, even as she said it, she could feel the gears in her head clicking away, pieces of information lining themselves up one by one.

Boris, pale and haggard beyond recognition. The look of visceral fear in his eyes when he’d spoken of his master. The fact that he’d been sent to attack her specifically and not Astarion, that he’d never made it through his first night in prison, his documents clearly forged to swipe the whole thing under the rug. It meant that whoever was behind it wasn’t just a random citizen who was upset with the half-Gur woman at Astarion’s side. This was someone with influence, someone with reach all the way into Wyrm’s Rock. Possibly even higher than that.

Which brought her to the one person she knew with absolute certainty would love to see her out of the picture.

Cazador Szarr.

The man who had held the reins of Astarion’s life until she’d shown up, luring him with promises of the Council of Four without ever actually delivering. Forcing him into a relationship whose nature she still wasn’t fully certain of, but the consequences of which were blatantly obvious almost every day they spent together.

The man who had made no secret of his distaste for her and her people — who’d been so upset with her arrival that he’d mobilized a good chunk of the city’s elite to try and tempt her away with job offers. And despite Astarion’s assurances, Zoraya couldn’t bring herself to believe that Cazador truly didn’t mind how everything had turned out in the meantime.

It struck her quite abruptly that she had never seen him during the day. Had never seen him eat, not during that disastrous dinner and not during any other events where she’d run into him. Then there were his perpetually icy hands, the contacts, the pallor of his skin. The pieces all clicked into place, one after another, like she’d been trying to solve a puzzle without ever thinking to turn the pieces around to see the pattern that was painted on the other side.

“You have someone in mind, don’t you?” Nadya said. Her perceptiveness was about the only motherly trait in her arsenal.

“No,” Zoraya said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I do not.”

Because really, all of that was circumstantial evidence. She didn’t have any direct proof, nothing that would hold up in court, and as a lawyer, she knew better than to jump to conclusions. At least outwardly.

“I should get going,” Zoraya murmured. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Nadya followed her into the entrance area, still holding her mug in both hands.

“Just out of curiosity,” Zoraya said as she slipped into her coat, taking her time with the buttons. “When you left, Tatiana was still … normal? Not any more murderous than usual?”

“Tatiana is still herself if that’s what you mean,” Nadya said. “But Katarzyna says she is planning something big. We’re hoping we’ll be able to stop her before it comes to that, but she is also very secretive about her plans.”

“If there’s something I can do …”

“I’ll let you know.” Nadya gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “In the meantime, take good care of yourself. Ask that blacksmith friend of yours for a silver blade.”

Zoraya made a point of rolling her eyes on her way out. But when she and Karlach traveled to Astarion’s house in the Upper City, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing up at the sky every few minutes, dread creeping up her spine at the sight of the sun gradually lowering behind the horizon. She jumped out of the coach before it had fully stopped, throwing a handful of coins at the driver and jogging all the way to the front door.

“Thanks, Karlach!” she shouted over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow!”

She only managed to exhale after she’d drawn the door shut and pulled all the bolts into place.

“A vampire?”

Astarion threw back his head and laughed so hard, he dropped a handful of ice cubes. They skidded over the kitchen floor, causing Objection to rise from his current spot right atop Astarion’s best wool sweater and chase after them, battle cries echoing through the room as he knocked most of them under the liquor cabinet.

Astarion stepped over him with the ease of an experienced cat co-owner, balancing a tray with ginger scones, fresh blackberries and two glasses of chilled lemonade over to the couch.

Zoraya sat in her usual spot, legs tucked underneath herself, one arm propped up against the backrest. She was trying to look relaxed, but Astarion could tell she was making an effort.

“You cannot be serious, my dear,” he said, chuckling as he placed the tray on the coffee table — an antique they’d snatched in a tiny, little shop in the Lower City for a fraction of its worth, now proudly seated atop a colorful rug. He settled down next to her and reached out an arm, inviting her to rest against his shoulder. “Come here, love. Tell me what happened that has you so upset.”

Astarion adored their evenings together. Truth be told, he was looking forward to them from the moment he got out of bed in the morning. Shamelessly counting down the hours until he could steal her away from the world and retreat back here, wrap her up in his arms, and either talk through the day’s events or simply sit in perfectly pleasant silence. He took special pleasure in preparing little snacks and nonalcoholic beverages for her, ensuring maximum levels of comfort, so he could hold her for as long as possible before she’d need to get up. He was already looking forward to fall when the nights would be cool enough for them to use the fireplace, snuggling up under a big blanket as they watched the flames. Minsc had taught him the ancient art of firemaking, and Astarion couldn’t wait to show off his skills, impressing her as well as keeping her warm because he was nothing if not efficient.

Zoraya refused to acknowledge that they were living together now — not that he cared. It was a process that had started weeks ago, probably when she’d picked out the rug that was now covering the floor. Initially, Astarion assumed she’d wanted a new surface for them to have sex on, but regrettably, neither of their backs had been too fond of the idea.

More things had followed after the rug. Things that served no sexual function whatsoever. There was the bookshelf she’d found at a flea market, housing a collection of books that seemed to grow all on its own. A bedside lamp and a desk for when either of them — usually Zoraya — wanted to catch up on work. Astarion now owned a fruit bowl and a bread basket and a pair of goddamn oven mitts. Even the walls were not quite as empty anymore, now littered with newspaper articles they’d chosen together, different dramatic renditions of The Magistrate of the People looking down at them from their elegant picture frames.

No matter what she said, Zoraya had made herself at home bit by bit long before she’d officially moved in. Filling the house with her presence through all the little pieces she’d leave behind — clothes and hairpins and work folders, causing him to smile like an idiot at the sight of a stray sock peeking out from under his dresser.

Astarion, in turn, had taken it upon himself to procure just about every piece of cat comfort and/or entertainment under the sun so as to help Objection feel at home, too. Naturally, Objection ignored them all. His favorite spot was either in Zoraya’s lap — defending it via any means necessary — or on top of Astarion’s slippers, which he’d received as a birthday gift from Zoraya.

Astarion chose to see this as a win, mostly because the slippers were nothing short of ridiculous. They were big and white and embroidered with little bunnies that looked a lot like Sir Hopperson, who was now residing on their bedroom vanity. With the slippers had come a pair of matching pajamas, a clothing category Astarion hadn’t owned in decades, but that was perfectly suited for long, lazy evenings on the couch.

With all the many changes to his life, this was perhaps the most significant: that he was now a pajama-wearer. A man who couldn’t wait to get home from work and swap his pretty doublets and silk shirts for a pair of bunny-patterned pajamas, only to curl up on the couch with his girlfriend because was absolutely fucking crazy about her.

Even when she was spouting ridiculous nonsense about vampires in a civilized city such as Baldur’s Gate.

“It’s just …” Zoraya shifted in his arms and looked up at him, an uncertain expression in those large, brown eyes of hers. “Have you ever seen the man outside during the day?”

Astarion ran a hand through her hair, twirling it around his fingers. “He suffers from a skin condition, darling. He prefers to stay indoors so as to avoid breaking out in hives like a hormone-addled teenager.”

“And the same condition just so happens to lower his body temperature and keep him from eating solid foods?”

“Oh, come on, now you’re just being silly.” Chuckling, he lowered his lips to the curve of her neck, tantalizingly on display in the rather fetching nightgown he’d gotten her to make up for the bunny ensemble.

Astarion didn’t want her to speak of Cazador. Least of all now in this moment that belonged to them. He wanted Cazador to be a thing of the past, a dark, hazy memory slowly retreating into the back of his subconscious. Growing so distant that he could almost trick himself into believing he’d forgotten about the bastard altogether.

But Zoraya pushed away from him. “All I’m saying is that it’s a possibility,” she said, straightening against the back of the couch. “It’s no secret that he doesn’t like me, not after he pulled off this whole scheme to get me to work elsewhere. Who’s to say he wouldn’t go one step further in getting me out of the picture?”

“You don’t know that it was him,” Astarion argued. “Neither do you know about his motives. Perhaps he was merely trying to help you get ahead with your career. I’m not exactly Employer of the Month material now, am I?” His laugh sounded utterly unconvincing.

He knew that Cazador had been doing his damnedest to separate them. But that was just what noblemen did. The usual politics of Baldur’s Gate, plain and simple. It didn’t mean that the man wanted to harm her — in fact, if he did, he would have done so a long time ago.

Astarion’s chest tightened at the thought. He reached for her waist, trying to pull her back into his lap, but she wouldn’t let him.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that we’ve had a Gur coming after me?” Zoraya asked. “Why me? Why not one of the several hundred noblemen and merchants and magistrates who have been systematically oppressing and exploiting them for centuries? And why would it be a man who disappeared from Tatiana’s tribe weeks ago? Sure, you could say he’s on a special top secret guerilla mission he couldn’t even tell his own wife about, but honestly, Tatiana knows she has more important targets to hit than me. The people who actually stand to benefit from this all are people like Cazador! They get to point fingers at the violent savages out there, blaming them for more acts of terrorism, when gods know how many of them might be the result of vampire spawn being forced into it!”

“I do hope you’re not using this to make excuses for the despicable way your people have been behaving recently.”

Astarion could tell from the look on her face that this had crossed not one, but several lines.

“You and I were nearly butchered on the street,” Zoraya said, her voice cool and sharp like ice, “and you think I’m trying to twist it into a defense strategy for a tribe that ousted me months ago?”

“I’m just trying to say that—”

“You were there, Astarion! You saw Boris! You saw the red eyes, the way he talked and moved like a puppet on a string! None of that was remotely human!”

Astarion ground his teeth, the memory clawing at him mercilessly. Outside of his sparring with Minsc, he didn’t have a whole lot of fighting experience, but the encounter with Boris had certainly felt odd. There had been something cold and unyielding to the man’s body, an impenetrable presence that seemed to absorb most of his blows.

Right until he’d shoved his dagger in between the man’s ribs, missing his heart but pinning him down with astonishing effectiveness.

“And then he just so happens to choke to death!” Zoraya went on. “His body disappearing without a trace — that’s awfully convenient, isn’t it?”

She was looking straight at him, a look as piercing and inescapable as the way she wielded her fountain pen.

And Astarion realized that she wasn’t going to let this go. She was going to force him to think this through, let it play out in his head in all its dreadfulness.

He reached for the coffee table, taking a sip of chilled lemonade and wishing it was something far, far stronger.

“Zoraya,” he said, his voice tight against the clump that was forming in the back of his throat. He had to focus to keep the glass steady. “If Cazador Szarr truly was a vampire, don’t you think I would have noticed?”

Her face fell slack as she took this in. The part that he’d said as well as the part he’d left unsaid, lingering just below the surface like the shadowy outline of something too terrible to put into words.

Because this really was the crux of the thing. He would have noticed — surely, he would have noticed!

He’d spent countless nights in Cazador’s estate, had eaten at his table, slept in his bed. He would have noticed if there had been coffins or blood jars or virgins shackled to the wall. He would have noticed the claws, the fangs, gods dammit! Cazador certainly did not have fangs in his mouth!

“Vampire lords are masters of disguise,” Zoraya said. “He might just be very good at covering it. It doesn’t mean that you’re …”

“That I’m what?” Astarion snapped, anger bubbling up inside of him. “Stupid? Unobservant? A bit slow on the uptake? So fucking blinded by the massive cock I was sucking, I couldn’t see the rest?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Oh, but I’m sure you thought of it!” He slammed the glass back onto the coffee table, ice cubes clinking together. “You think that I could make myself his plaything, learn everything there is to learn about how to pleasure him, but never stop to check if he had a pulse?”

“Astarion, please.” She sat on her knees, shoulders slumped miserably. “I don’t want to fight. I’m just … worried.”

Astarion’s knees flexed with the need to jump up from the couch and do something stupid. Fling open his liquor cabinet and get drunk was pretty high on the list. Dull those ugly, twisted feelings with alcohol as he told himself that he didn’t care.

That he didn’t need her, didn’t need anyone.

All the little lies guaranteed to bring temporary bliss.

He wanted to storm out of the house and into the first seedy tavern he could find, losing himself in the hungry gaze of whatever stranger happened to catch his eye. Let them grab him across a shabby, sticky table, giving in to his every wicked impulse until it felt like he was in control of something again. He was what they wanted — he was what everyone wanted. That had to feel powerful, didn’t it?

Only he knew it didn’t. Not really, anyway.

All that was waiting for him there was a cold, empty house. Towels that always hung perfectly straight because no one ever used them. No ink stains on his clothes, no cat hair in his sheets.

Astarion closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When he opened them again, his chest was still tight with the urge to run away. But he could see the expression on Zoraya’s face now. She was looking down at the cushions, her fingers clutching at the hem of his pajama shirt. Desperately holding on to him in the midst of this argument that had sprawled way out of control.

It was the same gesture she’d used as a child whenever they were in danger of being caught during of one of their heists, cowering behind the couch with the stolen cookie jar clutched to his chest, Zoraya’s fingernails digging into his wrist as she hid her face against the side of his arm. Or late at night when she’d come crawling into his bed after a nightmare, her small, cold body snuggling up against his back, arms tight around his waist until she fell asleep once more.

As long as he could remember, Zoraya had always held on to him when she was scared. It was one of the many things he hadn’t known to cherish until she’d stopped doing it.

“I’m sorry.” Astarion reached a hand to the back of her head and gently guided her into his arms. Focusing on the smell of her hair, the frenzied rhythm of her heart against his own as he waited for it to tear through the ugly tension in his lower gut, allowing him to breathe properly again.

“I’m sorry, my love. I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered, sounding so young and fragile, it was almost more than he could take.

“I know.” Astarion pulled up his legs and enveloped her like a cocoon, holding her closer, ever closer. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Zoya. I promise.”

He meant it. He really did.

It didn’t matter who was behind these attacks — whether it was Cazador or a vampire lord or some combination of the two — because he was going to keep her safe. That was what he’d always done. It was what she counted on, why she let him see her like this, like no one else got to see her.

He was not going to let her down.

Besides, very soon now, he would be a Duke of Baldur’s Gate. He would be one of the four rulers of the city, equipped with more than enough power to take out any foe, even a noble as influential as Cazador. He could have him exiled, ruined, framed for any number of crimes and put away for good.

Cazador might think he could come to collect, as he’d said. But that really only showed how short-sighted he was, how out of control his ego had become.

The tables were about to turn.

And for once in his life, Astarion would be the one in control.

Chapter Text

No matter how many balls and banquets and charity galas Astarion brought her to, Zoraya never stopped feeling like an imposter. Like it was only a matter of time before a set of well-muscled individuals in dark suits would grab her by the elbow to escort her off the premises.

She had to fight the urge to claw at Astarion’s arm as they made their way across the ballroom, stopping here and there for a bout of polite small talk and empty flattery. For Astarion, this might be a night like any other, but to her, this was only slightly less stressful than that time Quelenna had had her play the pianoforte for an entire evening, only to declare that she had indeed “no talent”. She knew that her dress was at least as fine as everyone else’s — Astarion made damn sure of that — but there was something about growing up poor that seemed to have settled somewhere deep inside her bones. Somewhere no amount of silk and finery could quite reach.

And then there were the looks.

Oh, the looks.

She used to think that there was nothing worse than running into Astarion’s past conquests, which were always in generous supply at events such as this one. Councilor Maynard, for instance, the man who had once nearly made her stick a hand down her trousers at work when she’d overheard him enjoy Astarion’s special favors in the relative privacy of his office. All of that had been off the table for months now, but there was something about the rich and powerful that made them struggle with the concept of things they wanted being taken away from them. They’d take one look at her on Astarion’s arm and immediately began to talk about how open-minded they were, how willing to experiment. On one especially memorable occasion, a wealthy liquor merchant admitted to having a weakness for the exotic as he was visually pushing Zoraya’s dress down her shoulders.

Recently, however, it was a different kind of stare that followed them through the lavishly decorated ballroom. A stare that wasn’t about Zoraya as much as it was about what she represented, all the many thoughts that popped into their heads as soon as they saw the shape of her eyes, the color of her skin. They didn’t care that she’d been raised in the city, that she’d attended the same universities and probably couldn’t have slept in a tent if she’d tried.

What they cared about was the headlines that filled the newspapers nearly every day now. Stories about people being angry, violently refusing arrest, and attacking guards — and not necessarily in that order.

People who looked like Zoraya were not supposed to be angry. They were supposed to be grateful for the kindness they’d received. Overjoyed with the fact that they were allowed to set up their quaint little tents outside city gates, clutching the crumbs that were tossed their way as they lowered their heads in gratitude. Zoraya had spent her life knowing that her every success was considered an exception, the accomplishments of one particularly gifted individual managing to beat the odds and make something of themselves. But now she came to learn that somehow, although she’d been banished from the clan months ago, she was still judged for its actions.

Tatiana’s violent uprising had become synonymous with what people thought of when they heard the word Gur. Which meant that Zoraya was no longer just an outsider or a savage.

She was now the enemy.

Fortunately, Astarion had spent enough time among the nobility of Baldur’s Gate to expertly navigate just about any social situation involving an immense degree of underlying judgment and hostility.

“Good evening, councilor,” he’d say, his arm wrapped around Zoraya’s waist as he nodded his head in greeting. “May I introduce Zoraya Naelgrath, my legal representative? You might recognize her from some of the less reputable newspapers in town — yes, I believe they are very fond of depicting her with snakes in her hair these days. Rest assured, those are entirely made up! Which is not at all the case for the charming drawings of myself, of course — those are all perfectly lifelike, isn’t that right, darling?”

And weirdly enough, that was all it took. He’d smile and joke and suddenly, people would look at Zoraya like she was a person again. A person with thoughts and feelings of her own, not just a face to use as the target for their fear and loathing.

“Thank you,” she whispered, pretending to fix his collar, so she could brush her lips against his cheek.

Astarion grinned. “Oh, I could think of several ways for you to thank me,” he whispered back, his hand slipping lower to squeeze her butt, “but you’re wearing far too much for any of them.”

He used his grip on her rear to pull her against himself, and Zoraya couldn’t help a rather juvenile giggle as he did so.

The councilor and the other politicians politely pretended not to notice.

Her mind still went a little fuzzy when she tried to wrap her head around the fact that in spite of everything else, this worked.

They worked.

They worked in a way that was like slipping into her favorite pair of heels, an instant lift to her posture as well as her mood. Being with Astarion made her feel brighter, sharper, more confident. Like nothing could possibly get her down, so long as she was with him.

She was pretty sure it was the same for him. Regular meals and a severe cutback in his alcohol consumption had left him looking far healthier than he had when she’d first started working for him at the beginning of the year. His skin was still pale, but there was an unmistakable glow to it. An undercurrent of warmth, as if he’d absorbed all those long summer days they’d spent on his balcony or down by the harbor, reading or talking about their casework or simply sitting there, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist. His cheeks had filled in a little and, thanks to his personal trainer Minsc, so had the rest of him. It was nowhere near those ridiculous newspaper drawings, but it was enough to make his doublets fit more snugly around his shoulders, accentuating what was shaping up to be a fairly athletic physique.

Sometimes, Zoraya sat in his hearings with her notebook in her lap and had to remind herself that the gorgeous man up there was her boyfriend. That she was the one who got to go home with him — if he had the patience to even wait that long. It wasn’t unusual for him to walk up to her at court or even a ball such as this one, place his hand smack-dab on the center of her ass and pull her out of whatever group she was talking to.

“I must consult with my advocate,” he’d say, his sultry tone leaving no doubt as to where he’d lead her and what he’d do with her.

Zoraya had never had so much sex in public places. She’d never had so much sex — period. She’d never been happier, an airy, almost dizzying sort of happiness pulsing through her veins and up into the crown of her head. So much happiness, in fact, that she often felt a little guilty about it, knowing how many evenings she now spent in his arms rather than in the office. But then, Gale’s task force had made her pro bono work significantly more manageable, and apart from that, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do until the parliament made their decision regarding the motion.

She hadn’t been sure how to address the fact that her six-month contract was running out at the end of summer. Astarion never mentioned it, and it struck her as the type of thing he’d forget about, simply assuming she was going to stay in his office, just as she did in his bed. But then one Freeday morning about a week before the end of her contract, Zoraya had woken to find Astarion all but wrapped around her. His legs were tangled with hers, his arms tight around her middle, her hair brushed to the side, so he could press his face into the nape of her neck.

“Morning,” she’d said, smiling sleepily as she tried to extricate herself and reach for the water on her nightstand.

In response, his grip tightened. His lips grazed the shell of her ear. “Stay,” he murmured.

Zoraya laughed. “I have to go and check on Objection. Pretty sure I heard him bring in a mouse last night.”

“I meant stay with me as my advocate.”

The laughter stopped abruptly like it had been punched out of her. “What, forever?” she whispered. The word broke on her tongue, filling her with way too many conflicting emotions for a Freeday morning.

“If you want.” His hand slipped in between her thighs, effortlessly coaxing wetness out of her, his mouth hot and dizzying against the spot just below her ear. “The gods know I could use legal representation once I’m a Duke.”

Zoraya bit down on her lip to hold in her moan. He couldn’t actually mean that, could he? What they had right now was beautiful, but it obviously couldn’t last. There was a reason why people didn’t usually date their bosses — all sorts of reasons, really. She just couldn’t think of them right now with his fingers circling her center, want tingling up her spine.

“But if that’s too much commitment, we can start with another six months,” he offered. “Just until the motion for the highway project has passed, and they’ve started construction. And who knows, maybe at that point, my brand-new title will sway you?”

He ran his tongue over the little bite mark he’d left on her neck the night before, his fingers slowly picking up pace. Teasing her just the way he knew was sure to make her unravel, her legs already spreading to grant him better access.

It was with conscious effort then, that Zoraya breathed in through her nose and pushed away his hand. “Ask me properly.”

Astarion drew himself up and met her gaze for the first time that morning. Clearly, he’d been up for a while. Carefully devising a strategy for this particular conversation, only for her to stomp all over his plans.

She didn’t want plans, didn’t want strategies. Not when it came to this, anyway.

“Zoya, please,” he said. His mouth was tight with nerves, his voice small. “Please say yes.”

She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him down toward her face. “Yes,” she whispered, the word nearly lost between their lips melding together, their bodies urging against each other.

It was almost funny how even after all these years, he still had not realized it. That when it came to him, her answer would always be yes.

The flapping of wings in the corner of her eye made her turn around, away from the politicians and toward the balcony.

Out there, among the dainty lanterns their host had hung to dissuade overly affectionate couples from getting too affectionate with each other, a familiar, long-necked bird was flying around in circles. Its sharp eyes were peering into the ballroom as if in search of someone.

Zoraya stifled a sigh. “Excuse me for just a moment,” she said, smiling apologetically as she handed Astarion her glass and turned away. “I’ll be right back.”

It was cold outside, way too cold to be wearing a delicate little silk dress, and Zoraya was rubbing her arms as she stepped onto the balcony, feeling immensely stupid. Really, what had her life turned into that she was following random birds like the female lead in a fairy tale?

“Katarzyna?” she whispered through chattering teeth, glancing around to make sure she was alone with the bird.

The nights had been getting cooler with each passing week, most of the trees already having shed their leaves. A pretty, colorful coating atop the grayish-brown cobblestones until it turned into an equally grayish-brown sludge that clogged up the sewers and made it even more difficult to navigate the city in high heels. Nadya kept saying it wouldn’t be long now before they’d have their first snow, but Zoraya had her doubts about that.

The bird landed on the balcony railing, wings settling against its slim body as it looked up at her expectantly.

“Katarzyna? Is that you?”

An affirmative clicking sound, followed by a tilt of its head, so as to reveal the little leather tube that was attached to its neck. Zoraya reached for it carefully, frowning as she unfolded the message inside. So far, Katarzyna had communicated exclusively with her mother, but maybe this one was particularly urgent?

Tonight, it read, bold letters filling the note in its entirety. Take your pet magistrate and stay away from city hall.

Zoraya blinked and read it again, stumbling over the oddly disdainful phrasing when she knew this was not at all the point.

The point was something bigger, far bigger. Something she had to tell Astarion about right now. Because while they were here to attend this dreadful ball, Shadowheart was back at city hall, catching up on her work as she always did after a big exam at law school.

“Everything alright, Miss Naelgrath?” A cool, nasal voice, sending a shiver down her back that had nothing to do with the cold. “You look a little distressed.”

Zoraya whirled and found herself face-to-face with Cazador Szarr. He was leaning against the railing not two steps away, his head cocked in the imitation of concern. How in the world could she have failed to notice him?

“Lord Szarr,” she said, fighting for composure as she crumpled the message and stuffed it into her purse.

Thankfully, the railing was empty, indicating that Katarzyna had done the sensible thing and left at his approach. He might have seen her though. He could leak it to the newspapers, make it into a brand-new scandal regarding her terrorist connections, but right now, Zoraya didn’t have time to worry about that.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, “but I’m afraid Astarion and I must leave immediately.”

Cazador’s ink-black eyes followed her as she rushed past him, a smile ghosting over his lips. “A pressing engagement, I take it?”

“Something like that. Good evening.”

“To you as well, Miss Naelgrath!” he called after her, but Zoraya didn’t pay him any attention. She’d spotted Astarion at the edge of the crowd.

He was delivering a plate full of hors d’oeuvres to Karlach and Wyll, their bodyguards for the night. Karlach was beside herself with excitement, shoving an entire cupcake into her mouth at once, while Wyll kept gesturing toward his rapier, trying to fend off the offer as politely as possible.

Zoraya made it halfway over there before it happened.

A tremor that seemed to come from somewhere deep underground. It grasped the mansion in its entirety, shaking it like the great, ancient building was little more than a toy in the palm of a giant’s hand. People staggered and stumbled, reaching out for the nearest wall or table to steady themselves. Glassware shattered all across the room, spilling hundreds of gold pieces worth of wine and champagne over lace-trimmed tablecloths, and an intricately assembled pyramid of bite-sized desserts in tiny, little porcelain cups collapsed in on itself. Through rather unfortunate catering choices, it managed to knock over a whole bunch of other dishes on the buffet, resulting in an avalanche of food items onto the polished hardwood floors.

Maybe it was something specific to rich folk and their obsession with fine tableware, but that was when people started screaming and running for the exits.

Before anyone could make it out, the trembling stopped. The floorboards stilled and the mansion settled back into its default state of majestic immovability, only the faint clinking of the chandeliers hinting at the sudden disturbance.

“What in the gods’ names was that?” someone whispered.

“An earthquake? Here?”

Zoraya removed her arms from where they’d shot up around her head and sighed with relief at the sight of Astarion, coming up from under Karlach’s burly form. Shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

He ran a hand through his silver curls — a reflex to calm his nerves — then froze, his gaze fixed on something behind Zoraya.

She spun, thinking she was expecting the worst.

She was wrong.

Out there, past the balcony and down the hill that separated the fortunate from the less fortunate, Baldur’s Gate stood in flames. Thick plumes of smoke were snaking up from several independent fires, spread all across the Lower City. They rose up into the night sky, soft, almost downy-looking in the glow of the crescent moon.

Zoraya knew the city like the back of her hand. Had spent years of her adult life walking these windy streets, figuring out the shortest route from law school to her side job and then back home. She didn’t need to speculate which buildings had been targeted; her mental map supplied them readily, shoved them to the forefront of her consciousness.

Wyrm’s Rock. The Counting House. The headquarters of the Baldur’s Gate Gazette as well as several other newspapers, a few guild houses, and …

City hall.

Which, under normal circumstances, would have been empty at this hour. Except, Zoraya knew it wasn’t.

Not tonight.

The streets were chaos. Everyone was either trying to get somewhere or find someone or — at the very least — get a good look at the whole thing.

By the time they finally reached city hall, the once-majestic building had burned down to a pile of smoking rubble. The back wall seemed to have toppled sideways, flattening a handful of the surrounding houses in the process. A flower shop, a moneylender, and the Dwarven bakery that had facilitated most of Zoraya’s professional relationships. Small, family-run businesses. The kind where the owners’ commute consisted of slipping into their work aprons, going downstairs, and flipping the Closed sign on the door.

“Oh, gods below …” Zoraya whispered, her voice cracking like glass in the back of her throat. Then it came back full force as she pushed open the coach door and jumped outside. “Shadowheart!”

Karlach tried to hold her back, but fear and panic gave her an unexpected agility boost, allowing her to slip through the larger woman’s grasp. Zoraya ran for the rubble, knowing Shadowheart had been in there. She had been in there when the explosion struck, when those mighty walls came down like twigs under a stiff breeze, burying everything and everyone in their wake. 

She would have run straight into the ruins, had it not been for a guard stopping her. “Ma’am, I cannot let you through," he said, his face tense, but not unkind. “We’re still working on putting out the fire.”

Zoraya just barely stifled the impulse to grab him by the lapels of his uniform and shake him. “Did anyone make it out? A young woman perhaps? Black hair, black clothes, a whole lot of jewelry?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “The only one who made it out was one of them toad people over there.” He gestured at a bench at the opposite side of the square, where the tall, wiry figure of a githyanki sat hunched over a slightly smaller woman. Long, black hair spilled out of a mostly ruined braid.

“Shadowheart!” Zoraya sobbed with relief as she jogged over to the pair.

“She is unharmed,” the gith said without looking up from the woman in her lap. “I was with her when it happened. A series of detonations, five in total. Fortunately, githyanki are blessed with superior reflexes, so I was able to get her out. She must have hit her head as we were landing. My mistake, no doubt.”

It took Zoraya a few moments to realize that the woman in front of her was none other than Lae’zel. The brash, short-tempered soup vendor who was ruling the local lunch industry with an iron grip on her ladle was now cradling Shadowheart’s head in her lap, her clawed fingers gently brushing the hair out of her face.

Which prompted about one thousand questions in Zoraya’s mind, but none of them mattered at the moment.

“I’m so glad,” she said, releasing a long, tortured breath.

“Zoraya, gods dammit!” Karlach appeared, great ax in hand and a scowl on her face. “I need you to stop moving for, like, a second, alright? You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack!”

“Sorry,” Zoraya said sheepishly.

“Here, my darling.” Astarion wrapped his coat around her bare shoulders, pulling her with her back against his chest and rubbing her arms. Zoraya could not remember where her own coat was — probably back in the coach. “So, Shadowheart is alright? What a relief.”

“Yeah,” Zoraya said, letting herself sink against him. “We’ll need a healer to look at her wound, but thank the gods Lae’zel was there to get her out.”

“And the rest of city hall?” Astarion asked.

“I don’t know.” She swallowed, suddenly feeling selfish for being so concerned about Shadowheart when, in all likelihood, there might have been others working late. “The guard said that they were the only ones who made it out.”

Astarion’s hands stilled on her biceps.

“I can’t believe someone would do something like that,” Zoraya murmured.

“Really?” He snorted. “I certainly can.”

She craned her head and found his brow furrowed, his eyes staring off into the distance.

Wyll came over from where he’d been talking to the guards. “They haven’t found the bombs yet. It’s still too hot to go in there. However, due to the timing of the explosions, going off all over town at the same time, they believe there’s probably a single entity behind it all.”

“Someone with a reputation for coordinated explosions?” Astarion said pointedly.

The sharpness of his tone had Zoraya stiffening in his embrace, something dark and slimy curling in her gut.

“Yes.” Wyll nodded and shuffled his feet, careful not to make eye contact with her. “They have also found the, er … the letter.”

“What does it say?” Astarion demanded.

Wyll hesitated. He glanced over at Lae’zel, who was dabbing dried blood off Shadowheart’s cheek with a handkerchief. When he looked Astarion again, his gaze was firm. “It says Retreat or there’ll be nothing left to retreat to.”

It had been a long night, and it was shaping up to get even longer.

After they’d taken Shadowheart to the clinic, Zoraya and Astarion had just enough time to return home and change out of their evening wear before the next blow arrived in the form of a courier, delivering a missive straight from the Council of Four.

Zoraya, who had been holding on by a thread, could feel herself straining dangerously close to the point of no return.

“This is ridiculous!” she said, gesturing with the letter as she paced through the living room. “They’re losing their goddamn minds! This is Baldur’s Gate! City of freedom and opportunity — of democracy, gods dammit!”

“Which is why they’re putting it to a vote,” Astarion said. He was brushing his shower-damp hair into place, his attention wholly absorbed by his reflection in the vanity mirror. They hadn’t really looked at each other since they’d left the ball.

“And how do you think people will vote tonight?” Zoraya challenged. “With the stench of soot still in the air, the clinics overflowing with injured patients?”

“They need to act fast. Just on the off chance you might have missed it, darling — we’re at war.”

War.

The word cracked something inside Zoraya’s mind. A dull roar was rising in the back of her head like a massive tidal wave looming on the horizon, gray and cruel and inevitable.

It wasn’t there just yet. But once it came close enough, Zoraya knew it would consume her.

“Astarion, please,” she said, not sure what exactly she was asking for.

He seemed so far away from her. His face was like the surface of the Chiontar river, a constant ebb and flow of ideas, passing by under a murky veil of inscrutability. He’d swapped his elaborate ballroom doublet for a simpler one in navy blue and wine red, white lace peeking out from under the sleeves. One of his cufflinks had come undone at the wrist, but Zoraya couldn’t bring herself to fix it for him.

She tried to remember when things had gone so terribly wrong. When exactly she could have done something — should have done something — to stop it all from spiraling.

Perhaps when she’d first learned about the raids on refugee camps, people being arrested for no other reason than where they lived and what they looked like. Or later, when the city had closed its gates and started monitoring visitors, placing a very physical barrier between Them and Us.

That was the thing about violence: that it didn’t necessarily start with violence. That it could start small, with relatively minor slights and injustices that kept piling, kept growing. Laying the foundation for distrust and resentment, for retribution and payback. A never-ending cycle of wrongs to right other wrongs, spiraling and spiraling because any wicked act from Their side required an even greater act of justice from Yours.

It was a tale as old as time. So appallingly predictable that men like High Judge Larkin had learned to use it as a strategy for their own personal gain. They pulled the strings from the comfort of their mansions, watching homes and families burn to the ground, all, so they could hold on to their precious power.

Astarion had to see that, didn’t he? He had to see that the problem wasn’t Tatiana so much as the establishment that had let this happen, had practically forced it. Raids and arrests and now — this.

Zoraya crumpled the letter in her hand. It was a summons to an emergency gathering at the Ducal Palace. Inviting all magistrates and High Judges to vote on a new legislature the Council of Four had drafted in response to the attacks. They’d detailed their so-called Emergency Response Plan in the missive, but Zoraya only made it through the first page before the letters started swimming in front of her eyes.

It was, in essence, a call to establish martial law in Baldur’s Gate. There’d be curfews and weapon checks, policing of public areas, as well as very liberal incarcerations due to the suspension of a concept known as habeas corpus — the idea that people had a right to report wrongful imprisonment to begin with. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t even bother with prison cells anymore because another point of the Emergency Response Plan was the complete freedom of the council to mobilize all of their forces however they saw fit. What they called a “swift and coordinated pushback of hostile forces” would be nothing more than gathering all the guards and mercenaries on their roster, handing them their favorite weapons, and sending them out to Rivington to tear down every tent they could find.

At best, it would be expulsion.

At worst, genocide.

“Astarion,” Zoraya said, fighting to keep her voice steady. Calm, collected. Reasonable. “You know what they’ll do with this. They won’t ask questions. They won’t stop to look who they’re aiming at. They’ll wipe out everyone.”

“There need to be consequences,” he said. “We cannot keep smiling and turning the other cheek while they’re coming into our city, blowing up our buildings, killing our civilians!” He slammed the hairbrush onto the vanity and turned around to face her. There was a coldness to his eyes she couldn’t remember seeing, not in a long time.

“If this was about murdering people,” she argued, “don’t you think they would have timed the explosion for the middle of the workday?”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to be grateful they only killed a few dozen innocents rather than several hundred?”

“No, but you can’t blame every single camp out there for the actions of one group! Besides, it might not even be Tatiana’s doing. It could be Cazador! I saw him at the ball and—”

“Are you honestly starting with this vampire nonsense again?” Astarion reached a hand to his forehead, nearly ruining his curls in the process. “We’ve been over it, Zoraya! There’s no real evidence for this ludicrous theory of yours!”

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility,” she parried. “One of several we should be considering before doing something brash like having soldiers tear down homes! In dubio pro reo, remember? There’s a reason that’s one of the pillars of jurisdiction.”

“I’m sure the ones who come willingly will get a fair trial,” he said, rolling his eyes and waving his hand in one of his silly little gestures.

She very nearly slapped him then. She had to clamp her hands over her hips, just to hold herself back.

“And the ones who don’t?” she hissed. “The ones who start panicking when they see an army marching into their homes? The ones who see swords and torches, and grab their children and run because they know how this plays out?”

“We can’t save everyone! We passed that point months ago, can’t you see?” Astarion came a step closer, looming over her in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that she wasn’t wearing shoes. “Every time we treat them with kindness and understanding — every time we let them get away with something, telling ourselves they’re just poor and misunderstood — every time we do that, they’re sure to come back and do something even more dreadful! I know you’re trying to be kind, Zoya, but they’re taking advantage of it. Perhaps it’s time to put an end to it. Quit the half measures and take out the weed by its root, as it were.”

“They aren’t weed,” Zoraya said, the words icy on her tongue. “They’re people.”

“Are they though?” His mouth was set into a thin line, a cruel arch to his brow. “Do they really deserve to be treated as such after what happened tonight?”

Zoraya’s mouth fell open. She had the very odd sensation of standing next to herself, outside of her own body, helpless to keep this disaster from unfolding. “You don’t mean that.”

His golden eyes darted away from her, his fingers toying with the open cufflink on his shirt. “No, I suppose I don’t,” he admitted. “I’m just … Look, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s right. But I have to go down there and cast my vote, whether I want to or not.”

He slipped into his coat, awkwardly smoothing out the collar. “You don’t have to come with me. I understand this is upsetting for you. I promise we can talk later.”

He reached for the keys on top of the vanity and Zoraya grabbed him by the wrist. Swallowing her anger as she’d done a million times before, so she could push up his coat sleeve and gently close the cufflink underneath.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

Astarion pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you.”

She could see the wavering in his eyes. The hurried absentmindedness with which he threw one of her scarves around his neck and completely forgot to say goodbye to Objection, who was watching them from atop the bookshelf, where he’d sought refuge during the unexpected interruption to his nighttime routine. Astarion was nervous, shaky even. It reminded her of the night they’d taken Ira to the clinic, his usually graceful movements full of uncertainty.

That was good. It meant he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

It meant she still had time.

Now that the flames had been extinguished, a different kind of fire roared through Baldur’s Gate.

People were no longer trying to understand what was happening. They had found a satisfactory explanation and latched onto it with all the righteous anger of any creature that felt threatened in its own territory. The streets were lined with torches and hand-drawn posters, people waving them about as they marched up and down in unison, shouting their anger into the night. Their chants were deafening, even from inside the coach. Justice was a common theme, as was consequence.

Who was supposed to be on the receiving end did not need to be specified.

Zoraya knew, logically, that this was not an accurate representation of every single citizen. That most likely, there were plenty of people with more differentiated views on racial politics who had simply elected to stay at home so as to avoid individuals such as the red-faced madman who was currently smashing in the windows of a well-loved, tiefling-owned restaurant. But it was a little difficult to remember those over the sheer volume of the rest.

At least, Astarion seemed to be coming around. As they made their way toward the Ducal Palace, his counter-arguments died off one by one — probably in no small part due to the extremely poignant visualization of most of Zoraya’s points right outside the coach window. And thank the gods for it because the more she thought about the vote, the more nervous she became.

The council needed a two-third majority to pass their legislature. Up until a month or two ago, that would have seemed impossible. But now, with the recent upheavals, she had a feeling that every vote would count.

Including Astarion’s.

“Apologies, Lord Magistrate,” the driver said as he pulled the coach to a halt. “I’m afraid you’ll have to continue on foot from here. Too many people on the streets, you see.”

Karlach and Wyll climbed out of the coach first, keeping Zoraya and Astarion caged in between them. Both of them were tense, hands on their weapons, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Let’s get off the main street,” Wyll said. “Less conflict potential.”

They made their way through back alleys, successfully circumventing the mob. The Ducal Palace itself was closed off, dozens of armed guards stationed around it.

“Only invited guests past this point,” a guard informed them.

“What about my bodyguards?” Astarion asked.

The guard snorted. “Sir, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place is a fucking fortress, what with the riots and the vote. Believe me when I say that tonight, this is the safest place in the whole city.”

Astarion wrinkled his nose, clearly wanting to argue.

“It’s alright,” Zoraya said reassuringly. “We can wait out here.”

“We’ll keep her safe, no matter what!” Karlach promised. “No one’s gonna come through this baby here!” She hefted her great ax in demonstration, not noticing how she nearly hit one of the other magistrates who was passing behind her.

Astarion frowned. “It could be hours.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like we’ll be able to sleep tonight, anyway.” Zoraya forced a chuckle, then took his hands in hers, gently pressing her thumbs against the back of his hand. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She smiled and kissed him, fighting the impulse to ask what it was he’d settled on. Pulling herself together to be what he needed her to be — what the city needed her to be.

His advocate. His voice of reason, his shoulder to lean on.

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” she promised and let go of his hands.

Around them, judges and politicians were rushing through the checkpoint and into the palace, but Astarion stood still for a moment longer. His golden eyes were set on her, an expression so soft, it made her heart flutter. He looked so young all of a sudden, as if they were children again, and she had come to cheer him on for a math test or one of his dreaded horseback riding lessons.

And for a moment, Zoraya was almost sure that everything could turn out alright.

Then there was the sound of steps on the pavement, moving toward them rather than inside the palace, and the feeling died at the sight of Lord Cazador Szarr, still dressed in the same gown he’d worn to the ball, rich shades of crimson, onyx, and gold accentuating the paleness of his skin.

“Ah, Astarion,” he said. “How fortunate that I managed to intercept you just in time.”

“What are you doing here, Cazador?” Astarion demanded.

If Cazador noticed his hostility, the way his voice dropped into something almost like a growl, he didn’t let it show. “Exercising my right to participate in the vote, of course,” he said. “A right given to any noble house of Baldur’s Gate, as I’m sure you know.”

He laughed as Astarion flinched and glanced around himself reflexively. “Oh, no, boy, I don’t believe your dear mother is here. I expect most of the other nobles prefer to remain in their homes, rather than making the arduous trip out here, what with all the commoners clogging up the streets. Fortunately for you, however, I don’t shy away from a little bit of bleating and torch-waving.”

“Is that guy bothering you, Lord Magistrate?” Karlach asked, sizing up Cazador.

“I am most definitely not,” Cazador said. “I am simply here to save our dear Astarion from making the worst mistake of his life.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Astarion said.

“No, of course, you don’t. You’ve always been so naïve about matters of the heart. Alas, given the nature of this particular discussion, I imagine you’d appreciate a little more … privacy, wouldn’t you?”

Cazador snapped his fingers, and the street and the courtyard disappeared.

Suddenly, Zoraya was surrounded by high, wood-paneled walls, lanterns flicking off one by one to illuminate a generous selection of oil paintings all around her. Most of them represented famous moments in the history of Baldur’s Gate, battles and festivals, and traitors being hung for their crimes. There was even a portrait of Baldur himself right atop the fireplace, glaring down at whoever was seated at the large table in the center of the room, four high-backed chairs placed around it in perfect symmetry.

Zoraya swallowed. “Is this …?”

“The Ducal Chambers, yes,” Cazador said. “Forgive the sudden relocation; I simply thought Astarion would prefer to have this conversation away from prying eyes. You never know who might be listening in these days, isn’t that right?”

“Enough with the games, Cazador!” Astarion spat. “You better get to the point right now!”

Zoraya could see the muscles contract under his coat as he positioned himself in between her and Cazador, one hand on the hilt of his foldable dagger.

Only then did she realize that they were alone in the meeting room. Karlach and Wyll were nowhere to be found.

“Certainly,” Cazador said good-naturedly. “I would say with pleasure, but, well, that would be a lie, I’m afraid. Tell me, Astarion: Have you made up your mind regarding the vote?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business!”

“Oh, Astarion, my boy.” Cazador smiled and spread out his arms as if to underscore his harmlessness. “I am not your enemy. I am simply concerned that a dear friend of mine might be making a rather important decision without having all the necessary information. Especially when it comes to whom he turns to for counsel.” He glanced at Zoraya, his pale, bony hand gesturing at her with all the carefully affected indignation of a lawyer pointing at a piece of evidence in court. “Did you know, for instance, that your precious advocate has been conspiring with the leaders of a local terrorist group for several months now? The same terrorists, incidentally, that are responsible for tonight’s dreadful attacks?”

“I asked her to establish contact with the Gur!” Astarion said. “It wasn’t a conspiracy — it was an attempt at calming the waters, to keep them from doing anything stupid! Granted, it didn’t work very well because here we are, but Zoraya and I penned all those letters together!”

“Really?” Cazador lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. “All of them?”

A wave of his hand and Zoraya’s purse snapped open. Out flew a crumpled piece of paper, uncrumpling itself in the air as it levitated over to Cazador, landing right in his outstretched hand.

“Then I trust you are aware of this particular missive Miss Naelgrath has received earlier this evening? Let me read it to you.” Cazador made a show of clearing his throat. “Tonight. Take your pet magistrate and stay away from city hall.”

Zoraya sucked in a breath that immediately seemed to spill from her lungs. With Cazador’s contemptuous tone, she could hear what had bothered her so much when she’d first read the letter. Could see it on Astarion’s face, the way his lips parted and his brow furrowed as if he’d received a punch he had not seen coming.

“N-no!” she said, tripping over the word in her rush to get it out. “This is from Katarzyna — my mother’s friend, remember? She’s been keeping us updated about Tatiana’s plans. She’s known for a while that Tatiana was up to something big, and she wanted to warn us, so we could try to keep the worst from happening. That’s all. I wasn’t trying to keep this from you. I was about to tell you when—”

“So, you mean to tell us that you did not make a deal with Tatiana Morozova all the way back in spring when you first started working for Astarion?” Cazador said. “A deal in which you agreed to dissuade Astarion from his plans to relocate the Gur and other tribes for the sake of his highway, in exchange for Miss Morozova reinstating your mother as First Healer?”

Zoraya’s stomach dropped. The blood froze in her veins, cold spreading through her body like oil through water. A foreign, ugly sensation, folding and unfolding inside of her, like one of those paper origami that just kept going endlessly.

“No,” she said, her mind reeling too much to say anything else.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what had happened. He was twisting it, grabbing the past months of their lives together and contorting them into something hideous.

“Is this true?” Astarion asked, staring at the letter Cazador had given him. His voice was painfully small. Like he was a boy again, working up the courage to ask her a question to which he didn’t want to know the answer. “Did you make a deal with Tatiana behind my back?”

“No!” Zoraya said. “I didn’t!”

“So you never met with Miss Morozova in your house?” Cazador asked.

“I did, but …”

“But you refused her offer?”

“No, but … I wasn’t actually going to … I just said it because …” Zoraya broke off.

Astarion was looking straight at her, his golden eyes wide with shock and something else. Something dark and pained and awful, something she felt burning under her fingertips and in the nape of her neck before she could even put it into words.

Betrayal.

“I am so very sorry, Astarion,” Cazador said, his sympathetic tone very much at odds with his triumphant smile. “But I’m afraid you have been played for a fool by this woman and her tribe. I have tried to warn you, of course, but I don’t blame you for not listening earlier. They knew exactly what they were doing, choosing your childhood friend. Someone you would trust. Someone you would fall for. Someone who could easily guide your hand in all of your major decisions, get you to draft a motion tailor-made to benefit their clan, make public stances in favor of their horrendous lifestyle. And then, when they weren’t happy with the amount of sympathy you were able to garner for them, they took more violent measures, knowing you would be the one smoothing things over for them. It’s so easy for them, isn’t it? They simply start calling you a racist and then suddenly, all their horrendous actions are being excused. One could almost be jealous of them.”

“No!” Zoraya said, a panicked edge to her voice. “No, Astarion, no. I promise it wasn’t like that. All I ever wanted was to help you build something — something you could be proud of!”

“And that just so happened to coincide with your tribe’s interests, yes?” Cazador scoffed. “Oh, my. I can only hope she’s better as a seductress than she is as a lawyer.”

“Astarion, please. You know this isn’t true.” She reached for his sleeve, her hands shaky with fear.

He pulled back his arm and stepped away from her sharply, like she was a snake ready to strike. The look on his face squeezed the last bit of hope out of her.

He was looking at her like she was a stranger. Like he’d spent the past months of his life with another version of her, one that didn’t really exist. And in a way, that was true. She’d kept her meeting with Tatiana from him like she’d kept so many parts of herself from him. Everything that was ugly and messy, everything that she feared might ruin this second chance the universe had granted her. She'd taken her insecurity, her jealousy, her anger and bottled them up, hidden them away, so she could be what he needed her to be. So she could smile and encourage him, argue her points calmly when all she wanted to do was yell at him for how easily he’d slip back into old patterns and actually consider the council’s outrageous plans. She'd swallowed his hurtful remarks, swallowed twenty years of unrequited love, swallowed everything she feared might turn him away. Systematically filing down her edges so as to make herself presentable, desirable. Asking him with every fiber of her being to keep her this time. Love her this time.

But she could see now how foolish that had been. Because on some level, she’d always known that one day, he was going to open his eyes and look at her like this.

Like he’d finally seen the real her.

And realized that she was, on the whole, decidedly underwhelming.

Zoraya’s legs gave out underneath her, heat welling up behind her eyes as she sank onto the thick brocade carpet. She wanted to touch him, to hug him, to tell him it wasn’t true. That she’d never lie to him — not like that, anyway. But what was the point when she herself had been the lie?

They were walking away now, Cazador’s arm placed around Astarion’s shoulder. They were leaving, leaving her behind, once and for all. Her second chance crumbling to dust before her very eyes, and she’d never even managed to tell him that—

“I love you!”

Tears were streaming down her face, sobs tearing through voice, and yet, the words kept coming. Flooding up inside of her because this, at last, was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“I’ve always loved you!” she cried. “Ever since we were children — since I fell off that tree and sprained my ankle, and you carried me back home — ever since that day, I’ve loved you! Astarion, please!”

Astarion stopped, his shoulders tensing as if he was about to turn around. But then Cazador murmured something and Astarion’s head slumped down.

“Wait!” Zoraya shouted, her hands fidgeting at the back of her neck. “I can show you! I have proof — wait, I have evidence!”

Astarion didn’t seem to listen anymore. He was wrapped up in Cazador’s arm, following his fatherly nudging through the double doors and out into the hallway.

Zoraya continued shouting after him for a while. Everything she’d been holding in for so many years, all the agony and longing, the hope and passion and defeat, finally bubbling to the surface and bursting out of her.

There was no one left to hear.

Astarion hardly remembered anything that happened at the vote.

Cazador led him down the stairs and into the High Hall, where most of the other magistrates and High Judges were already assembled. Their faces blurred into the tacky wallpaper, their voices a vague background noise. Astarion sat next to Cazador and only looked up when a piece of paper was thrust into his hands.

He blinked, trying to focus on the words. But really, what it came down to were two options that didn’t need an awful lot of explanation.

Yes or no.

The fountain pen shook in Astarion’s hand as he picked it up and hovered it above the page.

The city, he told himself. This is about the city and how to keep it safe.

But in his mind, all he saw was Zoraya.

Zoraya on her knees, her eyes welling up with tears as she flung the most wicked of lies his way.

I love you. I’ve always loved you.

Making him think — if only for a moment — that she could feel that way. That he could be good enough for her, not just now, but all the way back then when he’d been a cruel, self-obsessed teenage boy. Casting aside his only friend in an attempt at distracting himself from his own petty insecurities, standing by as she was teased and bullied for years.

There simply was no way.

It was one of the first rules for any attorney: Your defense had to be plausible. And this one was ridiculous, downright insulting to his intelligence.

All around him, judges rose from their chairs and went to submit their votes. Astarion stared at the paper, trying to make himself think about the city and its inhabitants, all the thousands of people that would be affected by this decision.

And yet, when he made his cross, it wasn’t Shadowheart he was thinking of, unconscious in her clinic room, or Ira, or the pile of rubble that used to be city hall.

What he thought of were all the professional decisions he’d made over the course of the past eight months and how every single time, Zoraya had been there, whispering in his ear.

Zoraya who said she wanted him to build something for himself; yet, all she did was nudge and plead and argue until he saw things her way. Hells, she’d done it tonight on the way here, not resting until she’d talked him out of a vote that felt overwhelmingly right in his gut, at least for a little while. Using the sharpness of her intellect and the depth of his affection to get him to do whatever it was she wanted — believe whatever it was she wanted. And then she’d praise and kiss him, reward him with little gifts and the occasional blowjob whenever he was a particularly good boy for her.

Perhaps that was why the phrasing in the letter stung so much. Because in so many ways, he truly was her pet magistrate.

It was what she did. What she’d always done, ever since she’d first set foot into his office, no matter her intentions. What was it about him that made people treat him like this? Like he was a puppet, made to be strung around for everyone’s entertainment? A mouthpiece, meant to be fed other people’s opinions and then regurgitate them at their leisure? He was so fucking tired of it. Of all these people walking into his life, thinking they knew better, thinking they had a claim over him and his actions, just the same as his mother, just the same as Cazador, just the same as every other godforsaken soul on this planet!

There was a flicker of anger, bright and white-hot through the haze, and Astarion grasped it, held on to it, and made his cross.

He felt numb again as soon as he’d tossed his ballot into the box.

He probably could have left at that point, his duty completed, but what else was there to do? Return home to find his house empty and cold once more? Or even worse, run into her as she was packing her things? Watch her take her cat and her rugs and her oven mitts and everything that had made that house worth living in, and then sit there all by himself in the darkness, trying to dissect if any of it had been real?

Damn it all, it had felt real, hadn’t it?

Her waking up in his arms and immediately snuggling into his chest, sighing sleepily as he ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head. Her teaching him how to fry potatoes, so they wouldn’t burn, or how to mix a little bit of canned tuna into Objection’s bowl, so he’d eat his vitamin supplements instead of picking them out.

Maybe it wasn’t too late yet. Maybe if he could find her and get her away from here — away from Cazador and the vote and everything — maybe they could talk. Maybe they could …

A hand on his shoulder. Cazador’s. “They’re about to announce the results.”

Astarion stood with the rest of the magistrates and High Judges as a representative of the Parliament of Peers read out the results. There were a few scattered cheers, immediately drowned out by much louder groans and shouts. Most attendees, however, remained silent, using decades or in some cases centuries of practice to avoid each other’s gazes.

The only surprising bit of it all was the numbers. The fact that two-third majority necessary for the implementation of the Emergency Response Plan had been reached by a single vote.

“Well,” Cazador said, “I suppose it speaks for the degradation of our society as a whole that such a perfectly obvious vote should be decided by such a narrow margin. In any case, I look forward to seeing how they’ll eliminate our little vermin problem, don’t you, Astarion?”

Astarion did not respond. He was staring at the tips of his shoes, wondering if he could make it to the bathroom before he’d collapse.

“You look a little ill, boy,” Cazador said kindly. “All too understandable, given the events of this regrettable evening. Shall I call you a coach to take you home?”

Astarion shook his head. It seemed miles away from his body. “I need to get some air.”

“Yes, I believe a little walk might do you good,” Cazador agreed, patting him on the shoulder. “Do be careful out there!”

Astarion walked in a haze of half-hatched emotions, barely registering the rain outside. It occurred to him, on some distant level, that he should try to find Karlach and Wyll, but he was lacking the mental capacity that went beyond putting one foot in front of the other.

There was a crowd in front of the Ducal Palace, civilians banging their fists against the wooden barricades and screaming words he could not make out. Astarion turned away from them and disappeared into the first empty alley he could find, letting the silence envelop him.

All he wanted was to be alone. Alone with the knowledge that now, there was no more maybe.

Because for this, he knew she would never forgive him.

“I knew Zoraya couldn’t do it,” a female voice said, her accent oddly familiar. “Thankless, useless girl. Terrible taste in men, too.”

Astarion had never formally met Tatiana Morozova, but he recognized her all the same. The sharp, weatherbeaten lines of her face, her simple, yet sturdy armor, and the Selûne pendant dangling from her neck. The fact that she was surrounded by her followers, all of which were holding daggers and other forms of weaponry, also helped.

A part of Astarion realized that he should be scared, but the rest of him was way too lost in misery to care. “Is it true?” he asked quietly. “Was she working for you?”

Instead of an answer, they came for him with their blades. Astarion dodged a few of them, more instinct than anything else. His hand reached for the dagger on his belt, managed to unfold it and land a hit or two. But he was vastly outnumbered and in no condition for a fight. The pain started to bloom from several places at once, sprawling its way across his body like ink blotches over a sheet of paper.

He was still thinking of Zoraya when he fell, the dagger clattering out of his hand. The back of his head connected with something hard and his vision went black for a moment. He fought to stay conscious, fought to speak despite the numbness that took hold of his muscles.

“Did she do it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain. “Was she working for you?”

“That girl has never done anything for our clan, not in all her life,” Tatiana scoffed. “No matter. We’ll kill however many of you it takes to make sure the next vote goes differently.”

Someone kicked him, the tip of a boot connecting with his torso and causing an audible crack on the inside. Astarion rolled to his side reflexively, blood shooting up his throat and out of his mouth and nose. There was blood everywhere. It was seeping through his clothes, slickening his hands as he clawed and clutched at the pain. He tried to take off Zoraya’s scarf, tried to keep it from getting ruined, but his fingers felt like he’d stuck them in a pile of snow for hours on end.

And then the pain seemed to have passed its peak, slowly subsiding behind a new wave of haziness. One that was claiming his body as well as his mind. Everything felt distant, disconnected. Like the body that was curled up on the ground wasn’t really him so much as a piece of him, breaking off from the rest and drifting away into the distance.

The only thing he could say for certain was that he was cold. So cold. He’d never been this cold, not in all his life.

“Oh, Astarion, my boy.” Cazador’s voice, clear and sharp in the darkness. “Always on your back, aren’t you?”

Zoraya was running.

She was running as fast as she possibly could, her hair spilling out of its knot, her breath leaving puffy clouds in the night air. The tears had dried to salty lines down either side of her face, only for the rain to wash them off entirely. It was pouring down on her like a divine plea, like the universe at large telling her to get her shit together and run faster.

“Excuse me!” she shouted, using both elbows to make her way through the crowd. “Coming through!”

People were yelling after her, but nothing they said made it through the shrill chorus of panic in her brain.

Please, it kept going. Please, please, please let me make it in time.

Her lungs were starting to protest, each breath burning through her ribcage like the edge of a serrated blade. Hells, if only she hadn’t wasted all this time crying! If she’d pulled herself together, she could already be there! She could have—

Her foot slipped on the wet cobblestones, delivering her onto her knees and forearms in a rough heap.

“No,” she croaked, her arms shaky as she pushed herself up.

Pain was roaring in her joints where they’d collided with several centuries worth of the finest stonemasonry Baldur’s Gate had to offer. A sob was rising in her throat, fresh tears welling up in her eyes.

She wiped them off with the back of her hand and ran faster.

The ground under Astarion’s back was heaving and falling, but the face above him was steady. Pale and cold and inevitable, like the moon in the sky. Cazador Szarr had always had a habit of showing up when he was at his lowest.

“You could have had it all, you know,” Cazador said. “I would have let you join the Council of Four, reign as Duke, just like we’ve always envisioned. I would have even let you keep that filthy Gur woman if that’s what you wanted, provided, she’d learn her place. But you silly, silly boy just had to go and make a mess of things, didn’t you?”

Astarion opened his mouth, but all that came out was another spurt of blood. Who could have known there’d be so much blood in him? It just kept coming, forcing its way out of him under a stream of incoherent wheezing noises, coating the inside of his mouth in a vile, metallic taste. It seemed to be getting colder, too. He knew that was bad, but couldn’t remember why.

“Yes, it won’t be long now,” Cazador said, sounding very nearly sympathetic. “But do not fret, boy. I can help you.”

How? The thought came slowly, sluggishly, like an iceberg drifting through a vast ocean. Thinking was difficult. Breathing was difficult. Everything was so very difficult, but he could tell on some visceral level that he was not going to make it out of this alley.

Not ever again.

Cazador reached out an arm and Astarion’s head was lifted off the ground, cradled against something soft, yet cold. Like a block of ice, dressed in silk and satin.

“I can give you the power to rise again,” Cazador said, his ink-black eyes much closer now. “I can give you powers you’ve never even dreamed of.”

His smile was wider than usual. Unguarded and almost gleefully open in a way that reminded Astarion of a predator, an animal bred to hunt and kill. He even had the teeth, two of them extending a noticeable bit further than the rest, their ends sharp and distinctly pointy.

Fangs, a voice in his head supplied.

How often had he touched those lips without noticing them? How often had he retreated into the inside of his own head, distancing himself from the moment so much, he failed to realize that there was a very literal predator at his throat?

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Zoraya had been right. Of course, she’d been right — when had she ever been wrong about anything?

Cazador Szarr was a vampire. He had turned Boris, and he had sent him to kill Zoraya, and now he was offering to turn Astarion.

“All you have to do is say yes,” Cazador said, “and I will give you all the power you could ever want. The power to get up and walk out of here, go straight to that wretched, little camp, and rip those filthy savages to shreds with your bare hands. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Making them pay for what they’ve done to you, getting that woman to play you like a fiddle, and then leaving you to die out on the street like a rabid dog? I’ll give you the power to do all that and so much more.”

He was speaking in that tender, condescending way of his, cradling Astarion’s head in what could have fooled any unsuspecting witness into believing he actually cared for him.

Astarion knew better. He knew that all this man had to offer was pain and suffering. That there was no way this offer did not come with a whole myriad of strings and conditions that far outweighed any benefits.

It was a trap, plain and simple.

And yet, Astarion answered almost without hesitation.

“Y-yes,” he croaked, rushing to get the word out before it was all too late. “Do it. Please, do it.”

Cazador smiled and brushed a silver curl out of his forehead. “That’s my boy.”

He adjusted his grip, bringing him closer to his face, and Astarion gave a sudden jerk as he remembered Zoraya’s scarf around his neck.

Don’t touch it! he wanted to yell. Do with me what you will, but don’t you dare touch her things!

“Shh,” Cazador said, misunderstanding his agitation. “Don’t be scared now. It will only hurt a bit. And when you rise, you will be so much better than you’ve ever been. Stronger, faster, sharper. Even more beautiful — oh, how beautiful you will be. You are going to be my masterpiece, Astarion.”

The scarf was pulled down and Astarion squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to focus what little grasp he had over his mind to steer it away from this moment and what was happening. Away from Cazador’s arm under his head, the cold breath fanning over his face and then, finally, the sharp prick of teeth against the side of his neck.

Astarion simply … stepped away from it.

It was a skill he’d perfected in no small part thanks to Cazador, come to think of it. The ability to take himself out of his body and into the safety of his mind, using it to skip ahead to the good part, as it were.

Only it wasn’t Cazador’s glorious revenge fantasies he was picturing. He wasn’t thinking of Tatiana or her clan or what he could do to pay them back.

No, in his mind, all he saw was himself, rising from the puddle of blood. His body stabbed and gnarled and monstrous beyond all recognition, but functional.

Functional enough to walk himself to her old house, the small, windswept one where she’d surely sought refuge after their fight. Being able to raise his hand and knock at her door, falling to his knees as soon as she’d open.

He didn’t need to touch her, didn’t need to touch her ever again.

All he needed to do was kneel before her, keeping his head down so as to hide the ghastly sight he’d surely be.

And say three words.

That would be enough. It would be worth all this pain, the wounds all over his body, Cazador’s fangs in his neck, and whatever the Hells might follow afterward.

So that was what he pictured.

I am sorry.

So, so sorry.

Zoya, I’m so ...

Although Zoraya ran all the way, she did not make it in time.

By the time she arrived, the tents were already torn down, the campfires doused with mud. Bedrolls and cooking utensils were scattered across the area, mugs and silverware, and the colorful handwoven rugs that used to line the bottom of each tent. Ira’s Immortal Lamp lay next to a rock, the metal dented beyond all recognition. There were scorch marks on the ground, indicating that at some point, there’d been a fire, but the rain had likely helped to prevent it from spreading.

Instead of the people that used to live here, there were guards in uniform. They had been dispatched right after the final vote had been counted, marching their way here, while Zoraya was crying pointlessly under Baldur’s stern gaze. It must have been over for a while. Most of them were standing around smoking or chatting as their younger colleagues collected anything that looked vaguely valuable and loaded it onto a cart.

Zoraya shuddered to think how they had moved all the people they’d put under preliminary arrest, or whatever bullshit terminology they were using to justify a whole platoon of soldiers dragging civilians out of their beds in the middle of the night. Maybe they didn’t even bother with the pretty words anymore. They didn’t need to, not anymore.

The mud was squelching under her shoes, the earth cracked open like a wound. Torn up from all those heavy army boots stomping through here all at once. Zoraya wanted to pick up the remnants of Ira’s lamp, save it in case there was anything to save about it, but her body froze before she could reach it.

There was a great, big hole right where Tatiana’s tent was supposed to be. All around it, soldiers were shoveling dirt, unceremoniously dumping it over the limp, lifeless bodies that were piled up at the bottom of the hole, much like sardines in a can.

It wasn’t very many, but then, heroes tended to be rare.

It would be the ones who’d seen their children dragged around or their mothers pushed into the dirt and simply lost their nerve. The ones who’d only wanted to go back to their tents one last time, so they could retrieve that family heirloom or the engagement ring they hadn’t worked up the courage to present to that special someone yet. Zoraya couldn’t see their faces, but she had a feeling who it might be. Which members of her mother’s clan had perished here, executed for the crime of being what they were.

“Hey, you there!” A soldier strode toward her, an older man with a beard and a hideous scowl. “Civilians are prohibited from entering the area! This is an ongoing military operation, and you are obstructing officers in the execution of their duty!”

He grabbed her arm, but let go as soon as the first wave of vomit hit his boots. He hissed a curse and then promptly left, probably to get one of his lower-ranked colleagues. The ones who were supposed to deal with things such as vomit and corpses.

Zoraya didn’t remember much of the rest. She remembered being on her knees in the mud, retching and crying, the stench of scorched linen and death burned into her nostrils. She remembered thinking she’d never be able to get up again, that she’d stay there forever, bound to the ruins of the people she’d failed. But then at some point, there was a friendly face. A dark-skinned dwarf who introduced herself as Fytz. She wore a uniform, but her smile was warm and her voice was calm and steady, and she kept talking for a very long time, about her partner and her dog and her friend Karlach who’d managed to get herself a better job than this one.

Zoraya could only assume it was her that had gotten her home that night.

When she woke up, the sun was high in the sky. She could feel its glow all the way behind her eyeballs, blazing through vague, blotted images of red eyes and clawed hands that she wasn’t sure were memories or fantasies.

She was in bed. Her bed — no, Astarion’s bed, she corrected herself.

It was his bed, just as it was his house. And she was no longer welcome.

Zoraya turned, half afraid to find him there next to her, and was greeted with the insistent stare of Objection’s yellow eyes. He lay atop Astarion’s pillow, his posture regal and poised like the guardian deity of ancient times.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice raw from tears and vomit.

There was something about the familiarity of his stare that made her want to pull the blanket over her head and pretend that yesterday had been nothing but a bad dream. But she couldn’t do that. So she crawled out of bed very slowly, wincing as the cool floorboards connected with the blisters on her feet. Her head was pounding and her nose stuffy, the button-down she’d slept in damp from rain and sweat. She pulled a sweater over it and walked into the living area.

“Astarion?” she said, mentally exhaling when there was no reply.

She didn’t have it in herself to wonder where he might have spent the night, or with whom. She’d need all the energy she had left to pack her things and get the Hells out of here before he returned.

Objection did not stray from her side, which was usually a sign that he was hungry. But when she went to feed him, his bowl was already full. The maid must have taken care of it when she’d come to do the morning chores, including the can of coffee and the newspaper on the kitchen counter. Zoraya poured herself a cup, now cold, and gulped it down in one go.

She’d always found that this was the trick to doing things she did not want to do: start with one that was relatively small and then the larger ones — the ones that were really scary — would follow all on their own.

Next was the newspaper. She unfolded it with shaky hands, dread curling around the cold coffee in her stomach. The front page was dedicated to the council’s Emergency Response Plan. A lengthy report on the vote being decided by a razor-thin margin, followed by an immediate mobilization effort to discontinue potentially threatening settlements.

Harmless, pretty words that had nothing to do with the horrors Zoraya had seen last night.

She read it all the same, her eyes racing down the page in a mad dash to get it over with. She turned the page out of sheer inertia, expecting another article detailing the beauty of martial law and how wonderfully convenient it was not having to go through the usual legal procedures before incarcerating or straight-up murdering someone.

Instead, everything stopped.

The world stopped turning.

Her heart stopped beating.

Zoraya’s hand closed around the edge of the kitchen counter, her jaw clenching as she told herself that this was simply a trick of her own mind. A product of stress and exhaustion and the shock of what she’d experienced last night. She tried to pour herself more coffee, but somehow, the can slipped through her fingers and shattered on the floor, porcelain pieces scattering every which way. Objection jumped out of the way with a hiss, coffee pooling to her feet.

The headline refused to change.

It glared up at her, black ink on paper. The very definition of something that was immovable, unchangeable, a mere record to remind future generations of what had long since happened.

Except, there was no way.

She knew there was no way. All she had to do was pull herself together. Try a little harder to get her goddamn mind under control, so it would show her the actual headline. The real one because there was no way in Hells this was real.

Her eyes were burning with effort as she clutched the newspaper to her face, not realizing she’d fallen to her knees until a soft weight settled on her lap. Objection looked up at her very calmly. He cocked his head to the side, his paws kneading gently into her thighs. And then he stretched up and pressed his face against her wrist with a low, soft purr.

And Zoraya let go of the newspaper.

It landed right there in the spilled coffee, the headline unchanged, even as the liquid began to soak through the paper.

“Magistrate of the People” Astarion Ancunín found dead near Ducal Palace after vote — Officials suspect involvement of local terrorist group.

Chapter Text

There was snow on the day of Astarion’s funeral.

Delicate, little flakes scurrying through the air and settling over the city, dusting it with a thin layer of ice. It looked a lot like how Zoraya was feeling these days. Like some part of her — the big part, the important part — had frozen over and left her disconnected from what it was that made her her.

She arrived at the funeral looking exactly as she was supposed to. She’d bathed and washed her hair, braided it, and pinned it into its usual knot. Her hands were scrubbed clean of ink, her nails filed, her eyes dry. She wore the only black blouse she owned, buttoned all the way to the top, and a long coat over it, although she no longer felt the cold.

There were many things she no longer felt.

The funeral took place in a chapel of some minor religion Zoraya had never heard of. A location chosen for its aesthetics, no doubt; the Ancuníns didn’t believe in leaving their success to the whims of any outside entity.

Quelenna was the one receiving the guests. She stood right next to the door, tall and poised as ever, while Aquilan sat on a stool in the corner with his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving.

“Zoraya,” Quelenna said by way of greeting. “So good to see you. And your … friend?” She glanced at Dammon with unmistakable distaste.

Zoraya could hear the unspoken words crackling in the air — Look at that, barely a week has passed, and she’s already bringing another man to the gods damned funeral! — she just couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Oh, Zoraya, my poor dear.” Aquilan stumbled to his feet and pulled her into a hug. His eyes were red and puffy as if he’d been crying for several days straight. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his slender body shaking in her arms. “It’s okay.”

It twisted something inside of her as she stood there, motionless in his embrace. Because whatever he was feeling, she had the distinct impression that she should be feeling it, too.

Dammon eventually helped extricate her from Aquilan, expressing their condolences as he took a hold of Zoraya’s elbow and led her to her seat. There were bleak faces and hushed voices all around them. People in sleek, black mourning wear shaking each other’s hands and murmuring empty platitudes as they made their way toward their seats.

There was a casket at the front of the chapel, practically drowning in elaborate flower arrangements. They would have had to have them shipped in this morning to make sure the delicate blossoms did not wither in the cold. Someone had taken Astarion’s portrait off the drawing room wall and placed it right atop it all, his expression stiff and unnatural like it was in most of the portraits his mother had commissioned.

Zoraya kept thinking that she had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a universe that was not her own. Some odd, contorted version of reality that was full of paper cutouts of people and places she knew. Pale, watery imitations of their counterparts, playing out the charade of something she knew could not have happened.

At some point, the priest appeared because of course, there had to be a priest. He was old, even for an elf, with long, white hair and a voice so thin and tinny, it felt like it was rattling inside her head. He listed Astarion’s degrees and accomplishments. Detailed his career as magistrate, freely omitting all the negative bits and instead focusing on how beloved he’d been by the public, how respected and valued in his social circles.

He spoke about Astarion as if he was dead. Kept gesturing at the casket as if the pretty darkwood vessel had anything to do with Astarion or his life or who he was as a person.

This was wrong.

It was all so wrong — couldn’t they see how wrong this was?

Zoraya stood. “That’s not him,” she said, her voice clearer than it had been in days.

Heads turned her way, vague faces full of shock and sympathy. The only one that stood out to her was Quelenna’s, her brow knitted in barely controlled outrage.

“Sit down, Zoraya!” she hissed. “You are embarrassing yourself.”

Usually, a single word from Quelenna would have been enough to silence her. But not here in this odd, twisted version of reality, where she could feel the threads of herself slip out of her grip like the lashes of a whip, leaving angry red marks all over her.

“You don’t understand,” Zoraya said, pushing through the rows of chairs without caring whose feet she stepped on. “I’ve seen him. I’ve spoken to him. He was fine. He wouldn’t have … he couldn’t have …”

She had to get to the casket, had to show them what a gigantic mistake this all was. It wasn’t even open! What kind of coroner would receive someone as ridiculously beautiful as Astarion and decide to place them in a closed casket?

There must be someone else in there. Another high elf, someone who had tried to imitate Astarion’s signature hairstyle. Quelenna wouldn’t have noticed because she’d never noticed that the portraits littering her house looked nothing like her son, and Aquilan would have been too busy crying.

But she would be able to tell. See for herself that it wasn’t really him, that he was still out there. Once again not hers, but alive. Safe. Just like back in the day.

“For the sake of Baldur himself, someone stop her!” Quelenna shrieked.

Chairs toppled over as Zoraya rushed past the priest and reached for the casket, could almost feel the cool, smooth wood underneath her fingers.

“Zoraya, stop.” Another voice, deeper, rougher around the edges, but also unmistakably gentler.

Something closed around her waist and pulled her back, away from the casket. Zoraya threw her entire weight against it, scratched and clawed at the pair of arms that held her back.

Still, Dammon didn’t let go of her. “Zoraya, please,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

“No!” She was yelling now, her voice shrill in her own ears. “You don’t understand! None of you understand! He isn’t dead!”

She managed to land a kick, the iron grip loosening for a split second. But then Dammon simply picked her up and hurled her over his shoulder, holding her there, even as she screamed and thrashed.

“Let me go, gods dammit!” she shouted. “I can show you! Just let me go and I’ll show you!”

The casket was disappearing into the distance, swallowed up by a sea of shocked noble faces. So many people she recognized from the countless balls and banquets she’d had to attend, merchants and politicians; yet, one face was conspicuously absent.

“Cazador!” She slammed her fists into Dammon’s back, fought him with everything she had. “It was Cazador! He did this! He’s behind it all! Don’t you think it’s weird he isn’t here? It’s because he’s a vampire! He can’t go outside during the day! He can’t eat solid foods, he’s wearing contacts, and he’s … he’s got Astarion! It all adds up, don’t you see? Don’t you fucking see?”

“I know, Zoraya.” Dammon’s voice was gentle, even as he was using his considerable strength to carry her out of the chapel. “I know. I’ll take you home.”

“No! Fuck, Dammon, let me go! Let — me — go!”

Karlach was waiting for them in the entrance hall.

“Karlach!” Zoraya’s heart jumped with relief. “Tell him I’m right! Tell him about Cazador’s magic! Tell him—”

“I’m so sorry, Zoraya,” Karlach said, opening the door for Dammon, so he could carry her out into the cold.

Zoraya wanted to tear them both to shreds. Why was this the only thing people knew how to say anymore? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, when it should be Let’s go do something about it?

There was a brief flicker of hope when they called a coach and the driver hesitated, clearly uncomfortable to transport two tieflings who were dragging a screaming woman with them. But then Karlach — fucking Karlach — flashed her badge and the man just stepped aside.

Zoraya yelled at him that the badge was expired. That they didn’t even have an arrest warrant, and he was making himself an accomplice in the abduction of an innocent citizen. She said a whole lot more, most of it stuff that did not bear repeating.

Dammon sat still for an impressively long time before he pushed her back into the seat, one hand clamped over her mouth to interrupt the slew of cruelties she was spouting at that point.

“I know you’re hurting,” he said. “I know you loved him and I know you’ll miss him. But right now you have to let us take you home before you do a whole bunch of things you’re going to regret.”

His blue eyes were piercing. Familiar and kind, but also steady, unwavering. The kind of look he could keep up for hours on end, usually when he was working his steel. Shaping and honing it with endless patience until it turned into what it was supposed to be.

He would do the same for her. Stay with her for as long as necessary, waiting until she was ready to face what she needed to face.

The sob tore through her with an almost physical jolt, slicing through her anger and leaving her raw, open. The icy layer giving way just enough for her mind to brush against the realization that this might be real.

That he might be gone and life would never be the same without him.

And even that — just the tiniest step toward the admission that any of this might have actually happened — was enough to pull the rug out from under her. Zoraya fell. Dropped down the abyss of grief and agony, her body a shaking, sobbing mass in Dammon’s arms.

“I know,” he kept whispering, his large, callused hand cupping the back of her head. “I know.”

He held her the whole ride home. By the time they arrived, Zoraya had cried herself hoarse and empty, her legs so unsteady, Karlach and Dammon both had to help her walk. Objection greeted them at the door. He was oddly quiet these days, not even hissing at the intruders that came marching into his home. He simply followed them into the bedroom, his yellow eyes never leaving Zoraya.

Karlach helped her out of her funeral outfit and into a set of pajamas — one from before the move, fortunately. Dammon brought a cup of steaming tea and Objection curled up on her lap as she sat in the bed. It seemed like it was happening to someone else. To some vague, misshapen creature that sat on her bed with a bunch of pillows stuffed into her back. A creature that was all hollowed out, her emotions blasted out into the world, leaving behind an empty, broken shell.

That was what life would be from now on.

Empty.

“I can stay with you tonight, if you’d like,” Dammon offered. “Karlach can go check on Ira.”

“No,” Zoraya whispered, holding the tea without drinking. “I’ll be fine.”

They all knew it was a lie.

Still, after they’d made sure she drank most of the tea and checked on Objection’s food, there really wasn’t anything left for them to do.

“Try to get some sleep, soldier,” Karlach said.

“And don’t forget to eat,” Dammon added. “I’ll come by tomorrow with groceries.”

Zoraya nodded, forcing herself to look up from Objection and toward the large tieflings that were dwarfing the bedroom door. There was so much kindness in their faces. So much regret about the fact that this was all they were able to do for her.

“Thank you,” Zoraya said.

And was surprised that of all the things she’d said today, that one she really meant.

After that, it was several days until Zoraya was able to leave the house.

For the most part, she didn’t even leave the bed.

She just stayed there with Objection in her lap and watched the hours tick by. One after another, they went down the great drain of time, meaningless and utterly inconsequential.

She didn’t go to work — probably didn’t even have a job anymore, come to think of it. Neither did Shadowheart, unless they’d assigned her to another magistrate. Gale had sent her a very kind letter, expressing his condolences and inviting her to rejoin his task force whenever she “felt ready”, even going so far as to offer her a very moderate salary.

Zoraya knew he needed help. Hundreds of people needed her help, both inside and outside of Wyrm’s Rock. But in order to help them, she would have to go outside. Would have to go to court and meet all kinds of people who would take her hand and start talking about her loss as if they had any idea what they were talking about. She would have to practice law in a city that no longer cared about laws, only about sentences.

Besides, she’d already let these people down before. Who was to say she wouldn’t just turn around and do it once more?

She couldn’t stay like this forever, of course. At some point pretty soon, a high-class Elven lawyer was sure to come knocking at her door to inform her that this was not in fact her house. That she was technically squatting in the property of Quelenna and Aquilan Ancunín and had so-and-so-many business days to get the Hells out of there. At which point she’d have to move back in with her mother, who didn’t know how to deal with her any more now than she ever had before.

But not yet.

For now, she got to stay right where she was. Which was dressed in Astarion’s favorite shirt, sitting in his bed and staring at the wall.

Dammon kept his promise to bring her food. When he realized that leaving it on the stove for her didn’t get it any closer to actually reaching the inside of her body, he brought it to her bed and then sat there next to her, watching with endless patience as she choked down every last bite. Sometimes Karlach came, too. She’d tell stories about her new job with an ancient, prickly politician, filling the room with her booming voice.

“It’s gonna be alright, soldier,” she’d say when she was about to leave, running a hand through Zoraya’s matted hair. “I’m here for you.”

And that ugly, twisted part of Zoraya, the part that seemed to have been born at the funeral, screamed, Ya? Where were you when he needed you? Where were you when he was beaten to a pulp on the street while you were in charge of protecting him?

But she never said any of that. Because even in her current state, she knew whose fault it truly was.

Tatiana might have wielded the blade, but she never would have stood a chance if Astarion hadn’t been alone that night.

Cazador might have twisted the truth to regain his influence over him, but he’d never had anything to twist if it hadn’t been for her lies and secrets.

It all came down to the same conclusion.

It was festering inside of her like an open wound, never properly cleaned or bandaged. Welcoming everything that was filthy and vile, guilt and loathing and anger burrowing into her, hollowing her out from the inside as they kept spreading and oozing. An infection invisible to anyone safe for Objection, who would hiss and paw at it, gradually moving down her legs to keep away from it.

Until one night it was everywhere. A thick, gooey layer of it covering her from head to toe, not an inch of her left whole.

Zoraya woke up from it with a start, batting her arms at the air as if to fend off an attacker.

There was no one to fight. Only the voices in her head telling her what she’d known from the moment she’d first seen the newspaper article.

Your fault.

She got out of bed for the first time in days, threw on a pair of trousers and shoes, and started running. Her legs were throbbing, clearly not used to the exercise anymore, but she kept going. Ran through the freshly fallen snow all the way to the cemetery.

The main gate was closed for the night, so she climbed up a slightly cracked wall, landing in a rose bush on the other side. She clawed her way out of it, not feeling the thorns against her skin any more than she did the coldness of the night. The snow crunched under her shoes as she made her way to the far end of the cemetery, near the little hill where Quelenna’s parents were buried. It hit her halfway there that she hadn’t even brought flowers — not that it really mattered.

No bouquet could make up for what she’d done.

Nothing ever could.

A gust of wind, dry and icy cold. It blew the snow off one of the gravestones, drawing her eye lower.

Astarion Ancunín.

1229 DR – 1268 DR.

Zoraya sank to her knees, the snow soaking through her trousers as she reached a hand to the gravestone, tracing the name with her fingertips. Focusing on the cool smoothness of the stone, trying to reconcile the words that were etched into it with the much larger truth behind it.

A truth so large, in fact, it had taken her all this time to fully confront it.

Astarion was dead.

The man who had been with her her entire life — who had quite literally been her life for a good chunk of it — he was gone.

He was gone and he was never coming back.

“I’m sorry,” Zoraya whispered, her head sinking against the gravestone. “I’m so sorry, Astarion. I didn’t mean to … I never meant to … All I wanted was …”

There were no words that would be enough, not after what she’d done. She said them anyway, over and over again, as she was clutching at the snow with her hands. Grabbing fistfuls that melted in her grip and dripped down her arms in icy rivulets, hurling them away into the night.

Tears were running down her face, turning to ice as soon as they hit the ground. They were blurring her vision, so at first, when her fingers hit the frozen earth underneath the snow, Zoraya told herself that she was hysterical. That she was at a point where she needed help from a cleric, no longer able to trust her own senses. But then she shoveled away more snow, her red, frozen hands working faster now. And that icy feeling in her stomach began to twist into something else, something hot and liquid.

With a few more sweeps of her arm, she pushed the final bits of snow away from the grave.

Then she sat back and stared at it.

With the funeral less than a week ago, the earth hadn’t had time to settle, the surface still uneven and jagged from where they’d placed the final layer of soil. That part made sense. What made no sense was the great, big hole at the very top of the grave, right below the gravestone. The way the earth dipped down almost a full arm’s length, bits of it strewn around as if they’d been ripped out in a hurry and thrown aside. As if someone had clawed their way through the soil — not with shovels or tools, but with their bare hands. Working at the very limits of their physical abilities just to get it out of the way, to push and dig and struggle through six feet of frozen earth until they finally …

The imprint of a hand, frozen into the soil and preserved by the snow.

Zoraya held her breath as she fit her own hand against it, finger for finger. A perfect match, just as it had always been.

And she knew with perfect clarity that she’d been wrong.

It really had been Astarion in that casket.

And now he wasn’t anymore.

Astarion sat in darkness.

If there was one thing he could say with absolute certainty about his new existence, it was this: it was an existence spent in darkness.

He’d woken in darkness, too. His body crammed into a tiny, little space, the walls so close, they seemed to bear down on him from all sides at once. At first, he’d called for help, banging his fists against the wooden confines to garner the attention of whoever might be passing by. Only when he realized that no one was going to come for him, had he started fighting in earnest. Kicking and thrashing and screaming, panic coiling tight in his stomach as he clawed and clamored his way through the wood.

There had been more darkness after that. Six feet of it, to be exact.

By the time he was done with that, his fingers were raw, splinters and frozen soil etched into his flesh. Astarion sat there on his hands and knees in the snow, coughing up blood and dirt and whatever else had lodged itself inside his lungs. It burned in his throat as it came up in painful heaves, leaving dirty red splashes on the freshly fallen snow.

There was another type of burn, a little lower on his body. One he couldn’t quite place — not yet, anyway.

Astarion didn’t have to look up to know that Cazador was there. Looming over him in the pale moonlight, tall and straight-backed, while Astarion was cowering on all fours, retching and shaking, too weak to even lift his head.

“Rise,” Cazador said.

And Astarion did. His body simply pushed through the pain, obeying the command, even as his muscles screamed in protest. He stood with his shoulders pulled back and his head bowed before Cazador, his gaze fixed on the blood-stained snow to his feet. He was wearing different shoes. Not the simple boots he’d picked for the vote, but his finest pair of dress shoes, the leather likely polished to a shine before he’d sullied it with dirt and blood. His clothes were different, too. Which meant that …

His hand flew to his neck, his chest tightening when he found nothing but the torn collar of a doublet. Zoraya’s scarf — it was gone. They must have given it back to her when they’d dressed him up for the funeral.

“Zoraya,” Astarion croaked, her name scratching along his torn-up throat. “I have to see Zoraya. Cazador, please. I—”

“The correct form of address is master.” 

“Master,” Astarion repeated. He didn’t care what he had to call him to get just five minutes alone with Zoraya. “Please, I have to see her.”

“So eager to enact your revenge, hm?” Cazador smiled. “We’ll see about that later. First, we must go over the basics. Get on the same page, so to speak. On your knees, Astarion.”

This time, it was different. There was no pull, no external force moving his body; it was Astarion’s decision to lower himself back into the snow, his throbbing hands pressed flat against the ground.

Cazador nodded approvingly. He reached a hand to Astarion’s chin and lifted it with gentle firmness. His eyes were no longer black. They were red now, the deep, vibrant shade of freshly spilled blood.

“Just look at you,” Cazador whispered, an unfamiliar tenderness in his voice. “You have always been such a pretty, little thing, but now? Now you are perfect. My most beautiful creation.”

His thumb brushed over Astarion’s lips, cracked and sore from the cold, and Astarion shuddered.

“Oh, how I wish I could have made this less painful for you,” Cazador sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to get stabbed by these vagrants, left to rot out on the streets like an animal. I would have turned you in the comfort of my estate, wrapped you in the finest silk sheets as I’d let the lifeblood flow from your veins and replace it with my own. I would have held your hand through it, given you every imaginable comfort in those last moments. But you, you just had to go ahead and ruin everything, didn’t you? A silly, childish boy who refuses platefuls of caviar to scarf down a hunk of stale, brown bread.”

“Please, let me see Zoraya.” 

Something twitched in Cazador’s face, his fingers tightening around Astarion’s jaw. “I told you now is not the time.”

“Please, Master. Just this once, just—”

The blow came out of nowhere. An explosion of pain across the side of his face, knocking the knees out from under him, the world spinning around him. He landed in the snow, his head ringing and throbbing in all colors of the rainbow.

Astarion had never been hit like that. A vicious backhand meant to hurt as well as humiliate.

He was still gasping for air when something heavy settled on his cheek. A boot, slowly pressing down on him. Not enough to break anything — just holding him there in the snow, his own gravestone right in front of him.

He wondered, briefly, if Zoraya had been here. Had she come to cry for him, curse at him, yell at him? Or had she not even bothered, too angry and disappointed to face the memory of the man who’d hurt her in just about every imaginable way?

Then Cazador spoke again, and his words boomed through Astarion’s head, demanding his attention.

“First, Thou Shalt not Drink the Blood of Thinking Creatures.

Second, Thou Shalt Obey me in All Things.

Third …”

Astarion didn’t know how much time had passed since then. It was impossible to keep track of time in the dark, lanternless cell Cazador called his familiarization quarters. He was all alone there, not even his own heartbeat to keep him company.

The only thing that was always with him now was the hunger.

The thirst.

The need.

Whatever — they were all one and the same. A cacophony of ravenous voices, screaming for sustenance every waking moment.

It was a decidedly novel experience for Astarion, who had never been particularly fond of food. All his life, he’d been the kind of person who could easily forget to eat or simply choose not to, either because there were no appealing options, or because his mother was seated across the table from him, her cool, expectant glare closing up his throat.

Now, food was nearly everything he ever thought about.

Food and Zoraya.

He tried his best not to mix the two, forbade himself from picturing the warm, full-bodied blood gushing out of her gorgeous neck and straight into his mouth, spilling over his chin as he gulped it down in greedy mouthfuls.

Because when he’d get to see her — and he would get to see her, no matter how much he had to grovel before Cazador — it would be to apologize to her.

Nothing more, nothing less.

After that, he’d see if the whole vampire thing was worth his time or not.

The rattle of keys in the darkness, followed by a heavy creak and then — a sliver of light. Not real light, of course. Just the flicker of a gas lantern, flimsy and lifeless. Astarion felt himself edge toward it all the same, greedy for its caress.

“The master wishes to see you,” Boris said. He looked just the same as when Astarion had last seen him, minus the dramatic hood and the blade.

“Gods below,” Astarion said. “It’s you. You’re …”

“Dead.” Boris’ tone was level, his crimson eyes trained on the wall. Apparently, they did not bother with the contacts when they were at home. “We are all dead. Now come before the master gets angry.”

Astarion struggled to his feet. His body had healed from the stab wounds and even the sting from Cazador’s blow had faded, but his legs were stiff from sitting for so long. Still, he tried his best to sound normal. “So, I take it they got you out of prison then?”

Boris responded with a grunt.

Clearly, none of Cazador’s spawn were particularly engaging when it came to the art of conversation. Astarion had seen a few of them when he’d been brought to his cell, shuffling about the corridors with their heads slumped and their feet dragging along the crimson carpets as if they were lacking the energy to pick them up properly. Poor sods, the lot of them. Bowing before Cazador as he strode past them, a hopeless, downtrodden sort of misery in their eyes that told Astarion everything he needed to know.

That they were victims. The types of people who had spent their entire lives cowering before their betters, whining and sighing about the lot that they’d been dealt, while doing absolutely nothing to improve their situation.

But Astarion was different.

He followed Boris down the corridor with his back straight and his chin up, putting as much of his usual swagger into his steps as his wobbly legs would allow.

“Noblemen cheating their precious servants out of prison by faking their deaths, I see,” Astarion tutted, taking comfort in the sound of his own voice. Still so vibrant, so energetic, so — him. “In your case, it’s not actually a lie, of course, since you happen to be dead. But it makes me wonder just how far the corruption reaches. Is it only the prison guards that are in on it, or some of the wardens, too? Perhaps even one or two of my fellow magistrates? How many people have been sentenced to death and then brought here, I wonder — and for what price?”

This time, there was no grunt. Just the heavy sound of Boris’ footsteps on the staircase.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t curious!” Astarion said with an annoyed flick of his hand. “It’s your people they’re framing for their crimes out there.”

“My people are here now,” Boris said. “This is my home, my family. Everything I need is here.”

“Oh, my.” Astarion forced out a chuckle, if only to soothe the shiver that ran down his spine. “He’s really messed with your head, hasn’t he?”

No response.

Honestly, a bunch of mushrooms would have made for better company than this man.

“Come on, Boris, my friend,” Astarion said. “Just because you’re a vampire spawn doesn’t mean you have to make it your whole entire personality. Look at it this way: We’ve cheated death! We get to live through it all, whether it’s political unrest or natural disasters or another dragon attack ravaging the city!”

Boris turned his head, his red eyes boring into Astarion for just a moment. “Yes,” he said. “We get to live through it all.”

Then he knocked at the door to Cazador’s study. “Master, I have brought Astarion.”

“Send him in,” Cazador replied. “And close the door on your way out, Boris.”

The first thing Astarion noticed when he entered the room was the smell. It was rich and sweet, like well-aged wine. Stored in great, big barrels for decades at a time, only to be poured right at the peak of its maturation. A delicacy to be savored, to be served in tall crystal glassware and enjoyed slowly, sip for precious sip.

Clearly, Cazador did not subscribe to this particular philosophy because the smell filled his study like he’d taken the whole damn barrel and emptied it all over the immaculate hardwood floors.

He sat in his usual spot behind the heavy desk, papers and folders laid out in front of him in neat, little rows. The very picture of orderliness and efficiency, if it hadn’t been for the half-naked woman writhing in his lap, her head thrown back in ecstasy as Cazador drank from the fist-sized hole in her neck. Blood was streaming out of it freely, past his lips and over his steel gray doublet, all the way down onto the floor.

“Don’t look so shocked now, boy.” Cazador wiped his mouth before he gave him a smile, wide and open, the blood still clinging to his teeth. “You might not be the brightest light on the candelabrum, but even you must have been able to work out how vampires sustain themselves, no?”

Astarion knew — oh, he knew. There was no mistaking the deep, painful growl in his empty stomach, the dull ache behind his brand-new fangs, begging to be plunged into the woman’s neck and get his share. Her smell was everywhere. Going from his nostrils straight into his head, making his skull thrum with desire, with need.

“I can assure you, it’s a perfectly symbiotic interaction,” Cazador explained. “Blood in exchange for incomparable pleasure. Not a bad deal at all, isn’t that right, dear?”

“Yes, Master,” the woman answered breathily.

She could barely keep her eyes open, her body limp like an oversized doll in Cazador’s arms. He latched onto her neck once more, and she moaned, throwing herself against him as best as she could.

Astarion’s mouth was watering. His chest trembling with the phantom sensation of the heartbeat he no longer had. He didn’t realize he’d been edging closer to the desk until Cazador looked up at him, a cruel glint in his eyes.

“Would you like a taste, my boy?” he asked, tilting the woman’s head in Astarion’s direction.

“Yes,” Astarion said, ignoring the immediate spike of guilt as the word shot out of him.

The woman was practically dead already, so what difference did it make? Besides, she’d consented to this. Was very clearly enjoying herself, choosing to stay in Cazador’s arms, even as he was sucking the life out of her. It was her choice to make, same as people who used alcohol and other substances to ruin their bodies. Who was he to deny her what she so desperately wanted?

Astarion reached out a hand, his stomach rumbling in anticipation as he stared at the perfect crimson rivulets trickling down her neck.

“Not so fast,” Cazador said in that obnoxious singsong voice of his. “First, you’re going to have to earn your meal.”

Astarion heard the words, but they didn’t quite register. Didn’t make it through the haze of her intoxicating smell, the curve of her throat beckoning him closer.

Cazador grabbed his outstretched hand and slammed it down on the table.

“I said you’re going to have to earn it!” he hissed, holding Astarion’s arm down, keeping it right there in the pain. “I know this might be difficult for you to imagine, having been born with a silver spoon in your pretty mouth, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to … adjust.”

With his free hand, he lifted the woman’s head, causing the blood to gush out of her neck even faster, and Astarion nearly screamed at the sight of it sinking into the fabric of her blouse — trickling away, wasted, gone!

For one terrible moment, he pictured himself leaping across the desk and bashing Cazador’s head against the floor until his skull gave in and the blood he was withholding spilled out of him in a great, big fountain of justice.

But no. Even through the hunger and the pain, he could tell that he was in no condition for a fight. He had to be smart about this, smarter than Boris and all the other spawn. First, he had to regain his strength. Then he could think about taking on Cazador.

“Please,” Astarion said, forcing his head into a bow. “What do I have to do, Master?”

Cazador leaned back with a smile, releasing his hand as he gestured at the floor. “I’m afraid that one over there is not to my tastes at all. Something decidedly mucky about her blood. Take care of her for me, will you?”

Astarion followed his gesturing and drew in a breath he technically didn’t need anymore.

There was a second woman on the floor, one he hadn’t even noticed with the smell of blood so thick in the air. She lay there with her hand clasped over a small wound in her neck, as if Cazador had taken a dainty, little bite and then immediately shoved her off his lap. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why she’d ruined his appetite — or why he’d give her to Astarion, specifically.

The woman looked like Zoraya.

Not exactly, of course; Zoraya was infinitely more beautiful. But she had the same long, brown hair and bronze skin, the same slender figure, even a similar curve to the shape of her nose.

Astarion swallowed heavily. “You want me to …?”

“Kill her,” Cazador clarified. “I have no use for inferior, foul-tasting blood.”

Kill. The word spiraled and swelled in Astarion’s head, taking up so much space, even the hunger was fading away into the background.

The woman must have heard it, too, but she made no move to run. Just stayed right where she was, staring off into the distance with a glassy expression in her brown eyes.

“I can’t,” Astarion whispered. It was the truth — he’d never killed anyone, let alone a defenseless, paralyzed woman. “Please, I couldn’t possibly …”

“I think you’ll find that there’s a great many things you can do now that you are mine.”

“But she’s not even moving! She’s—”

“Silence!”

Astarion’s mouth closed abruptly, his teeth clinking together. He could not open it again.

“There will be no more whining,” Cazador said. “No more prattle and no more complaints. You are going to be a good boy for me and kneel.”

Astarion’s legs gave in as if the words had zipped from Cazador’s blood-stained lips straight into his muscles, forcing him onto the floor so fast, he nearly lost his balance. Pain exploded in his kneecaps, red, angry sparks shooting up his spine and into his head, forming into a wordless cry of agony that never made it to the surface.

He could not scream because Cazador had commanded him to be silent.

“Look at her face.”

Astarion tried to resist, but it was pointless; his gaze was drawn to her like a moth to the light. She didn’t seem to notice him. Didn’t seem to notice anything, not even the blood trickling out of the gash on her neck and over her fingers. And Astarion began to wonder if he’d ever looked like that, back before the transformation. All those times that he’d suddenly found himself turning around and coming back to Cazador’s bed, tearing off his shirt with a passion he knew he hadn’t felt a second ago — had he been wearing the same glassy-eyed expression?

This, however, was way stronger. He’d heard of the bond between a vampire lord and their spawn, but never could he have imagined that it would be like this.

“Keep looking,” Cazador instructed. “And start killing — slowly, mind you. We’ll do this very slowly, you and I, for you are a stupid, prideful boy, who needs a little extra time to understand how this is going to go.”

Astarion watched his hand rise above the helpless woman as if it belonged to someone else.

It didn’t even look like his hand anymore. His perfect crescent nails had chipped off one by one as he’d fought his way through the coffin, tearing off the flesh below as they broke away in sharp, jagged pieces. What he was left with was hideous, even after the worst of it had healed. Raw, torn-up stumps spreading out like claws, ready for the inevitable attack.

The hand of a monster, Astarion thought just before it struck down.

He couldn’t see the hit, his eyes still glued to the woman’s face, but he could hear her scream, shrill and piercing like nothing he’d ever heard before. He could feel the flesh give way, could feel it tear and rip with each savage strike of the monstrous thing that used to be his hand. It seemed bizarre to him that he should be able to do this without any weapons or tools, nothing but his bare hands to claw through another person’s body.

But worst of all was the blood. It kept spraying up, coating his arms, his torso, even his face. Assaulting his senses with its sweet, sweet allure, making his stomach churn and yearn at once with the terrible knowledge that even now, amidst all the carnage, he was ravenous.

“Oh, I always knew you would look lovely drenched in blood!” Cazador’s voice was dripping with glee, his cackle roaring in Astarion’s ears. “That pretty ivory skin of yours, those luscious silver curls — gods, you were made to be ruined!”

Astarion fought.

Fought for just the tiniest bit of control over his body. Just enough to direct his hand to her throat, release the woman from her pain with a single strike …

But no.

Cazador wanted this to be slow.

He wanted this to be a lesson. A lesson as to what his life was going to be like, moving forward.

“Look at you, the prodigal son of House Ancunín!” Cazador said. “Your mother thought she could mold you into the perfect nobleman, but I, I saw your real potential! I saw that this is what you were born to be. A tool, a weapon, never more beautiful than when you’re wielded by someone else! You would have made the perfect little pet Duke — oh, how perfect you would have been. My beautiful creation, my immortal hand at the pulse of the city. Together, we could have ruled Baldur’s Gate forever! Why do you think I chose an elf, hm? Part of it was your looks, of course — I enjoy a pretty face underneath me as much as anyone. But then there’s also the Elven lifespan. You could have reigned for 700, 800 years before anyone would have started to grow suspicious. And even then, we could have spun a story about your distant nephew coming in to take over or some-such bullshit.”

It shouldn’t have mattered, in the grand scheme of things, but somehow, it did. That this was all Cazador had ever seen in him, right from the beginning. That there had never been any respect or appreciation, no matter how fleeting.

There had only ever been this.

“I’m going to have to find someone new for this particular project,” Cazador said. “But don’t you worry; we’ll find other uses for you. There’s always people that need charming, special favors that need to be garnered. We’ll have to keep you locked in here for a while, what with your name still plastered all over the papers. But give it a century or two, Astarion, and I’ll even let you go outside. You’ll get to prowl the streets like the exquisite predator you were always meant to be, bring me the prettiest and tastiest this city has to offer!”

A century.

Astarion’s throat swelled up, burning with a sob he was not allowed to release. Zoraya was a half-elf. In a hundred years, she might very well be dead. And even if she wasn’t — if she was somehow still alive and Cazador let him see her — what were the chances Cazador would allow him to be himself? Who was to say he wouldn’t use the opportunity to amuse himself, forcing Astarion’s body to do unspeakable things just as he did now?

The woman on the floor had stopped twitching, but her face was still contorted in pain. Astarion wanted to believe that it would make a difference if it was Zoraya. That his body would simply refuse service, freezing in place or tearing itself apart before he’d lift a hand to hurt her.

But he knew the truth.

“Try out those fangs and finish her,” Cazador said after what felt like hours.

It was disturbingly easy. Her throat yielded to his fangs like an overripe orange, eagerly spilling its juices into his mouth as he tore it open. Astarion tried to focus on the fact that it was over, that at least now, she was free from pain. But everything he could think about was the taste of her blood.

It was still warm, rich and sweet and glorious right there on his tongue. It was everything he’d ever wanted, and the ravenous voice howled in protest when he spat it out, moved by the same invisible forces that had guided his hand. They forced him to sit back, away from her throat, and something dark and primal roared up inside of him, lighting up his nerve endings with need and all-encompassing fury. Her blood was right there! Cooling on the floor when it should be streaming down his throat, his tongue dipping into every little nook and cranny of her neck, making sure he’d get it all, making sure he’d—

Gods.

He was hard.

He was sitting next to the slashed-up corpse of the woman he’d murdered, and he was hard from the thought of drinking her blood.

“Well done,” Cazador said. He was next to him, his cold hand closing over Astarion’s cheek with painful tenderness. “See, that wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

Astarion was shaking like a leaf.

That wasn’t me, he tried to tell himself. It was Cazador. He was using my body like a puppet. He forced me, he made me …

He closed his eyes, the ache in his fangs and the tightness in his trousers proof that that wasn’t quite true. Cazador had commanded him to rip this woman to shreds, but he’d been the one to actually enjoy it. Drooling over her corpse like a mindless beast, craving her blood in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever craved anything, hunger and carnage and sex, all rolled into one. If it hadn’t been for Cazador, Astarion knew he would have drained every last drop of her, not stopping until she was cold and stiff in his arms, moaning with pleasure all the while.

Because that’s what he was now.

A monster, ravenous for the blood of others.

Something landed on the floor next to Astarion. It was a rat. A filthy, grimy sewer rat, its body all twisted and stiff. It must have died several days ago, judging by the stench that emanated from it, an olfactory attack so severe that Astarion had to clamp his hand over his nose to try and shield himself from it.

“Here you go, my child,” Cazador said with a benevolent smile. “You deserve it.”

Astarion’s gaze darted from the rat to Cazador and back.

He couldn’t mean that.

He couldn’t actually mean that …

“Surely, you understand that master and spawn cannot dine from the same platter, as it were.” Cazador strode over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine, looking out of the window as he spoke. “It’s in the nature of things. You wouldn’t have shared your meals with your chambermaid any more than I can share mine with you. But you’ll come to enjoy your little treats, I’m sure. There are many rewards to be had for a spawn who knows their place.”

Fuck.

You.

The thought was bright red in Astarion’s head.

There was no way he was eating that. No way he was going to grovel before this man, thanking him for literal garbage when there was a perfectly good meal getting stale before his very eyes! No. Maybe the intimidation tactic worked on those poor sods downstairs, the ones who were happy scrabbling for charity and fighting each other for leftovers, but not him.

Not. Him.

He was an Ancunín, gods dammit! If he was going to be a monster, he was at least going to be his own kind of monster.

Astarion looked up one more time, making sure Cazador’s back was still turned. Then he bent down lightning-fast, pushing away the twisted, foul-smelling rodent with his elbow and dipping his lips into the beautiful crimson pooling around the dead woman’s neck.

He could feel it sing to him with the promise of power. So much power — maybe even enough to take on Cazador. Surely, someone like Boris wouldn’t have had the gall to think of that. Indulge in the forbidden delicacy and gather the strength to chuck Cazador out of his own goddamn window, impale him with a makeshift stake and take over his estate.

That’s what he’d do. Free the other spawn and then return to Zoraya, return to her as a hero. Surely, she’d forgive him then. Take him back because here he was, a changed man, liberator of slaves and slayer of evil vampire lords!

The blood was cooling under his lips, his body refusing to let him drink. Astarion gritted his teeth and tried again.

He didn’t know how long he’d been trying when he heard Cazador’s voice, icy in his back. “Oh, you stupid, stupid boy. I see we’re going to need many more lessons, hm?”

And the pain began.

First, Cazador beat him. He beat him right there over the corpse of the woman, his face pressed into her blood all the while. He beat him until there was almost nothing left of him, until he couldn’t scream or cry or even think. Then he made him kneel and beg for forgiveness, the words spilling out of Astarion without the need for compulsion.

At that point, he would have said anything, done anything, for the pain to stop.

Once Cazador was satisfied with his apology, he commanded his wounds to heal and did it all over again.

It was the kennels after that. Astarion didn’t remember half of what happened there. It was the type of pain that latched onto him like a parasite, spreading and sprawling and thriving. There was no stepping away from it, no retreating into the back of his mind.

All there was was pain.

Thus was life in the Szarr estate.

He was in the kennels, where there was pain. From there, he was taken to Cazador’s study or his bedchambers, where there was more pain. Then he was bathed and dressed, his hair styled and sprayed with perfume to mask the smell of death that clung to his body now. He was sent to the guestroom to entertain. Hands grabbed him, pushed him, shoved him, held him. Spread him open and forced him inside, ground into his face and down his throat, scratched and clawed and lashed at him as they screamed out their pleasure.

Then back to the kennels.

When there was finally a break in the cycle, Astarion was so disoriented, he didn’t know what to do. Cazador stepped away from him, still pulling up his trousers as he reached behind the desk and retrieved an object, which he tossed at Astarion.

Astarion made no move to catch it. It had been a while since he’d moved without being told to, so he remained with his hands braced against the edge of the desk, his hips jutting out and his legs spread wide. The object landed on the floor.

It was another rat, this time wrapped in a filthy piece of garment.

“Go ahead, boy,” Cazador said when he noticed his hesitation. “You must be hungry.”

Astarion dropped to his knees immediately, ignoring the ache in his rear as he crouched down on all fours and bit into cold, lifeless flesh. The taste was just as revolting as the smell. Inch upon inch of coarse, foul-smelling fur to chew through until he even reached the blood, stale and clumpy from being left out to rot.

It was the best meal he’d ever had.

Astarion continued to suck and chew on the carcass long after he’d drained it. Lifted it at every conceivable angle in the hopes for just one more precious drop to quench the roaring hunger in his belly. Only then, when he was certain that there was nothing left in it, did he notice the piece of fabric it had come in.

It was caked in blood. Not the rodent’s, but his own, a smell that was now just as familiar to Astarion as that of Cazador’s skin or the musky air in his cell. It made the garment crackle as he picked it up with careful hands. There were little bits of beige peeking out from underneath the dried blood, a series of rather tacky tassels at the lower end of it.

And Astarion could feel a hole open up in his chest, right where his heart used to beat.

Because once upon a time, this filthy, bloodied rag had been a scarf, resting around the loveliest of necks.

“A special reward,” Cazador crooned. “For being such a good boy for me. Now, what do you say, Astarion?”

“Thank you, Master,” Astarion said, lowering his head as he cradled the scarf against his chest.

There was still just a trace of her smell on it, and he couldn’t help but inhale it deeply, allowing his mind to torture him with memories of her in the scarf. She only had the one, so she’d worn it nearly every day back in the spring when she’d first come to work for him. Wrapping it around her neck whenever they’d go out to court together, rolling her eyes as she lectured him about the upcoming case. Always trying to help him be better, be more.

And him, always falling short.

Of course, Cazador would give him the scarf now. Now that Astarion knew without the shadow of a doubt that he would never see her again, never get to say the words he needed to tell her. That it was better this way — better than running into her and knowing what Cazador would make him do to her.

Cazador had made him do so many things.

Astarion got to his feet and adjusted his trousers, careful not to get any more blood on the scarf. “May I take this to my cell, Master?”

“Oh, I don’t think you need your cell anymore,” Cazador said. “I think it’s time for you to meet your siblings. Isn’t that exciting, Astarion?”

“Yes, Master,” Astarion said automatically.

Always agree with him. Never contradict him. Never speak without being prompted.

Cazador led him downstairs, past his old cell and the kennels. He opened one of the many doors Astarion wouldn’t have dared to open himself. Behind it was a small, dimly lit room, jammed chock-full with grubby, old-fashioned bunk beds. There was no furniture apart from the beds. No wardrobes or desks or even a chest to put one’s personal belongings. It was a room like a storage closet, the bunk beds the shelves to hold Cazador’s spawn whenever he did not need them.

“Greetings, my children,” Cazador said, pushing Astarion into the room with a cold, firm hand on his back. “Come meet your new brother.”

“A new brother?” a pompous voice said. It belonged to a short, pudgy-faced man with a very unfortunate haircut, his cropped curls only emphasizing the broadness of his features. “Oh, look at that, it’s the magistrate — what a fun addition to the family! I’m sure he’s going to feel right at home!” He broke into a cruel laugh.

Astarion didn’t understand, not right away. He recognized Boris on the bunk bed next to the obnoxious man; he was holding hands with a thin, dark-skinned woman. Boris was looking down at the mattress, but the woman’s eyes were trained on Astarion, her sharp, birdlike features pulled into an expression of contempt.

The door fell shut behind Cazador. Astarion clutched the scarf to his chest, the stale rodent blood churning in his stomach as he looked around the room.

Cold anger and Selûnite pendants greeted him from every corner.

Cazador’s spawn weren’t all Gur, but the vast majority of them were. And it was perfectly obvious that they knew who he was. Who he had been, before all this.

The magistrate who’d said he’d help — and then failed them, just as he’d failed everyone else.

Chapter Text

Zoraya entered the Forge of the Nine through the backdoor, using the spare key from underneath the flower pot. Dammon had never been too concerned about safety, but at least he’d started to lock up during the night once Ira had moved in with him. The hearth was cold to the touch, the fire clearly put out several hours ago. Zoraya paused on the doorstep, listening for any sounds from the apartment upstairs. Then she grabbed one of the heavy leather aprons from the wall and went to work.

Apparently, she wasn’t as quiet as she’d hoped because it didn’t take long before Dammon came down the stairs. He was wearing a pair of boots over his pajamas, his hair loose and tousled from sleep. In his hand, he held a fire poker.

“Zoraya?” He lowered the impromptu weapon at the sight of her. “What in the Hells are you doing here?”

“Making weapons,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on the piece of wood she was sharpening.

“What kind of weapons?” Dammon’s tone was gentle, cautious. Like on the day of the funeral when he’d carried her off, kicking and screaming like a madwoman.

But this was different.

Zoraya knew she was not mad. In fact, she’d never been calmer, more in control of herself.

She looked up from the workbench, meeting Dammon’s shock-blue eyes. “The kind that kills vampires.”

There were any number of ways he could have responded to that. Calling the Watch, for one. Telling them that she was insane, that this was his home and his forge, and he was not going to have a mentally unstable wannabe vampire huntress playing around with his tools.

Instead, he put down the fire poker and rolled up the sleeves of his pajama shirt. “Here,” he said, adjusting her hold on the knife, the angle at which she drew it over the piece of wood. “Going to be much faster this way.”

“Thanks.” Zoraya glanced up at him, a smile spreading on her face as she realized that she was not in fact surprised by this. Dammon had always been so very good at reading her. Had always known when she needed to vent, allowing her to sit on one of his work benches and get it all out of her system. He’d known when to snap her out of it, too. Taking off his apron and hurling it at her, telling her that they were going out and that she was paying.

“Silver is not my strong suit.” He threw an armful of logs into the hearth and lit them on his lantern. “But I’ll see what I can do. Just let me put on some proper shoes first.”

He opened the door that led up to his apartment and nearly fell over Ira who was huddling on the other side.

“Did you say silver?” she asked, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had been eavesdropping.

“That is none of your concern because it’s past your bedtime, young lady!” Dammon said.

“But your silver work is absolutely abysmal!” Ira argued. “You never get the temperature right, and then you cool it down too quickly, and it gets all brittle and shitty!”

“Ira, language!”

“Well, it would be pretty shitty if the blade broke just as Zoraya is trying to stab the big, bad vampire with it, don’t you think?”

They glared at each other in perfect silence, waiting who would break down first. Predictably, it was Dammon.

“Fine!” he huffed. “But first, you’re putting on your work clothes!”

“Even the stupid goggles?”

“Especially the stupid goggles!”

They ended up working through the night. Zoraya focused on her stakes, while Ira and Dammon argued over the correct way to forge a silver blade. Their bickering turned into a pleasant background noise, and Zoraya only noticed that Ira had fallen asleep when she found the girl with her back against the spare anvil, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The fact that she was sleeping just a few feet away from where Dammon was pounding on his third or fourth attempt at a silver blade probably said a lot about living on top of a forge.

It took him two more rounds until he was happy with the result. “I wish I had time to make more but …” He glanced out the window, where the sun was beginning to rise. “I’ll have to open the shop soon.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you so much.” Zoraya stuck the blade into the leather sheath where she usually kept her foldable dagger and attached it to her belt. In between the silver blade and the several dozen stakes she’d strapped all over her body, she was probably a tad overprepared, but then, if the strategy had gotten her through law school, why not monster-hunting as well?

Besides, she knew she was only going to get one chance.

One chance, if she was lucky.

She took off the apron and went over to the little wash basin in the corner of the forge, dabbing sweat and soot off her face. She knew she should feel tired after a night of running around cemeteries and doing more physical labor than she had in years. But her hands were steady, her thoughts sharp and focused. Plans were whirling around in her head, half-forgotten lessons from her Gur instructors on how to take on a monster in its lair. How to infiltrate its territory, staying out of sight until a fight was absolutely inevitable, and then using its own strength against it.

“Are you sure about this?” Dammon asked.

“One hundred percent,” Zoraya said. “He’s in there somewhere, Dammon. I have to get him out.”

“I can come with you. I’m not much of a fighter, but—”

“No,” she said firmly. “You are staying with Ira. You are everything she has.”

Dammon frowned, but he didn’t argue. “What about the Watch?”

“They’ll never search a nobleman’s house without proof. Besides, this is all just reassurance.” She patted the assortment of stakes that hung from her waist, trying to conjure up a smile. “I’m not planning on fighting anyone. I’ll steal in during the day when everyone’s asleep, find Astarion and then get the Hells out of there.”

“You promise to stay out of trouble?” Dammon asked.

“Of course!” She held on to her smile with everything she had, hoping that it looked right. Light-hearted, normal. The kind of smile that said Sure, I’ll get milk on my way home and not I’m about to infiltrate a mansion full of vampires, so I can free my boyfriend who actually kind of broke up with me.

Because in her heart, she knew.

She knew that she would do whatever she had to in order to get him out.

Dammon sighed and nodded. “Alright.”

“Can I borrow this?” Zoraya gestured at his coat on the wall. It was long and black, but sleek enough to fit her. “I left home in a bit of a hurry.”

“Sure.” He took the coat off the hook, but when she reached for it, he held on to it for a moment longer, his blue eyes boring into her. “Just one more thing …”

Petras was once again on cleaning duty.

It was one of the great injustices in the world: that a man as undeniably gifted as him should be forced to mop the floors rather than practice his art in front of a cheering crowd. He’d only been 22 when the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette had praised his performance in Aballar the Mighty as “charmingly clumsy” and “overall, mostly adequate”.

The gods only knew what heights he’d reach with another century of practice.

Unfortunately, as Cazador’s oldest and most experienced spawn, it was his duty to clean up after his siblings. And with a new brother in their midst, blood and vomit were in generous supply these days.

Astarion fucking Ancunín.

Petras’ lips curled into a sneer as he wiped at the dark red stain on the immaculate hardwood floors. They’d all known Cazador was going to turn the foppish, silver-haired elf. Had watched him prance around these halls for months with his chin held oh-so high, ordering them around as if they were his servants as well as Cazador’s, utterly unaware of just how screwed he was.

Petras knew men like Astarion Ancunín. Men who strode through life as though it were a never-ending party prepared just for them. As if all the many things that were handed to them on a silver platter — wine and women and opportunity — were something they deserved. Petras had spent his whole life being outshone by men like him. Men who were beautiful and charming, who only had to toss back their hair and chuckle and immediately, people fell to their feet.

Well. Those times were certainly over, now that Cazador had stopped playing with him. Bringing down the claw as they all knew he would.

Petras had not yet decided how he was going to entertain himself with his newest sibling. Perhaps he’d act friendly for a while. Play the role of the patient, kind-hearted older brother. It would be easy to win Astarion’s trust; all he’d had to do was stand up against Katarzyna and the other Gur who loved to torment him. He’d be his protector, his hero. Standing tall and proud as poor, miserable Astarion fell to his knees before him, gazing up at him in wide-eyed adoration.

Petras would certainly enjoy that.

And then once he grew tired of Astarion’s boundless admiration, he could always—

Petras froze, the mop halfway to the bucket. He could have sworn there was a noise, just a little further up the corridor.

“Violet?” he called out, his mind automatically jumping to his most depraved sister. “Is that you?”

No answer. No sound. Just him and his mop and the dread coiling in his lower stomach.

“I’m not in the mood for your games!” he said, louder now. It made him feel better to hear his voice, booming through the halls. Petras had a great voice — everyone had always said so. A voice made for the theater.

He clutched the mop to his chest, slowly backing up against the wall. “I’m armed, just so you know!”

It wasn’t unusual for the spawn to fight amongst themselves. What else was there do to for them with an eternity of misery spread out before them? If this was truly Violet …

But no.

This couldn’t possibly be Violet because the noise he heard — that soft, rhythmic thudding — was the sound of a pulse. Whoever had made their way into the estate, they were alive. A person made of flesh and blood, come here not as an offering for his master, but for him. Cazador could hardly fault him for defending the place against intruders, right?

This was a gift. A way for the universe to repay him for all the many injustices he’d suffered by sending him a living, breathing idiot that he could sink his fangs into and drink to his heart’s content.

“I know you’re here,” Petras said, letting go of the mop as he followed the sound down the corridor. He wouldn’t need a weapon against a mortal. If he played his cards right, maybe he could even get them to consent to the feeding. It wouldn’t be the first time they had a vampire fanatic making their way into the estate, begging to be used or turned or both.

His mouth was watering at the thought. His own blood whore, his to indulge in until they were drained and dry.

“I can hear your heart, beautiful. It’s practically singing for me!” He was laying on the charm now. Playing the role of the irresistible vampire, luring his prey in a way Cazador or even Astarion never could have managed. “I promise, it won’t hurt. All you’ll feel is a tiny, little prick and then—”

He lurched around the corner, thrusting out a hand to where he’d heard the heartbeat just a second ago.

No one.

Petras lowered his hand, frustration creasing his brow as he glared down the empty corridor. How in the world …?

“Boo.” A voice in his back, quiet and airy. Then, the sting of a blade right into the nape of his neck.

It felt like it had been forged from the sun itself, burning and melting its way through flesh and muscle, only to come out the other end, a sharp silver gleam below his chin. He pawed at the blade, burn marks sizzling all over his fingers. He couldn’t even scream, nothing but muffled gurgling sounds spilling from his lips. The wicked blade had destroyed most of his vocal apparatus on its way through his neck. Silencing as well as incapacitating him.

Heels clicked on the freshly polished hardwood floors.

“So,” the airy voice said.

Petras’ head snapped up, his mouth opening into a silent O as he met the gaze of dark, unrelenting eyes.

The woman was beautiful. Unsettlingly beautiful with her long, dark hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, her wrinkly silk blouse tucked into a pair of trousers, her belt stacked full of wooden stakes. She studied him for a few moments as if to make sure he was thoroughly silenced by the silver blade she’d rammed through his throat. Then she reached into her coat and tossed him a notebook and a rather elaborate-looking fountain pen.

“Where is Astarion?”

Rage bubbled up Petras’ chest like boiling milk in a pot. Of course, she was here for Astarion! All that man ever did was cry and beg and grovel and still, he had a fucking badass monster huntress coming for him!

No one had ever come for Petras. No one had ever cared.

But he would show them. He would take justice into his own hands and drag her down to the kennels, throw her at Astarion’s feet, and then suck her dry right in front of him. He’d make the smug bastard watch as he devoured his girlfriend, the warm bronze draining out of her skin as she grew cold and lifeless in his arms.

Petras threw himself at her with a cry of righteous fury. She sidestepped him, bringing her leg around his, and suddenly, he was on his back, her slender frame perched on top of him. She grabbed his right hand and curled his fingers around the fountain pen, pressing it onto the notebook.

“Last chance,” she said. “Where is Astarion?”

Petras spat at her. He missed her face, only hitting her blouse, but it felt pretty cool. Like something his characters might do on stage.

She let go of his hand and pulled a stake from her belt. “Wrong answer,” she said just before she plunged it into his ribcage.

Zoraya made her way through the Szarr estate like a ghost. Flitting from shadow to shadow with her head ducked low and the stake clutched to her chest, each step carefully placed so as to avoid drawing attention to herself.

The blond guy with the mop had refused to tell her about Astarion’s whereabouts, but his eyes had been fixed on the staircase at the far end of the hall right until he’d given his final twitch. That was good enough as an initial guess. If Zoraya needed further pointers, she’d pick up another servant on the way, see if they were a little more cooperative.

There was an eerie calmness to the way her thoughts slotted into each other, her body moving with a sense of purpose she hadn’t felt in weeks. She knew that it was temporary. That she’d come back to the blond guy with the silver blade in his throat when this was all over, wondering who he’d been and whether or not he’d deserved the fate she’d given him.

But not now.

Right now, she needed to stay focused. She was going to find Astarion, and she was going to take him home. Everything else could wait until after.

She reached the bottom of the staircase, another dark, wood-paneled corridor opening before her. Whatever interior designer Cazador had hired for his estate clearly had a very limited vision for the place.

A door opened a little ways ahead of her, and Zoraya ducked behind a bookshelf, holding her breath.

“Look what we brought you, dear brother!” A female voice, laden with fake chipperness. “A little bit of comfort in those trying times!”

“Ugh, Moonmaiden knows what he sees in the thing.” This voice was deeper, the accent gruff and oddly familiar. “Surely, someone of his standing can afford better.”

“Maybe he likes it this way,” the woman said. “Many nobles are like that. All posh and proper on the outside, but behind closed doors, they’re even more depraved than the rest of us.”

“Please,” Astarion said. He sounded breathless, the s catching weirdly on his tongue. “It’s mine. The master said I could have it.”

The woman cackled. “Oh, look at the poor noble boy. Someone’s taken what’s yours — what a profoundly novel experience!”

“Please don’t … no, please!”

He was drowned out by the rattling of chains and a swell of laughter, loud and cruel. Zoraya could feel it rushing down the corridor like a tidal wave, crashing into her plans to be careful, to be smart, and washing them away in one fell swoop.

She kicked open the door, drew back her stake and rammed it into the first person she saw. The man dropped to the floor before he’d managed so much as a scream. The woman next to him whirled, still laughing, right until the stake went in between her ribs, piercing her undead heart. Shock flitted across her features as she stared up at Zoraya, releasing the filthy, torn-up rag she’d held in her hands. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then Zoraya pushed a little harder and the woman stilled, her body collapsing to her feet.

Zoraya scanned the room for more opponents, already reaching for a fresh stake. It slipped through her fingers as her entire body went cold.

“Astarion?” she whispered, a question to herself as much as him.

He sat with his back against the stone wall, both arms lifted over his head and fixed there with a set of iron chains. His torso was bare, nothing but a pair of grubby leather trousers to cover him, his knees drawn into his chest as if to shield himself from view.

Even so, Zoraya could see the wounds. They were all over his body, a web of slashes and bruises and other injuries she did not have words for. Hacked into his flesh like he was a sculpture, an unfeeling piece of rock under the chisel of a madman. The table next to him was overflowing with tools — a collection that had Zoraya’s stomach turn itself inside out, all sharp edges and blunt cruelty. It seemed like the room had been designed for this very purpose. The chains on the wall, the bare stone floors dipping ever so slightly toward an old-fashioned drain grate in the center of the room, so as to allow for easy clean-up.

Zoraya shuddered to think how much blood must have gone down that drain in the few weeks he’d been here.

“Astarion?” She stumbled toward him, her legs stiff and unfeeling. “Astarion, can you hear me?” He recoiled with a hiss, further retreating into the wall, and Zoraya’s heart sank like an anchor.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, fighting the clump in her throat to make her tone gentle. Soothing. “I’m here now.”

Slowly, very slowly, she made her way over to him and knelt by his side. She wanted nothing more than to touch him, take that rag the woman had dropped and wipe the blood off his face, but she could tell from the tenseness in his muscles that that was not an option. At least not now.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, reaching into her bun and freeing a hairpin. “I’ve got you. Just give me one second.” She inserted the pin into the lock on his handcuffs and began to wriggle it around.

“No!” Astarion flinched away from her as far as the chains would allow. “Stay away from me, gods dammit!”

“Astarion, what in the—”

“You can’t be here!” he hissed. “You have to get out of here! Go! Hell’s Teeth, just go before anyone finds you here!”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Zoraya sat up, determination straightening her shoulders as she pulled out another hairpin and reached for his handcuffs once more. “I’m gonna get you out of here, no matter what.”

“No! Gods below, Zoraya, listen!”

She paused, her heart clenching painfully in her chest as he finally met her gaze.

He was pale — gods, so pale. Any trace of color drained from his skin, his cheekbones jutting out as if he was back on a diet of alcohol and special favors. His hair was matted with blood and sweat, the beautiful silver curls hanging down lifelessly. And then there was his eyes …

They were red, yes. A sharp, piercing shade of red, like blood that had oozed out of a wound and dried in place without so much as a bandage. But it was the look in those scarlet eyes that really seemed to grab a hold of her insides and twist and wrench.

Like something had shattered inside of him, something she could not even begin to understand.

“Listen to me.” He sounded wrong, too. His carefully cultivated enunciation all over the place, almost as if he was talking around a foreign object in his mouth. “You cannot under any circumstances take off my handcuffs.”

“Why not?” Zoraya asked.

“You just can’t, alright?” His eyes snapped shut in exasperation and that, at last, was a gesture she recognized. A gesture so quintessentially Astarion, she had to bite her lip to hold back tears.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer. “Please, Zoraya,” he said. “You have to get out of here. You have to leave and never come back. He’s going to make me—”

“In the kennels, Master! She went into the kennels; I am absolutely certain of it!”

Zoraya leaped to her feet as the door swung open and in strode Cazador Szarr.

“Ah, Miss Naelgrath,” he said, his tone perfectly casual. As if they’d met in the middle of a ballroom and not in the secret torture chamber underneath his house. “What a wonderful surprise! I do wish you would have called ahead; we could have prepared a much nicer backdrop for your tearful reunion.”

“Stay right where you are!” Clutching her stake, Zoraya stepped in front of Astarion. “If you come one step closer, I swear I’ll …” The threat dissipated on the tip of her tongue as she recognized the slender figure behind Cazador. “Katarzyna?”

There could be no doubt. With her long neck and slightly hooked nose, Katarzyna looked strikingly similar to her animal form, the small, brown-feathered bird that Zoraya had last seen on the balcony of a nobleman’s mansion. Delivering a message that had failed to save anybody, instead acting as one more puzzle piece in Cazador’s plan to regain control over Astarion.

How could you?

Before Zoraya could verbalize the question, Katarzyna came rushing into the room. “Gods, no!” she cried. “Tamaz!” She leaned over the vampire Zoraya had staked on her way in, turning him onto his back and inspecting his lifeless body.

There was a glimmer of silver around the dead man’s neck. A Selûnite pendant, the same that Katarzyna wore as well. He and the woman she’d staked — they were Gur. Plucked from Tatiana’s tribe and kept down here as vampire spawn.

And there was one more familiar face joining Katarzyna as she began to pray over the two corpses. Boris Varga, her husband. Pale and red-eyed as the last time Zoraya had seen him, but unmistakably alive — or, well, whatever the nomenclature was for the undead.

Which answered just about every question she’d had about Katarzyna’s message. Cazador had used their love for each other to control them. The specifics didn’t matter much. In the end, it all came down to the same thing: They hadn’t stood a chance against Cazador.

Not Boris or Katarzyna and certainly not Astarion.

“You must excuse the cattle,” Cazador said with an impatient nod toward the grieving couple. “So unreasonably emotional about every little thing. Although, from what I hear you’re no stranger to the occasional public outbursts yourself.”

Zoraya glared at him with as much menace as she could muster. This was bad. Really bad. She had plenty of stakes left, but no illusions as to how she’d fare against a full-fledged vampire lord.

“I expected you to make an appearance, of course,” he said. “I just didn’t think you’d lower yourself to the ways of a common criminal, sneaking in here and slaying two of my precious children. I thought the great Zoraya Naelgrath would face me properly, out there in the daylight.”

“You don’t deserve proper!” she snapped, looking around the room as inconspicuously as possible. No clock in sight. “Not after what you’ve done to these people!”

“Oh, I see.” Cazador smiled. “You’re under the impression I am keeping them here against their will, is that it?”

Zoraya’s hand shot up, gesturing at Astarion. “He’s in chains, gods dammit!”

“Don’t tell me he’s never asked you to chain him up? My, oh my, what a farce that so-called relationship of yours must have been! The boy is positively desperate for a firm hand. Loves having someone to provide some much-needed guidance, really show him his place, as it were. He’s been thriving ever since he’s come here, isn’t that right, Astarion?”

“Yes, Master,” Astarion said, way too quickly. The kind of response that came like a knee-jerk reflex, instantaneous and entirely without thought.

“See?” Cazador’s smile had the blood boiling in her veins. “But I suppose it makes sense you’d struggle with the idea that you’re no longer wanted, what with how utterly obsessed you’ve been with the boy. Perhaps you’ll be swayed if I agree to let you enjoy his body one last time? I can assure you, he’s gotten much more skilled in the short time he’s been here. Wonderful technique all around. Outstanding stamina. He likes it a little rough, so if you’d like a few tools to really show him a good time …”

Zoraya lunged and thrust out her stake, aiming for the space between the sleek, black buttons on his gown. His hand closed around her wrist, firm and cold like ice, easily stopping her mid-thrust. She cursed and threw back her weight, but all it did was send a bolt of pain up her arm. Cazador’s grip was inescapable.

“So that’s a no then, is it?” he said, his head cocked to the side mockingly. “Too bad. I would have certainly enjoyed the show. Alas, I’m sure we’ll find something else for you to do.”

“Master, please!” Astarion cried. “She is not a threat. If you let her go, I promise she will not bother you again. She’s smart. She understands. She …”

“Don’t fret, child.” Cazador shot him a sickly paternal look. “Nobody will believe a word she says, not after her little display at your funeral. They will assume she is mad with grief. But before we can let her go, I’m afraid there’s still a score to settle. People cannot simply barge in here and kill my beloved children without consequences. There must always be consequences, isn’t that right, Astarion?”

“No, please!” Astarion threw himself against the chains, his voice breaking into a sob.

He was scared — scared for her. He was chained to the wall in an honest-to-God torture chamber, and yet, he was scared for her safety.

It was everything Zoraya needed to know.

She breathed in through her nose, focusing on the pull of air in her lungs as she reached for the tiny bit of magic her Elven heritage had granted her, a fuzzy presence at the very edge of her consciousness. She grasped it with both hands and then hurled it outward.

It wasn’t much. A splash of ink, not even remotely dangerous for a vampire lord. But it hit Cazador square him in the face — which was rather satisfying to see — causing him to stumble backward, his grip on her wrist loosening. She pulled back her hand and smacked him over the head with her stake, then darted past him and out of the room.

There was a howl of fury in her back as she ran up the stairs. If she could just find a window … throw herself out of it and seek shelter in the daylight outside …

But of course, there were no windows.

And there was no outrunning a vampire, let alone several of them.

Boris caught her just before she could make it back into the entrance hall. He came barreling into her from the side like a canon ball, ripping her off her feet so violently, her head crashed into the wooden floorboards. It was an explosion of pain, a blinding flash of white consuming her vision as her body melted out of her control.

She was aware, on some level, that she was flat on the ground, just a few feet away from the door. But she couldn’t get up, couldn’t even find her own hand to try and push herself up.

Something cold closed over the back of her head. “Now that was a mistake,” Cazador said.

Zoraya could just barely make out his shoes in front of her face. Polished brown leather, now spattered with ink. Everything was spinning, the crimson curtains swirling round and round the crystal chandeliers like the hands on a clock.

The clock — why were there no clocks in this house?

“See, I might have been persuaded to show you mercy,” Cazador said, his voice chilly like the floorboards under her cheek. “I would have kept you in the kennels for a few days and then let you return into the light. Watch how the city pities you, the promising young woman who so tragically lost her mind over her boyfriend’s death. Keeps sputtering nonsense about vampires and torture chambers, too confused to tell reality from the constructs of her own twisted psyche. But no, I don’t think that will suffice as punishment.”

His voice came closer as he curled his icy fingers into her hair and pulled back her head, forced her to stare into the blinding light of the chandeliers. “I think I’m going to keep you right here. Chip away at you for however long it takes until you really lose your mind. Perhaps then you’ll finally learn your place in the world. Realize once and for all that people like you were born to be on their knees, serving your betters. There’s freedom in such knowledge. Accepting your fate, embracing it even! Why, given enough time, I bet you’ll come to enjoy it! You’ll be the most obedient little pet of them all, happily doing whatever your master commands. It’s in your nature, after all. It’s what you were made for — bred for.”

The doorbell rang.

At first, Zoraya was sure she’d imagined it. There was quite a bit of ringing in her head, as it was, and this really didn’t strike her as the sort of situation that ought to be interrupted by one of Cazador’s noble friends who came over for a cup of tea.

“Open up!” a decidedly un-noble voice demanded, knocking at the door for emphasis. “Open up in the name of the law!”

“Send them away, Boris!” Cazador hissed under his breath. “I don’t have time for these fools!”

“Yes, Master.” Boris scrambled for the door. Zoraya couldn’t see him with the room spinning wildly around her, but she could hear his voice as he addressed whoever was outside. “I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid Lord Szarr is not available at the moment.”

“You either open up this door or step the Hells back, Mister!”

There was a beat of stunned silence — apparently, neither Boris nor Cazador knew quite how to respond to such a threat. Then the door gave way to a resounding bang and the sound of expensive wood splintering to pieces.

Cazador let go of Zoraya’s hair, her head plopping onto the floor. “What in all nine circles of Hell is the meaning of this?” he snarled.

“Lord Szarr!” someone said. “Thank the gods you’re safe!” It was a voice Zoraya had heard before, somewhere she couldn’t quite remember. A place with cold mud under her knees and nothing but failure in her heart.

And then there was the second voice, loud and booming with warmth. “We’ll take it from here, your Lordship!” Karlach said. “Get him somewhere safe, Fytz! I’ll take care of the intruder!”

Cazador’s voice faded off into the distance as he was being led away, and Zoraya whimpered with relief. Karlach was here. Just as Dammon had promised — or threatened or whatever.

Just one more thing, he’d said, back in the forge. I’ll give you one hour. If you’re not back after that, I’m going to send help.

“Gods dammit, that was close,” Karlach said, lifting her off the floor and into her arms. “Dammon wasn’t kidding about the suicide mission, huh? Easy now. We’ll have you out of here in just a sec.”

Karlach began to walk, but she was going to wrong way. She was making straight for the ruined front door, carrying her away from the staircase, away from Astarion.

No! Zoraya wanted to shout, wanted to throw up her arms and point Karlach in the right direction. No, no, no, we have to go back! He’s downstairs! He’s—

But her head was spinning faster now, a fresh bout of dizziness crashing down on her. And then Karlach carried her over the threshold and there was light, so much light. It burned all the way behind her eyeballs, burned a line of pain straight into the center of her skull, melting through her thoughts, turning them into a jumbled mess.

Her head fell back.

Her arms went limp.

Then — darkness.

Zoraya awoke in a place made of cold stone walls.

It made her think of chains, somehow. Of blood and saws and pliers and other ghastly tools, strewn carelessly across a metal table.

She jumped up with a panicked intake of breath, knowing she had to get away. Had to go somewhere and do something, something really, really important. The details, however, were washed away by a wave of nausea, and she had to reach out a hand for support, holding on to a piece of cool metal right in front of her.

“Bless the Dark Lady, you’re up!”

“Shadowheart?” Zoraya lifted her head, slowly this time, and found her former secretary on the other side of a set of metal bars. She was seated next to Lae’zel, toying with an oversized cube in her hands.

“I will go and inform the bearded one,” Lae’zel said and left through a door on the other side of the metal bars.

Bars.

Why in the Hells were there bars?

“How are you feeling?” Shadowheart asked gently. “The, uh … local healer told us that you hit your head, but they couldn’t determine the severity of the injury while you were unconscious.”

How am I feeling? Zoraya repeated the question to herself, trying to understand why it felt so odd to her. There was this spike of anger low in her gut, a desire to throw herself against the bars and scream and shout that …

“Astarion!” His name shot out of her like a piece of hot coal. A single burst of panicked energy forced her wobbly legs to push her up, her hands gripping the bars for support. “He’s there! I was right; I saw him! He’s with Cazador. Cazador took him and a whole bunch of other people. He’s a vampire, just as I thought. We have to go and get them out right away!”

Shadowheart’s face fell, her eyes darting to the cube in her lap. “Zoraya, I …”

“He’s torturing them!” Zoraya roared. “He has designated torture chambers with saws and pliers and shit!”

“I understand, but—”

“We can’t waste any more time! Where’s Karlach? Is she assembling a squad to storm the place? Tell her they need silver blades and wooden stakes!”

“Hello, Zoraya.” Gale entered the room, a guarded smile on his face. “Glad to see you’re doing better.”

“Gale!” Zoraya exclaimed. “Thank the gods you’re here! Listen, we need to start a case against Cazador Szarr. He’s kidnapped Astarion, and he’s holding him and at least two other victims on the lower floors of his private estate. He knows we’re coming, so we’ll have to move quickly before he takes his victims and flees town. What time is it? If we can catch them before sundown …”

“Slow down, Zoraya,” Gale said.

Zoraya blinked. The bars seemed to grow colder under her hands, a smooth, icy surface she had no choice but to hold on to.

“What do you mean, slow down?” she asked, her throat suddenly tight. “Did you not listen to what I just said?”

“I was listening very carefully,” Gale said. “And I’m afraid you don’t quite understand why I’m here. I am not here to discuss what you saw at the Szarr estate. I am here to inform you that fortunately for you, Lord Szarr has decided not to press charges against you for breaking into his home and damaging his property.”

“He is not pressing charges against me?”

Gale nodded. “He was very gracious about the matter. Said that he understands this is a difficult time for you and that he is fine with a written apology. So, as soon as we get that out of the way, you’re free to go.” He held out a pen and a notebook, smiling at her encouragingly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She grabbed the notebook and hurled it across the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Zoraya, please …”

“The man is a monster! He’s a murderer and torturer and gods know what else!”

“No, he is not,” Gale said, a strained edge to his voice. “Not by law.” She could see the tenseness in his posture, how he had to force himself to meet her gaze, his brow furrowed from the effort.

He hated this. Hated this almost as much as she did.

“I don’t understand,” Zoraya whispered.

Gale took a deep breath. “By law, Cazador Szarr is neither of these things. Because all the crimes you’ve listed — kidnapping, assault and torture — are defined as crimes committed against a person. A category from which vampire spawn are excluded on account of their lack of autonomy and free will.”

Zoraya was fairly certain the room was spinning again. Her knees were shaking, bile rising in her throat. “So when I staked those vampires …”

“You committed property damage,” Gale said. “It was all you could do them, legally speaking. It is impossible to murder a vampire spawn just as it is impossible to murder a tree or a park bench. The transformation makes them the rightful property of their vampiric lord. They’re a possession, a thing, and as such, Lord Szarr is free to do with them as he pleases with no legal repercussions. I am deeply sorry, Zoraya. I hope you know that this is not my personal opinion as a citizen of Baldur’s Gate. But as a High Judge, I have no choice but to tell you that this is the current state of our legal system.”

Zoraya stared at him. The face of the man she’d looked up to for as long as she could remember. A man she’d idolized and sought to emulate, studying his casework and his speeches as a paragon of justice and righteousness. Just a few years ago, he’d been fighting legal loopholes like this one, doing everything in his power to help those no one wanted to think about. But now he was a High Judge. And as such, he could no longer challenge the status quo as he used to. All he could offer her was this.

Coming down here to Wyrm’s Rock to look her in the eye and say that he was sorry. That despite his best efforts, what was just and what was lawful was still not one and the same.

It was a look that passed so often between generations. One generation cutting their losses after a long, arduous fight and settling for good enough, for better than before — only to find themselves before a new generation, years later. Scrambling to put into words why this was everything they’d managed to accomplish. Why they’d chosen to stop fighting when there was still so much work to be done, settling for cushy jobs to feed their families because somehow, somewhere along the road, they’d grown old. Maybe not complacent, but comfortable. So comfortable that they needed someone younger to shake their heads and clench their fists once more. Step up and raise their voice for the entire world to hear as they declared that this was not, in fact, good enough.

Or, in Zoraya’s case, “Bullshit!”

In hindsight, she probably could have chosen her words a little more delicately. Gale’s eyes went wide with shock as he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over Shadowheart’s stool in the process. But then again, it had been quite the day for her.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Zoraya said, using the metal bars to draw herself up to her full height. “Those are people — people like you and me — and if we sit around and pretend otherwise, we’re just as guilty as Cazador Szarr! You do whatever the fuck you want, Gale. Go sit at your fancy bench in your fancy robes and tell yourself you did all you could. But I’m his advocate. It’s my job to keep him safe, and if I have to take on the whole goddamn city, then so be it!”

“Zoraya, be reasonable,” Gale said. “Challenging an active legal statute means challenging the High Court of Baldur’s Gate. Which, as a member of said institution, I can tell you involves a great deal of time and resources you do not have.”

“I’ll help her,” Shadowheart said, pocketing her cube and stepping forward. She picked up the notebook and handed it to Zoraya. “Here. Write the damned apology, so we can get you out of here and start working on our case.”

“I will aid your cause as well,” Lae’zel said. “The gods know no battle can be won without proper nourishment.”

“This is ludicrous!” Gale threw up his hands, his purple robes swinging in the air. “You will need an entire legal team to get this through — not to mention, a great deal of gold to finance the operation! Lord Szarr will be sure to oppose you at every turn. He will use the entirety of his resources, every underhanded tactic in the book …”

“I believe it’s better if you leave now, Gale,” Zoraya said, not looking at him as she sat down to write the most scathing apology letter in all of history. “As High Judge, you need to stay impartial, don’t you?”

When Zoraya left Wyrm’s Rock about an hour later, Shadowheart and Lae’zel were waiting for her outside.

“I can’t pay you much,” Zoraya said. “Just the savings from my previous job. We’re going to have limited access to research material as well since I am no longer employed at city hall. Also, I should note that if we fail — which is exceedingly likely — this will follow you throughout your legal career.”

“I already canceled all my classes for the semester,” Shadowheart said.

“Good.” Zoraya smiled, possibly for the first time since the funeral. “We’ll have to work at my house. Astarion’s house, technically, which means we may or may not be evicted sometime soon. Oh, and I have a cat.”

“Lae’zel loves cats.”

“I do not,” Lae’zel said.

“Karlach wants to help, too,” Shadowheart continued, ignoring her girlfriend’s comment. “And Wyll. I told them right now might not be the ideal time, but once we’ve figured out our strategy, they could help with the paperwork Lord Szarr will surely have us buried in. Do we know who’s working on his side?”

“No idea,” Zoraya sighed. “But I’m willing to bet they’re one hell of an attorney.”

“Even the fiercest dragon can be slain by a single determined warrior,” Lae’zel said.

“Uh … thank you?” Zoraya shot Shadowheart a quizzical look.

Shadowheart shrugged, as if to say, You’ll get used to it.

And Zoraya had a feeling that at some point during this insane undertaking, she probably would.

Chapter Text

The first thing they needed in order to challenge the High Court of Baldur’s Gate was money.

The good news was that, in theory, the Ancunín family had substantial amounts of gold at their disposal. The bad news was that all that gold lay in the hands of Quelenna — a woman that, under normal circumstances, Zoraya would have hesitated to ask for help even if their last meeting hadn’t ended with her being dragged off after attempting to open a casket midway through a funeral.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Shadowheart said as they stood before the white walls of the Ancunín estate. It was one of the coldest days of the year, their breaths drawing twin clouds in the frosty air, and still, she was being unreasonably patient, seeing how the coach had left at least five minutes ago.

“Alright. Let’s go.” Zoraya pulled her hands out of her coat pockets and forced her legs toward the front door. She didn’t feel any more ready than before, but she was feeling bad for Shadowheart, whose teeth were beginning to chatter.

Zoraya’s icy hands closed around the doorknocker, barely managing to strike twice before Voron Naelgrath’s fleshy face appeared in the doorway.

“Yes?” he said sharply.

“We’re here to see her Ladyship,” Zoraya explained, willing herself to stand tall, shoulders pulled back.

“I do not recall you making an appointment.”

“We did not,” Zoraya said. And then, because he refused to say anything further, “It’s urgent. She will want to hear about this, and she will want to hear it from me.”

Voron hesitated, his gray eyes sliding over her and Shadowheart as if they were acolytes of some backwater religion that had opened the conversation with Would you have a moment to discuss our Lord and Savior, the Almighty Herring Sandwich?

“Very well then.” He stepped aside, beckoning them into the foyer. “I will inform her Ladyship that you are here. Please, have a seat.”

Zoraya sat on the narrow bench, knowing Quelenna would make them wait. She’d brought a bunch of paperwork for this very reason and told Shadowheart to do the same. By the time Quelenna deigned to make an appearance, her foyer was covered in papers. Research and court documents strewn all the way from the front door to the elegant marble statue in the back, depicting one of Aquilan’s ancestors.

“What in the gods’ name is the meaning of this?” Quelenna stood at the top of the grand staircase with one hand braced against the banister and an expression of regal outrage on her face.

“Excuse the mess, please,” Zoraya said, rising from the uncomfortable bench. “We just thought we’d use the time while we wait.”

“This is certainly an odd way to apologize for your egregious behavior at the funeral.” Quelenna came gliding down the staircase very slowly, each step carefully placed so as to emphasize the movement of her tight-fitting gown. It was a startling shade of white with lacy sleeves and silver gems scattered all along the neckline because if there was one thing Quelenna Ancunín did not believe in, it was dressing down.

She stopped on the final step of the staircase, her head cocked expectantly. “So?” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Lady Ancunín.” Zoraya took a deep breath. “I am sorry for what happened at the funeral. I truly am. I know I was not the only one who was grieving, and I said things I should not have said. But I’m also here to tell you that … I was right. Astarion is still out there. I saw him — I spoke to him!”

“Oh, sweet Hells.” Quelenna turned around with a snort and made her way back up the stairs.

“Lady Ancunín, wait!” Zoraya hurried after her. “Please, you have to listen to me! He’s there. He’s with Cazador, just like I thought!”

“You need help, girl,” Quelenna said icily. “My son is dead. That is already plenty to deal with, even without the manic ramblings of his last fling.”

Zoraya stopped in the middle of the staircase, her stomach contracting as if she’d been punched in the gut.

How?

How in all of damnation did it still hurt like she was a little girl, cowering before the lady of the house, terrified of falling out of favor with her? She didn’t need this woman to approve of her choices, not anymore. It had been years since Quelenna had last paid for her school or her clothes or anything else she owned. Zoraya was an adult now, one with a degree and a house and a rather promising career. If she wanted to, she could probably walk herself into any reputable legal firm in the city, and they’d happily hire the woman who’d turned Astarion Ancunín into The Magistrate of the People. She was doing well. Exceptionally well — her little prison stunt notwithstanding.

Why then did she keep holding on to this dynamic with Quelenna? A woman who’d only ever cared for her when there was something to be gained? A woman who was turning her back on her own son when she knew perfectly well that …

“You knew Cazador Szarr was a vampire.”

Quelenna paused at the very top of the stairs, her back straight as a candlestick.

“You must have known,” Zoraya pressed on. “You keep tabs on everyone — everyone important, that is. You knew about High Judge Larkin and his ploys, and you knew about Lady Iastar and her hobbies. It’s what you do, how you’ve made House Ancunín into what it is today. By gathering knowledge and using it to your advantage. There is no way you would have overlooked something like an immortal vampire lord hiding among the nobility”

“Fine. I knew.” Quelenna turned, her lips pressed into a defiant line. “I knew all about Cazador Szarr and the grotesque soirées he’s hosting. I even attended one of them, many years ago, to see what they’re like. It was the sort of experience that best remains … singular.” She swallowed and her blue eyes drifted off into the distance. Going to a memory so far away, Zoraya probably hadn’t even been born yet.

“He already had a number of children, as he calls them,” Quelenna said. “They wore masks and contacts, but it wasn’t difficult to tell what they were. Or rather, what they weren’t any longer. It’s how I know that this is pointless. That even if Astarion was there, the creature wearing his face would no longer be my son.”

“You’re wrong!” Zoraya said. “I was in there. I saw him. He was … injured. In pain. And yet, when I told him I was going to save him, all he’d talk about was how he wanted me to get out of there. Leave him there and save myself. It was all he cared about — that I got out safely.” She climbed up the final steps, emboldened by Quelenna’s silence. “I don’t know much about the transformation yet, but whatever happened to him, it’s still him. I know it.  He’s in there, and he’s suffering, and I think I have a way of getting him out, but I can’t do it without your help.”

Quelenna stood very still. Unmoving, much like a statue with her silver hair and her white gown, all ethereal beauty, as was the case for most Ancuníns.

Then she cleared her throat and said, “My son is dead. I cannot help you.”

Zoraya’s head slumped down, all the confidence draining out of her. She was useless. Utterly useless. How in the Hells was she going to convince the High Court of Baldur’s Gate if she couldn’t even convince a mother to fight for her own son?

“Besides, Aquilan and I are hoping for another child,” Quelenna said conversationally. “Now seems the ideal time to start trying, given how long it can take our kind to conceive.”

Zoraya’s jaw clinked shut and something inside of her snapped.

“You already have a child!” she shouted,  the words bubbling out of her louder than she'd ever said anything in these halls. “You’ve always had a child! You have a son who is beautiful and brilliant and absolutely fucking obnoxious! Maybe he isn’t exactly what you were picturing. He doesn’t care about his career or what other people think of him. He’s impatient and vain and petty, and he is convinced the world is turning around him, personally. But he’s also kind. He’s gentle. He loves my cat so goddamn much, he’s given him half his wardrobe just because Objection likes to sleep on his clothes. And that girl we saved from the guards? He went to visit her in the clinic every week after that. Bringing her books she couldn’t afford and reading them to her when her arm was in a cast. He did it without any journalists around, just because he wanted to. He’s charismatic. Smart. Funny — gods, he’s so funny, even when he isn’t. If you can’t see that … If you’d rather have him wasting away in an honest-to-god torture chamber, not even trying to get him out of there, then honestly, you do not deserve to call yourself his mother.”

There was a twitch in the corner of Quelenna’s mouth and for a moment, Zoraya fully expected the woman to strike her. It probably would have been within her rights, being yelled at in her own house, by a known madwoman, no less. Instead, Quelenna lowered her head and blinked a few times. A glassy shimmer passed over her bright blue eyes, come and gone so fast, Zoraya almost wasn’t sure she’d seen it right.

“You could have fallen for anyone else,” Quelenna said quietly.

“I know,” Zoraya said. “But I fell for him. And I’m going to get him out of there, with or without your help. But if I have to do it on my own, it will take longer. In which case I’d really prefer getting back to work right now rather than wasting time with you. So, what do you say?”

Quelenna reached a hand to her hair, smoothing an already perfect silver curl. Her fingers were shaking ever so slightly, and Zoraya noticed that her nails were chipped. Soft, rounded marks, like from a set of teeth that had kept biting and gnawing so intently, not even the priciest manicure had been able to keep up.

“Very well,” Quelenna said, placing her hand on her hip, the ruined nails disappearing into the fabric of her gown. “I suppose it isn’t a completely worthless cause, seeing how you’ve finally grown yourself a spine. I have one condition though.”

Zoraya locked her chin into place, exuding as much badass lawyer energy as she could muster.

“I want you to win,” Quelenna said. “I want you to go out there and give this your all. I don’t want you to be cautious or humble or anything like that. I want you to be ruthless. To do whatever necessary to come out on top. I want you to act like an Ancunín.”

“Yes, your Ladyship.”

“Good.” Quelenna nodded curtly. “Then you’ll start by calling me by my given name.” She turned on her heel, not giving Zoraya any time to recover. “Now let us go to my study and discuss the details. Bring your assistant, too. We’ll need someone to take notes.”

“Yes … Quelenna.”

“Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate is now in session! Presiding judge is the honorable Judge Sykes. You may be seated.”

Shoes scuffled against the ancient hardwood floors as people returned to their seats.

Zoraya only sat for a split second before rising to her feet once more. “Excuse me, Your Honor,” she said, “but I’m afraid there’s been an error. I am here on behalf of my client, Lord Astarion Ancunín. As such, the case should have been registered as Ancunín v. The City of Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Judge Sykes was an elderly man, the lines on his forehead deepening as he leaned over the bench, one hand cupped against his ear. “It’s a little difficult to hear what with all the commotion outside.” He gestured toward the windows and Zoraya had to hold back a smile.

The courthouse had been built to withstand quite a bit of noise, but the screaming outside was getting a little too loud for the heavy stone walls to drown out.

“Justice for the just!” they were yelling.

“We are people, too!”

And perhaps her favorite, “Give us our magistrate!”

“I said, this is not my case, Your Honor,” Zoraya repeated, making an effort to speak over the noise. “It is my client’s, Lord Astarion Ancunín.”

“Ah.” Judge Sykes licked his thumb and began to fiddle with the court documents in front of him, clearly uncomfortable. “You see, unfortunately your client no longer meets the necessary criteria on account of his, uh … condition.”

“We believe he does,” Zoraya countered. “We believe a vampire spawn meets all criteria for a sentient being and thus deserves the right to legal protection and an autonomous lifestyle, including the right to initiate legal action.”

“Yes, but you cannot appeal to something that has not been decided yet.”

“With all due respect, Your Honor, we do not wish to embrace the antiquated belief system we are here to challenge. If you insist on mislabeling my case, I would like to express my explicit protest.”

“Your protest has been noted, Miss Naelgrath.” He sighed, exasperation creeping into his tone. “As has that of all these people out there who seem to have nothing better to do with their time than stand out there in the cold. Now, may we proceed to your argument?”

“With pleasure.” Zoraya smiled, noting the weariness in his old, graying face. Sykes was just a few years away from retirement, a man known for his tendency to cut corners whenever he got tired. Which was exactly what Zoraya wanted him to do.

Not that that would have been her usual strategy, mind you. Neither was what was currently going on outside, people yelling and chanting at the top of their lungs. No, that had all been Quelenna’s idea. She’d been the one to contact Yeshana Orbryn and make sure the newspaper article titled “Magistrate of the People Astarion Ancunín back from the dead — fighting for his right to remain one of the people” just so happened to come out this morning, perfectly coinciding with this preliminary hearing.

By the time Zoraya had arrived in the morning, the square in front of the courthouse had already been full of people. They probably hadn’t been shouting at first, but Shadowheart had sent her church friends to get them going because, in her words, “no one screams louder than those who are used to appeasing a cruel goddess”. By now, the church girls were back in church, knitting prayer blankets or whatever they did there, while the people outside kept yelling on their own, fueled by the free noodle soup Lae’zel was handing out.

It was, overall, the very definition of team work.

It was also deeply unethical. A combination of just about every underhanded tactic in the book, shifting focus away from her arguments and toward the screaming masses outside, creating an unrealistic representation of the magnitude of her case. But today, Zoraya found that she truly didn’t care. Because today was the only chance she’d get to have her case approved, allowing it to proceed to the High Court.

She was not going to take any chances with that.

Zoraya took her time striding along the area they called the well, right in front of the judge’s bench. Thanks to Yeshana’s article, the gallery was full, every last seat taken. Shadowheart and Karlach sat front and center, Shadowheart’s hand clasped between Karlach’s, who looked like she was about to keel over from nervousness. Quelenna had chosen not to attend, but Aquilan sat a few rows further back. He and Zoraya had had several tearful conversations recently, most of them consisting of him thanking her as he threw his slender arms around her and crushed her into his chest. Telling her over and over again how grateful he was for her efforts, but how she really should not feel pressured because he would love her, no matter what.

It wasn’t quite as eye-opening as Quelenna’s pep talk had been, but it was a sweet gesture all the same.
The truth was that Zoraya did feel pressured as she stood up there, and that was exactly how she ought to feel. Not scared, per se, not desperate to prove herself as she’d felt during so many mock trials during law school. She felt on. Ready to take on whoever was stupid enough to challenge her in her own domain because the gods knew she had had a crappy couple of weeks and was ready for some payback.

When she spoke, her voice was loud and clear, easily carrying over the shouting outside. “I am representing Lord Astarion Ancunín. Oldest son of House Ancunín and former magistrate of Baldur’s Gate, also known as The Magistrate of the People.”

She paused briefly, allowing the information to sink in, connections to be drawn, notebooks to be opened. Quelenna had promised to tip off a few more journalists that should be here, ready to continue Yeshana’s story.

“Last month, Lord Ancunín was attacked on his way home from a mandatory vote at the Grand Palace. He was murdered by a group of unknown individuals and subsequently turned into a vampire spawn by Lord Cazador Szarr. He’s been held captive at the Szarr estate ever since. For those unfamiliar with the terminology: A vampire spawn is an intermediary step between a mortal and a full-fledged vampire. A being that suffers from all the cravings and weaknesses of a traditional vampire, but that is fully dependent on their maker for survival. According to the leading experts in the field, this is a necessary form of dependency. Born from their overwhelming bloodlust and cruelty, an inherent lack of empathy and critical reasoning skills that turns them into little more than mindless monsters, in need of — and I quote — a firm hand guiding them onto the path of righteousness. Without their master, these experts argue, vampire spawn are destined to succumb to their bloodlust, wreak havoc on whatever city they occupy. They’re believed to be impulsive, volatile, incapable of making conscious decisions, and are not currently recognized as sentient beings under the constitution of Baldur’s Gate. I am here to tell you that nothing — I repeat, nothing — could be further from the truth.”

Zoraya turned sharply, silence settling over the courtroom as she reached for the leatherbound folder on the counsel table. Her pulse was racing, but her hands were steady, that familiar thrill blooming in the nape of her neck. There was nothing quite like a room full of people hanging on her every word and knowing exactly how she was going to win them over.

“I went to see my client at the Szarr estate,” she continued, slowly pulling the scroll out of the folder. “When I got there, I was not welcome. I had to make my way through Lord Szarr’s defenses to even reach my client, who was locked away in the cellars, deep underground. With the permission of the residing judge, I would like to share Exhibit 1 at this point.”

She lifted the scroll with a flick of her wrist, not quite waiting for permission before she held it up for the entire room to see.

A gasp went through the audience. A collective intake of breath, a display of disbelief and horror at the hyper-realistic drawing of a well-known nobleman and magistrate, seated with his hands cuffed over his head and the shirt ripped from his body, a plethora of angry gashes and lash marks scattered all across his bare torso. Even the court stenographer, a posh dwarven lady with bright pink spectacles and the constitution of several life-hardened grandmothers, dropped her pen in shock.

“This is a faithful reproduction of the scene I encountered in the cellars of the Szarr estate,” Zoraya said. “Depicting my client suffering the consequences of severe physical as well as emotional violence. Note the instruments in the background, the marks on his body. It seems that someone attempted to sever his left ear, but wasn’t quite able to—”

“Miss Naelgrath, please!” Judge Sykes interrupted, his watery eyes wide with horror. “No one needs to see your artistic musings! You either present factual evidence or I will have to remove you from this court!”

“Oh, but this is evidence, Your Honor,” Zoraya said sweetly. “As I’ve described in my casework” — she gestured at the folders on his desk, still unopened — “this is what is called a meme-pic. Meme, for short. An image created directly from my memory, using a combination of Detect Thoughts and a high-level fabrication spell. It is a rather novel technique and currently only wielded by a handful of exceptionally skilled conjuration wizards, but it has been used as evidence in Aldercrown v. Oakbell, Vale v. Eldridge and thirteen other cases I’ve listed for your convenience. I am perfectly willing to repeat the procedure with a wizard of the court’s choosing, should there be doubts regarding the picture’s authenticity.”

Judge Sykes stared at her, his lips parted in shock.

And although Zoraya’s stomach twisted at the thought of using this picture without Astarion’s consent, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of smugness at the undeniable effect it was having. All her life, she’d dreamed of being able to use the fancy legal strategies she’d read about. Novel ways of presenting evidence, utilizing techniques an old pencil pusher like Sykes had never heard of before. Unfortunately, since those relied on the expertise of skilled professionals, they usually came at rates far beyond her financial capabilities. But now, thanks to Quelenna, this was no longer an obstacle. And while part of her had shriveled away in agony at the exorbitant prices the wizards charged for their meme-pics, another, much larger part of her had thrown back her head and cackled with glee.

Because this was how the law ought to operate. If there was a tool that would help her case, she should be able to use it without having to wonder how she was going to pay rent next month. A lawyer’s success should be determined by the quality of their arguments, not the depth of their pockets. And maybe one day it would be like that. But until then, she’d enjoy being the one with access to unlimited funds for once.

“Nonetheless,” Judge Sykes said, glancing nervously at the scribbling journalists, “no one needs to see such atrocities!”

“I could not agree more, Your Honor.” Zoraya nodded, making sure to hold up the scroll for a few seconds longer before she rolled it back up. “Which is exactly why we are here today. To make sure that atrocities like this are recognized for what they truly are. See, the great misunderstanding is this: It is not the spawn that are vicious, mindless monsters. It is their vampiric lords. They’re the ones who force the spawn into dependency, using what has been described as a compulsion spell to make them do their bidding. Not in an effort at guiding them or helping them control their bloodlust — no, it’s for their own amusement and profit!

Vampire spawn are routinely used as assassins, courtesans, playthings, all for the financial gain of their masters! It is exploitation. Oppression and coercion of the most violent kind. It is human trafficking and slavery, performed without any checks or balances whatsoever. Basically, the current legal system allows a vampire lord to pluck whatever innocent citizen they like off the streets and turns a blind eye as to what happens afterward. Truly, it is a miracle we have not been overrun with vampires because legally speaking, this city is a goddamn buffet for them!”

Zoraya paused, the sound of her voice reverberating in her head. Okay, maybe she’d put a tad too much of her own emotions into that last bit. But at least the journalists were still scribbling. That was good.

Judge Sykes cleared his throat. “So, what is it you’re demanding from the High Court?”

“We demand a reevaluation of the current definition of what constitutes a sentient being, deserving of the legal protection, as per Article VII of the constitution of Baldur’s Gate. We demand the inclusion of vampire spawn into said category. Further, we demand that for the duration of the actual lawsuit, all vampire spawn currently in the possession of Lord Cazador Szarr be freed from their captivity and provided shelter by the state. We demand that they be admitted as witnesses and protected from their lord so as to avoid false testimonies and other types of coercion. This includes my client, Lord Ancunín, as well as Katarzyna and Boris Varga, and all other spawn currently under Lord Szarr’s control.”

“And where, pray tell, do you expect we keep a whole mansion full of bloodthirsty vampire spawn, Miss Naelgrath?”

“Oh.” Zoraya’s brows shot up in mock surprise. “Surely, you do not mean to say that our prisons are currently above capacity due to the council’s emergency response plan, Your Honor? Surely, our legal system has remained steadfast as ever, only incarcerating those that absolutely need to be separated from the public?”

His mouth opened and Zoraya knew she’d won.

This, probably more than anything else she’d said that day, was what made him reach for his gavel and proclaim that Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate was to proceed to the High Court, where the case would be considered in detail. It was almost poetic, in a way. How the very political tensions that had led to Astarion’s death now shaped the judge’s decision to let this case move further because he knew, just as well as her, what the papers would be writing in the morning.

It had only been a few weeks since the introduction of martial law, but the consequences were impossible to miss. They were patrols on the street, wearing more weapons than ever before and reaching for them with little to no hesitation. The prisons were full — they all knew it — but what was even more worrisome was the general air of violence in the city.

Zoraya was glad for the private coach Quelenna had gotten her because it was becoming difficult for someone who looked like her to venture into certain neighborhoods. Dammon had taken to making Ira wear a scarf similar to his own, so as to hide parts of her face when they went out. Even so, his forge had been attacked at night, as were many other tiefling-owned shops. People smashing in windows and painting Go back where you came from on the walls. The government blamed all these attacks on Tatiana and her people. Because while she’d never had a problem with tieflings, she did make for a convenient scapegoat, seeing as how she still hadn’t been captured.

But people were angry. And for many of them, their anger was shifting away from Gur or tieflings or any other group of people that had been blamed in the past. Instead, it was the government they were angry with. The government that kept them under lockdown and curfew with nothing but more violence to show for it. There were demonstrations in front of the Grand Palace, pretty much every day. Which really only added to the city-wide problem of overflowing prisons — not that it kept people from demonstrating. Zoraya would have joined them if she hadn’t been so busy with the case because it was a development she was rather fond of.

People were done blaming each other. They were ready to set their sights a little higher, address their grievances to those in charge. And this case, featuring their favorite magistrate who was denied his right to personhood, was exactly the sort of thing that might escalate it all.

When Zoraya left the courthouse that day, Shadowheart and Karlach by her side, they were greeted with cheers. People were clapping and whistling, fists pumping in the air as they chanted Give us our magistrate! and Ancunín! Ancunín! Ancunín!

It was exhilarating.

More newspaper articles followed that same afternoon, Zoraya’s meme-pic plastered on the front page over and over again. She’d have to apologize to Astarion as soon as she got the chance, but for now, any media attention was helping their cause. Journalists came streaming to her house within hours, banging on the door and asking for interviews so aggressively, Karlach and Wyll had to take up their old roles as bodyguards just to make sure Zoraya and Shadowheart could work inside.

They’d taken a longer lunch break to celebrate their first little victory, but then promptly returned to their desks. After all, work was really only starting in earnest, now that they knew they’d go before the High Court of Baldur’s Gate.

 The true celebration followed a few days afterward.

Zoraya and Shadowheart were in Astarion’s house, making lists of all the High Judges and how they would be likely to vote in this particular case. Larkin and Nerennos were lost causes, of course, but many of the others could possibly be swayed, based on their beliefs. Quelenna had offered the offices of the fancy law firm she was employing, a gorgeous building in the Upper City, but Shadowheart seemed to have noticed that Zoraya enjoyed having her over. It filled the empty space around her, made Astarion’s absence sting a little less. Having all their documents strewn around the place helped as well, although Objection clearly was not a fan. He’d retreated onto the top of the bookshelf where he’d curled up in Astarion’s sweater, glaring down at them reproachfully.

“With Dekarios, we better bring up worker rights,” Shadowheart said. She sat in her usual spot on the edge of the bar stool, legs crossed and the back of her fountain pen pressed against her lips. “He loves an underdog story, so if we can somehow work around Astarion’s noble background and make him look like a self-made man of sorts …”

“No problem,” Zoraya said, stretching out her legs on the couch. “We’ll get witnesses from law school and have them talk about how much he was struggling there. Paint him as a misunderstood genius, then go heavy on the Magistrate of the People angle. I’d say Dekarios is a pretty safe bet. So are Pendragon and Fernsby. We need an absolute majority though, so that’d be five out of nine.”

“Fallbrook?” Shadowheart suggested.

“She’s a pretty vocal supporter of slavery. I can see her voting against us, just to avoid precedence.” Zoraya blew a strand of hair out of her face. She’d decided to loosen her dress code with the whole home office situation, letting her hair down and exchanging her tight-fitting office blouse for a comfortable sweater. “It also makes me nervous that we still don’t know who’s working for Cazador. How can you be a lawyer and not boast about representing one of the most influential noblemen in the city?”

“Maybe he simply picks one whenever the need arises?”

“Maybe,” Zoraya muttered, but she wasn’t convinced. There was a reason Cazador Szarr had been getting away with this for as long as he had, and she’d spent enough time with him to know that it was not due to his own genius.

The front door slammed open, a gust of icy air blowing into the house.

“Guys, it’s happening!” Karlach yelled, her steps thudding on the floor as she ran into the living room. “It’s actually happening!”

“Slow down, Karlach,” Shadowheart said. “Wipe your shoes; you’re getting everything dirty.”

“No time!” Karlach laughed. Her hands were shaking with excitement, a huge grin splitting her face as she shook the snow off her shoulders and said, “It’s Astarion — he’s out!”

“What?” Zoraya shot up from the couch, documents flying every which way.

“They got him out last night! A whole team of lawyers and guards went to the Szarr house to get him and the other spawn — you know, as witnesses.”

“Where are they now?”

“Wyrm’s Rock!” Karlach ripped Zoraya’s coat off the rack and threw it at her. “Come on, Zoraya! Time to catch up with your boyfriend.”

As much as Zoraya wanted to be the kind of person that would jump up from the couch and run off in her pajamas, she also decidedly — well, wasn’t. Besides, she was now the lead attorney in a High Court case. She could not risk another scandal, not after her public meltdown at the funeral. Everything she did from now on reflected directly onto her case and thus, Astarion’s chance at freedom.

She was not going to let something stupid like a sweater with cute, little kittens on it get in the way of that.

By the time she made it to Wyrm’s Rock, Zoraya was wearing her usual office outfit, black trousers and a white blouse. She’d washed her face and braided her hair, even going so far as to put on the pretty pearl earrings Astarion had given her as a gift. The very picture of the professional young lawyer.

Inside, she was 13 years old and about to throw up from sheer excitement.

She was going to see Astarion! In fact, she could see him whenever she wanted, now that he was here. She was his advocate, after all. They could discuss her strategy, work out the details of her argumentation together. Surely, he had valuable information about Cazador and vampire spawn in general. They could take him on together, combining their legal prowess to take out the man who had ruined his life!

Her heart was soaring at the thought.

“Zoraya Naelgrath, here to see my client.”

The prison guard looked up from his crossword puzzle with a frown. “You mean, the, uh … evidence for the vampire case?”

“No,” Zoraya said icily. She grabbed the edge of his desk with both hands and leaned forward, pinning him down with her gaze. “I mean my client.”

“Y-yes. Of course.” The man scrambled to his feet and reached for his keys. “This way, ma’am. We have to keep them separate for the safety of the other inmates, you see. We’re pretty sure the cells are biteproof, but you never know until you’ve tried incarcerating one of those things.”

He paused before a heavy metal door at the very end of the corridor, glancing up at her reluctantly. “I’m legally required to let you know that we cannot guarantee your safety past this point, ma’am.”

“With all due respect, Sir, but if you do not shut your mouth and open that door right this instance, I won’t be able to guarantee your safety past this point.”

He unlocked the door hastily, muttering under his breath all the while, but Zoraya didn’t listen. She was already rushing past him, her heels clicking on the floor. “Astarion?”

She couldn’t see him right away. The room was so dark, she had to grab a lantern from the corridor, nearly trampling the guard in her hurry. “Astarion?” she said again, holding the lantern in front of herself as she approached the metal bars. 

Zoraya had seen a number of prison cells throughout her career, but never one as bleak as this one. Usually, they had a cot and a little stool, often even a small window somewhere near the ceiling, granting the prisoners a few hours of sunshine and the occasional gust of fresh air. There were no such comforts in Astarion’s cell. His was all bare stone, cold and weathered from years of people pounding and scratching against the confines. The floor was cracked in places, a mysterious liquid dripping down from the ceiling and collecting in tiny puddles between the broken stone slabs. It made the air thick and musty, an overwhelming sense of misery and neglect.

Astarion sat right there on the cold stone floor. Huddled into the far corner of the cell with his knees drawn into his chest and his head slumped down, silver curls falling into his face.

He did not look up at her approach.

“Hi,” Zoraya said, immediately feeling stupid. He’d just broken free from his tormentor and that was the best she could do? Hi?

Cheeks burning, she busied herself with lighting the other lanterns in the room. “I, uh … I know it isn’t much,” she said awkwardly. “But at least you’re safe now. I listed you as key witness in my case, so you’re under the protection of the city. As long as you're here, Cazador can’t touch you.”

A dry sound came out of the cell, a little like a cough. Did vampires cough? Could they get sick, catch a cold, just like regular people? She’d have to find out. Learn everything there was to learn about vampires. To win her case, yes, but also, so she could take care of him.

“It’s cold in here, right?” She turned away from the final lantern, smiling her most optimistic smile. “I’ll go get you some blankets — and maybe something hot to drink? There’s a café just around the corner. They have really good tea and these little biscuits you like and—”

“Are you stupid?”

The smile froze on her lips. “What?”

Astarion lifted his head just enough to look at her. His face was streaked with dirt, his eyes red and piercing like those of any monster in a bedtime story. “I am asking whether Cazador jammed your head against the wall so hard that it turned your brain into mush or whether you are being deliberately obtuse.”

“I …” She took a step back. “I just thought I’d help you be more … comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” He laughed, a sound as cold and cracked as the stone walls around him. “You want me to be comfortable and the first thing that pops into your head is hot tea and pastries?”

Zoraya felt the words lodge themselves between her ribs like icicles. It wasn’t like she’d expected him to thank her, but …

Okay, maybe she had. Just a little bit. Like, they could have talked shit about Cazador first, and then he could have thanked her for working her ass off and going toe-to-toe with a vampire lord — not to mention, his mother!

“I’m just trying to help you,” she managed.

He sat up straight, his dirty, cream-colored shirt hanging loosely over his frame. “Is that so?”

She nodded, willing herself to hold his crimson gaze. To look past those monstrous eyes and see the boy up in the plum tree, always a few branches ahead of her. The man in the library, blushing bright red as he stared at his shoes and told her he liked her.

“Then why in the Hells didn’t you do as I said?” Astarion shouted, his voice bellowing off the walls, louder and harsher than she’d ever heard before. There was the lisp, too, coloring every word he hurled at her. “I told you to leave me there! I wanted you to leave me there, gods dammit! I wanted you to run away and go on with your life, not challenge the status quo of the entire legal system!”

“I know. I heard you. It’s just that …” Zoraya reached for the iron bars, her fingers closing around them desperately. “I’ve spent my entire life listening to what you want, Astarion. Respecting your choices, even if it meant letting you walk out of my life. And you know what? I’m done with it. I’m done putting your wants before mine every goddamn time because … Hell’s Teeth, I thought you were dead!”

“I am dead!” he snapped. “Can’t you see? Can’t you fucking smell it? This is not the newest perfume of the season, darling. It’s the scent of death. The scent of a monster that has died and risen, clawed its way out of its own coffin and then thrown itself to the feet of its master. If you had even the faintest idea of what I’ve done in that house, you wouldn’t bother with blankets or tea! You would leave me here to rot, just as I deserve.”

“None of that was your choice!”

He didn’t answer. Just scoffed and stared at the cracked stone floor, his lips curled into a bitter, joyless sneer. He never would have sat like that before. Hunched over as if trying to take up as little space as possible when the Astarion she knew had always loved being the center of attention. Had glowed and preened in the spotlight, always with a hand on his hip, his chin in the air, as though he was posing for an invisible portrait artist. It was far from the only change in him, but somehow, it struck her in a way it really hadn’t before.

She could see the twin puncture marks on his neck, still red and sore, and her throat swelled up with helpless anger at the thought of Cazador’s fangs piercing his skin. Draining Astarion’s blood and dragging him off, hiding him away in his estate and treating him in ways her mind could not even imagine.

All because she had not been there. Because she had run off to play hero elsewhere, leaving him to die.

“I’m sorry,” Zoraya said, her voice quiet now. Pleading. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you, and I’m sorry I didn’t come for you sooner. But you’re here now. You’re safe. Cazador can’t hurt you anymore. We’re going to win this case and take you back home, I promise.”

“You really have no idea what you’re talking about, don’t you?”

She looked up, unsure how to respond.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear.” Astarion reached a hand to the wall and pulled himself to his feet, swaying a little as he did so. He kept an arm slung around his middle, as if cushioning a fractured rib. But when he spoke, his voice was loud and clear, the lisp barely noticeable anymore. “There is no escaping Cazador. Not with your lawsuits, not with your fancy strategies or your excessive research. It simply cannot be done. I became his the moment he buried those fangs in my neck, and you and I should both be grateful for his control over me because trust me when I say this: Being his slave is far superior to the alternative.”

“You can’t be serious!” Zoraya sputtered. “Cazador is a monster!”

“No. I am the monster.”

And then he was moving. Covering the distance between them with what seemed like a single determined step, muscles coiling under his dirty shirt as he leaned forward with his lips pulled back into a snarl, revealing a set of razor-sharp fangs not an inch away from her face.

Zoraya flinched back, a panic response too powerful to control. She stumbled over her own feet and landed on her rear, just barely managing to cushion her fall with her hands. Astarion was looming over her on the other side of the metal bars, looking nothing like himself. All tense muscles and piercing red eyes, his fangs still on full display.

The fangs — of course. That’s where the lisp came from. He was speaking with two extra teeth inside his mouth, teeth that had not been there for the past 39 years.

“I chose this,” Astarion said. “I asked him to turn me because I was arrogant and foolish and now, I shall pay the price. I know you like to believe in the good in people, Zoraya. You think that everyone deserves a second chance because life just dealt them a rough hand. But that is not how this works. What he did to me is permanent. Inerasable. I am a monster, whether I like it or not — a monster made to kill and feed on the blood of others. It’s all I can think about, every waking moment. Hells, I’m thinking about it right now!”

He screwed his eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath — his first since she’d come in, Zoraya was pretty sure. He no longer had to breathe. He probably did it as a reflex, a way to collect himself.

It didn’t seem to work very well. When he looked down at her again, there was something wild in those unfamiliar crimson eyes. A look that felt like a physical touch through the metal bars, searingly hot on her skin as it traveled from her face down to her throat. Taking its time to follow the curve of her neck before settling on the spot where she could feel her pulse racing under her skin.

“I can hear the blood in your veins,” Astarion whispered, his pale fingers gripping the bars for support. “I can hear your heart pumping and I can hear that you’re not nearly as afraid of me as you should be. Cazador likes to keep us hungry, you see. Likes to make us work for our meals, says it builds character. When your precious City Watch came marching in, I had been in the kennels for days. I was almost done with my punishment — gods, I was so close! All I’d had to do was hold out for a few more hours, then get through the one-on-one with Cazador, and he would have let me feed. But no, those guards had to come and drag me off, robbing me of my meal!”

He sank to his knees with a groan of frustration, his body folding in on itself despite his best efforts. Zoraya rushed forward on her hands and knees, wanting to help, but stopped dead when his head snapped up. His gaze was livid.

“You think you’ve helped me?” Astarion scoffed, arms wrapped around himself as if trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. “All you did was take a monster from one cage to another — one where I can’t even earn my meals! And now I’m here, damn near crazy with hunger. And there you are, alive and gorgeous and so full of blood. I can smell it, Zoraya, and gods help me, it’s all I can think about. I know that you have a half-healed papercut on your left ring finger and a scratch on your elbow, probably from your cat. Hells, I know that you’re on your period! And really, you’re lucky that I’m on the verge of passing out, darling, because if I had any strength left in my body, the smell alone would have me breaking through those bars right now! I wouldn’t care whether you screamed or said no. I wouldn’t care about anything, other than the blood between your thighs because that’s the kind of monster I am!”

Zoraya knew she should be scared and a part of her definitely was. This was a young, inexperienced vampire spawn, angry and beside himself with hunger. It was etched into his features, his face haggard, his hands shaky, broken nails clutching at his own clothes. He made a point of letting his fangs stick out of his mouth, really hammering in the fact that he was beyond help, that there was nothing either of them could do. And maybe he was right about that.

But she also knew that defiant look in his eyes, knew it from way before they had turned red and scary. And she knew that her entire life, she’d always pulled away from him when he got like this. Had swallowed her words and turned right back around, leaving him alone for fear of overstepping, of being too much.

Not now. Not anymore.

Now, Zoraya rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and pushed her arm through the metal bars, holding out her bare wrist.

“Here,” she said. “Drink.”

Chapter Text

Astarion stared at her wrist, knowing it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in his life.

The blue of her veins shimmering through her dark bronze skin, the angle of her arm oh-so inviting, beckoning him to come closer and press his face against her warm, soft flesh. Listen to the rush of blood underneath, the mesmerizing come-hither of her pulse, letting it fill his head for a few tantalizing moments before he’d plunge his fangs into her.

He didn’t care to know how many times he’d indulged in this exact fantasy. He’d tried not to, but there was only so much resistance he could offer when he was down in the kennels, delirious with pain and hunger. In his mind, she’d come to save him. Bursting through the doors in a glow of righteousness, breaking him out of his chains and pulling him into her arms, not hesitating to offer her neck for him.

Astarion hated himself for the fact that in most of these scenarios, she hardly even spoke to him. Just threw back her head and whimpered when his teeth tore into her, a whole slew of pornographic sounds streaming from her lips as he drank. Like in his mind, that’s all there was to her: blood and sex. And what in the Hells did that say about him as a person?

“Come on.” Zoraya lifted her wrist a little higher. “Drink up before it gets cold.”

Her smile felt like one of Cazador’s instruments, twisting around in his abdomen.

“Don’t,” Astarion hissed, forcing the word through clenched teeth.

He shuffled backward, away from her, and Zoraya, beautiful, wonderful, stubborn Zoraya, only moved closer to the bars, stretching her arm even further his way.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “People donate blood all the time. Come on, Astarion. Let me help.”

Help. Of course, that was all she wanted to do. It wasn’t enough that she’d already broken him out of that house, staked a bunch of vampires and then proceeded to challenge the legal system at a whole. She had to go and offer her body as well. Present it to him on a silver platter, wrapped up in his most shameful fantasies.

“I … can’t.” Astarion’s gaze dropped, his fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt.

This was what he’d been scared of, most of all. Her seeing him for what he’d become. A monster, bound to his master’s word like an invisible leash, yanking him back whenever he so much as thought of disobeying him.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

Astarion swallowed. No point in drawing out the inevitable. “He does not allow me to drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

“But he’s not here,” Zoraya said. “He never has to know.”

“It doesn’t matter!” he snarled. “If he says I cannot drink, you could pour your blood into my throat with a funnel, and it wouldn’t go down! That’s the power of a vampire lord, Zoraya! He commands my body, whether he’s here or not, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it! He could come in here tonight and tell me that next time someone sticks their arm into my cell I’m supposed to bite it off, and I’d do it!”

“Ah.” Zoraya pulled back her arm, perfectly calm as she tugged her sleeve into place. “I see.”

“Is that all you have to say? I see?!” He could not stop staring at her wrist. Every fiber in his body was screaming in protest at seeing it disappear under a layer of cheap, white cotton when it should be in between his teeth, bleeding into his mouth.

“We’re going to have to find another way to feed you then,” she said. “What about animal blood? Would that be okay?”

“Only if he offers it to me.” Astarion squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to breathe through the hunger. “But it’s nothing to worry yourself with, darling. He’s going to make an appearance sooner or later. He will want to prepare us for the hearing.”

He thought of Cazador, standing right where Zoraya was seated now. That cruel sneer of his, that rare flicker of joy in his eyes whenever they were about to scream. It didn’t matter that there would be bars between them. Cazador did not need to touch him to inflict pain; he could simply command him to do it himself.

“I will not have my client delirious with hunger as we’re trying to win a High Court case,” Zoraya declared. “I will think of something. I promise.”

Astarion had nearly forgotten about their contract. It felt like years ago that they’d extended it, making her his advocate until well into the spring. He was pretty sure there would be pushback regarding its validity, seeing how he had technically died in the meantime. But Zoraya would find a way to make it work. She always did. She was a brilliant lawyer. If there was anyone in the world who even had a chance of winning against Cazador …

No.

He couldn’t afford to get his hopes up. Nothing good could come from that. Nothing good had ever come from that.

“Can’t you go and bother someone else?” Astarion snapped. “Maybe someone who actually deserves it — how about that? I’m sure there are tons of miserable wretches stuck in these cells, now that the council is free to do whatever they please. So many poor souls to save, and you’re wasting your precious time on me, the monster who doomed them all!” He laughed, a brittle little sound, but he pressed on all the same. “You must have put two and two together, no? The vote that decided everything, the one that gave the council its two-third majority — surely, you realized that was mine?”

He cocked his head to the side, waiting for her outrage. For her hands to curl into fists, her eyes blazing up in anger as she pushed to her feet and stormed off, never to be seen again.

She did not. Somehow, she just sat there, regarding him with a soft, mournful expression that made what little blood was left in his body seethe with rage.

“It was me!” he spat. “I am the one who doomed the city, made it into the hellhole I’m sure it is today. And you know what? I didn’t even do it out of conviction or anything like that. I did it out of spite! To prove to myself that I could go against your counsel, that I was still my own man, free of anyone’s control. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t it just absolutely hilarious that in trying to assert my agency, I ended up making myself into a slave? And to think that people don’t believe in justice anymore!” Another bout of laughter, more convincing than the last. Seemed like he was getting the hang of it.

“This is justice, darling. A punishment handcrafted to fit the crime! Taking the selfish, callous magistrate who thought himself so much better than everyone else and lowering him to the very bottom of the food chain, as it were. Letting him see for himself what it’s like down there, crawling amid the vermin, groveling for scraps and leftovers. Showing him — very, very pointedly — how just about anyone will abandon their principles if they’re put in a situation where they have no choice. Making him prostrate himself, demean himself together with the commoners. Don’t you see? This is my lesson, Zoraya, my punishment! So, really, you are wasting your time. There is no innocent victim to save here. Just a monster that’s finally getting what it deserves.”

“You are not a monster.” Zoraya’s voice cut through his manic blabbering like an arrow through a flimsy sheet of paper. Her back was straight, her gaze iron. “Look, I’ve been over it in my head, Astarion. I’ve been over it a million times. I’ve been angry with you — with myself, too. I blamed myself for what happened that night. Kept replaying it in my head, trying to figure out what I should have done and said. But in the end, it’s pointless. Because the real villain isn’t you or me. It’s Cazador.”

Astarion flinched at his master’s name. At the Szarr estate, they always referred to him as “master” or “him”, like some sort of vengeful deity. If Zoraya noticed, she didn’t let it show.

“I will make him pay for what he’s done,” she said. “If you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine. I’ve got Shadowheart and Lae’zel and Wyll and Karlach — oh, and your mother’s whole legal team, too. We are going to win this case and get you out. What you do afterward is up to you.” She rose in one fluid motion, patting the dust off her trousers. “I’ll be in touch about bringing you food. If there’s anything else you need, please tell the guards.”

And with that, she turned toward the door. She was leaving. Leaving him behind in the dark, nothing but his own thoughts for company.

“Why?” Astarion called out, fighting the urge to throw himself against the bars and reach out for her. “Why would you go through with this after what I’ve done?”

“I thought I told you.” Zoraya glanced back at him, door handle in hand. A smile darted across her face, small and bashful. “I love you.”

Astarion could have sworn his undead heart lurched in his chest. Picked itself up from weeks of oblivion and gave a few stuttering beats, just for her.

“I’ve always loved you,” she said. “I’m sorry if that’s creepy or weird, but that’s the truth of it.” She fiddled with the strap of her bag, self-consciously tapping her nails against the buckle. “You don’t need to give me an answer. I’ve had quite a bit of experience with the whole unrequited love thing. It’s fine, honestly. You don’t owe me anything just because I decided to bail you out.”

“How?” Astarion croaked, his mind apparently too strained to produce questions spanning more than one word. “How could you … I mean, back then I was …”

“A brat, yeah. But that was never all there was to you, Astarion.”

Zoraya stepped toward the bars again, hands reaching for the back of her neck. He recognized the motion from that night at the parliament. I can show you, she’d said, tears streaming down her face as he’d turned his back on her, letting Cazador pull him away. I have proof — wait, I have evidence! All those weeks of reliving every word she’d ever said to him and yet, he’d never pictured this: her removing the necklace and holding it out for him, offering the little locket in the palm of her hand.

Astarion accepted the necklace, careful not to let his cold fingers brush against hers. His hands were shaky, sliding off the locket a few times before he managed to open it. Inside, he found a coin-sized piece of clay. It was old and rough around the edges, the vibrant red color long since faded away into a muddy shade of brown. He turned it in his hand, finding a small fingerprint on each side, pressed into the clay just slightly off-center, as if by an overenthusiastic child.

“What is this?” Astarion asked, even as his brain supplied a hazy memory.

Him and Zoraya, playing in the Gur camp. Both of them covered head to toe in mud as they were building some kind of fortress — a creation that looked positively gigantic in his memory, but had probably been little more than a couple branches held together with mud and childish willpower.

Nadya was there, too. Not to scold them for getting themselves dirty, but to help them with the entranceway. Make it look as imposing as possible so as to strike fear in the hearts of their many visitors.

“How about a plaque?” she’d offered, her dark, mud-streaked hair sticking to her face. “It’s an ancient Gur tradition. A way to inform the local spirits that this fortress belongs to the two of you.”

Zoraya groaned and made a show of rolling her eyes. “We don’t need your ancient Gur stuff, mother!”

“But I want a plaque!” Astarion insisted. He wasn’t sure what a plaque was, but it sounded important.

And since he’d always had a way of getting what he wanted, they ended up pressing their thumbs into a bit of soft clay — first him and then Zoraya. Nadya took the two clay pieces to the camp fire, placing them right atop each other, so they would harden into one single disc. Astarion remembered looking at it before they hung it above the fort’s entrance. He remembered thinking how odd it was that they’d look so similar. That despite their difference in age and status and upbringing, he really couldn’t have told the difference between their fingerprints.

“My mother gave it to me,” Zoraya said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “After our … falling-out. She said I should remember this. The good times, not how things turned out later.”

Astarion looked up from the clay disc. “You wore this, every day?”

She nodded, blushing a lovely shade of crimson. Astarion did not even think about the blood giving rise to that blush. All he thought about was her, strutting into his office day after day, listening to his whining and taunting and complaining as she wore the little locket around her neck. The sign of their friendship, her love for him, sitting right there above her heart.

All this time, he’d had no idea. Couldn’t have imagined the depth of her feelings. Not until the night of the vote when it was all too late because he’d gone ahead and made the worst mistake of his life for the second time in a row.

Astarion knew he should return the necklace, but his hands did not seem to comply. His throat was dry, his eyes weirdly hot. He had to say something. She’d laid it all out for him — again! — and he was just sitting there, holding on to a tiny piece of clay as if the floor might break away if he let go.

“You cannot tell me anything about your strategy for the hearing!” he blurted. “He will ask about it and I will have no choice but to answer him.”

“Okay,” Zoraya said, mentally filing this away. “We’ll have to think of something if you’d like to be involved, then. I could certainly use your input.”

His input? The woman had passed the bar only a little over two years ago and had already gotten her first case all the way to the High Court, and she wanted his input?

“Wait,” Astarion said as she turned to leave. “Your necklace!”

“Keep it.” She paused in the door, giving him one last smile before she left. “I don’t really need the reminder anymore. But maybe you do.”

The High Court of Baldur’s Gate had its own building, a sprawling set of halls in the Upper City. Unfortunately, these could not be used for this particular case. It was already a logistical nightmare, requiring a post-sundown schedule so as to keep the vast majority of witnesses from accidentally getting incinerated by a stray ray of sunlight in the middle of their testimony. Transporting them all the way across the city would have been way too much of a hassle, so they’d settled for using one of the courtrooms right atop Wyrm’s Rock. It was an austere, cramped little room, even by regular court standards. Trying to squeeze in a total of nine judges, however, made it look nothing short of ridiculous.

Zoraya could tell the honorable High Judges’ agitation from the moment they filed in. Hackinstone stepped on Fallbrook’s robes, which resulted in a good bit of fist-raising and muttered cursing until everyone was seated at the very literal bench that had been brought in to extend the judge’s bench, allowing all nine of them to sit in a tight row. It probably didn’t help that most of them had already completed a full day’s work, a delightful mix of exhaustion, anger and general boredom radiating off their faces.

All in all, not a fantastic start.

Zoraya might have been tired as well, having slaved away day and night in preparation for today. But her fatigue seemed to go up in flames the moment she sat down next to Shadowheart and locked eyes with Lord Cazador Szarr across the room.

He’d chosen to attend in the form of opposing counsel, citing his invested interest in the outcome as motivation. With him was a man Zoraya had never seen before. He was tall and elegant, albeit in the way of someone who had spent an exorbitant amount of time in front of the mirror, trying out different poses to determine the ones that were most flattering on his frame. His hair was combed behind his ears and shone with whatever product he used to keep it there, his navy-and-burgundy doublet the perfect match to emphasize the cherry-red tone of his skin. When he caught Zoraya’s gaze during the introductory remarks, he shot her a winning smile, his white teeth gleaming at her in the nonverbal equivalent of Good luck, sweetheart, and Zoraya knew with sudden clarity what it must feel like to desire blood.

Not to drink it, perhaps.

Just to see it, oozing out of someone’s bashed-in skull.

“Miss Naelgrath?” High Judge Dekarios said. He was waving his hand encouragingly from behind the makeshift bench. “I believe we’re ready for your opening statement now.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Zoraya rose to her feet, squared her shoulders and began.

It was a blessing that the humble, little room only allowed for a handful of people in the gallery. It made it easier to distract herself from how many citizens were listening to her right this moment, a number of scrying eyes darting across the room, broadcasting the case all around Baldur’s Gate. Her attention needed to be on the High Judges, the nine men and women who would be in charge of deciding Astarion’s fate. Specifically the ones who actually had a chance of voting in his favor: Dekarios, Pendragon, Fernsby and a few others.

Her opening statement was tailor-made for them. Appealing to their values and their beliefs, using all of their favorite buzzwords — “the voice of labor” for Dekarios, “institutional oppression” for Fernsby. The law was supposed to be objective, yes, but there was no denying the fact that judges were nothing more than people. They could be studied and understood, their biases dissected under the nib of her fountain pen and then turned into a weapon, raised high above her head in the name of justice.

Or, well, that’s how she liked to think of herself anyway, when she spent hour upon hour bent over her research until her eyes burned and her back creaked like a door hinge in need of oil.

The results, however, were indisputable. By the time she was done with her opening statement, Larkin was the only High Judge who still held on to his annoyed expression; the rest of them were listening with rapt attention, their pens scraping eagerly in the delightful rhythm of happy note-taking. Even Shadowheart gave her a thumbs-up as she sat down. Which really caused another rush of adrenaline right there because Shadowheart was not usually in the habit of making such grand displays of her emotions.

“Thank you, Miss Naelgrath,” the courtroom assistant said. “Opposing counsel, would you like to share an opening statement as well?”

“With the utmost pleasure, thank you.” Cazador’s mysterious attorney stood with a flourish, then took a long, weighty look around the courtroom. As though he were an actor on stage, inspecting his audience. Trying to determine whether they were in fact worthy of hearing him perform.

Zoraya had to grab her fountain pen and squeeze it like one of those stress-relieving tools, just to keep herself from yelling at him.

“Honorable High Judges,” he finally said, his voice deep and rich and annoyingly pleasant. “I am here today on behalf of my client, Lord Szarr. He has asked me to defend his interests and that of his beloved family against a spiteful, vicious woman with a history of mental instability.”

The fountain pen cracked in Zoraya’s hand. Ink dripped down her fingers. Shadowheart pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it off, but Zoraya hardly noticed it. Her gaze was set on the man next to Cazador, a wave of dark, all-consuming hatred flooding her brain.

“My client has neither kidnapped his spawn, nor has he transformed them against their will,” he said. “Every single one of them has come to him of their own volition, asking for the gift of immortality. Lord Szarr is well-aware of his responsibility as reigning vampire lord, so he offers his supervision after the transformation. He regards them as his children, allows them to stay in his estate, helps them cope with the never-ending thirst for blood. He is a role model to them. A father figure, inspiring nothing but love and adoration in his offspring.

We believe it is Miss Naelgrath’s obsession with her former employer that has led her on this wild goose chase. Deluding herself into thinking those spawn are being tortured when they were entirely content with their existences, right until the moment they were plucked away from their home and thrust into those pitiful cells downstairs. We hope we’ll be able to demonstrate to the honorable High Judges that this case is a farce. The unfortunate result of Miss Naelgrath’s personal delusions, separating a loving family and wasting everyone’s time with her ramblings. Thank you.”

Zoraya was speechless, but only for a moment. “Excuse me, Mister …?”

“Raphael,” he said with a gracious nod of his head.

“Raphael who?”

“Simply Raphael will suffice, Miss Naelgrath.”

“What, like a stripper name?”

The smile slipped off his face. It was a small victory, but Zoraya was angry enough to take what she could get.

“Alright, Simply-Raphael,” she said. “If your client is such a beloved father figure, how do you explain the state in which I found Lord Ancunín when I went to visit the Szarr estate? If you’d like a reminder, we have the exhibit on hold.”

“Thank you, but we’re well aware of your little memory spell,” Raphael said. “In fact, with the permission of the honorable High Judges, I would like to call my client to the stand. I believe he can offer unique insights regarding the day when Miss Naelgrath broke into his home.”

“Witness A: Lord Cazador Szarr, please.”

As much as Zoraya wanted to hold on to her anger, she couldn’t stop the icy shiver that ran down her spine at the sight of Cazador, pale and straight-backed in the witness stand. She’d always known he was a bastard. Selfish and manipulative, sure. But now she had all this extra context, Astarion’s raspy voice ringing through her mind.

… I had been in the kennels for days …

… he likes to keep us hungry, you see …

… all I’d had to do was get through the one-on-one with Cazador …

This was a man who broke people. Not even for money or profit — no, he did it for fun. For the sheer enjoyment of seeing a beautiful, prideful nobleman fall to his knees and turn into the shaky, tortured soul she’d met down in the dungeons.

“Would you be so kind as to tell us about the break-in?” Raphael asked. “If it’s not too traumatic for you to recount those events, of course.”

“Miss Naelgrath broke into my home during the day, knowing that this is my natural resting time,” Cazador said. “By the time I was informed of her arrival, she had already slaughtered three of my beloved children. Leaving a trail of blood all throughout my house, murdering whoever happened to be in her way.”

Oh, so now it’s murder? Zoraya scoffed, earning herself a chiding look from Gale.

“The room in which she found Astarion is not a torture chamber, but a respite,” Cazador continued. “A calm, secluded place for the spawn to work through their bloodlust. They struggle to control their hunger, you see, so every now and then, they drive themselves into such a frenzy that they need to be restrained for their own safety. When Miss Naelgrath found Astarion, he was simply recovering from one of his little hunger episodes. He had a few scratches, all of them self-inflicted in the course of his raging, and I can only imagine that she must have exaggerated those in her mind. She also added those gruesome instruments, none of which can be found at my house. The guards who came to take my spawn can confirm this.”

“So you’re saying I made it all up?” Zoraya snapped.

“Oh, we believe you think this is what you saw,” Raphael said kindly. “It is a memory spell, after all, accessing your thoughts directly. But we also believe that you could have been a little … confused at the time. Just as you were at the funeral. You do remember Astarion’s funeral, don’t you, Miss Naelgrath? You remember jumping up in the middle of the eulogy, loudly declaring the body in the casket was not his, and then proceeding to try and open it in front of his grieving family?”

“That was different!” Zoraya protested, but she could tell it was already too late. Several of the High Judges, including Pendragon and Fernsby, were scribbling in their notes. Shadowheart squeezed her hand under the table and shook her head in a silent Don’t encourage them.

He was making her out to be insane. Discrediting her evidence on the basis that she was mentally unstable, knowing she didn’t have anyone else to support her claims.

Or so he thought.

Zoraya took a deep breath. Focused on the air coursing through her lungs, trying to push out as much of her anger as possible on the exhale.

Then she leaned back in her chair and watched him lie his way through his testimony. He was a loving, doting father, he was providing shelter for his spawn, helping them better themselves, bla bla bla. Honestly, it was baffling how the city was still too stingy to keep up a constant Zone of Truth spell in here. She’d pitched the idea to Quelenna’s lawyers, but had quickly been informed how many highly-trained mages that would require and how having this many oversized egos in one room was a liability neither of them could advise in good conscience.

No matter. They’d come up with another solution. One that didn’t stop Cazador from spreading his filthy lies, but that would expose him for the monster he was anyway. All she had to do was bide her time.

“Are you certain you do not have any further questions, Miss Naelgrath?” the courtroom assistant asked, clearly baffled by her choice not to engage the witness.

“I’ve heard quite enough of Lord Szarr’s colorful accounts, thank you.” Zoraya leaned onto her elbows, fixing Cazador with a sharp, little smile. Payback time. “With the permission of the court, I would like to call my own witness to the stand now.”

“Exhibit 2: The vampire spawn formerly known as Astarion Ancunín!”

Astarion stumbled into the courtroom, two guards on either side dragging him forward. After being locked in the evidence room next door for the past few hours, the onslaught of light was disorienting, causing him to blink wildly, trying to orient himself. The shackles on his hands and feet also did not help, turning each step into a painfully awkward shuffle. But even that was nothing compared to the insistent gnawing in his belly.

He couldn’t make out Zoraya — or anyone, for that matter — but he heard her voice, cool and clear in the blinding sea of lights. “Let the record state that my client’s presence was requested as that of witness 1: Astarion Ancunín. And for the gods’ sake, he does not need a muzzle.”

“One can never be too safe,” Raphael said, his voice unmistakable, even after a single meeting. Not many men sounded like they were constantly on the verge of breaking into song. “Vampire spawn are feral creatures, Miss Naelgrath. We don’t want him to succumb to his bloodlust right here amidst all these innocent civilians, do we?”

“And how am I supposed to interrogate my witness?” Zoraya demanded. “I’d be surprised if he can get out more than two syllables with that monstrosity on his face!”

“Miss Naelgrath is right,” High Judge Dekarios said. “Remove the protective headgear, please.”

Rough hands pulled on Astarion’s head, ripping at the vile piece of metal that had been clamped over his mouth in the evidence room. He was pushed onto a chair, his handcuffs fastened to the table in front of him, and then he sat there, staring up at the High Court of Baldur’s Gate.

There was a very particular type of shame in being confronted with people who used to be his colleagues, at times even his rivals, and finding nothing but pity and disgust in their faces. He hadn’t been on fantastic terms with most of them, especially Larkin and his little group. But even their attempts at ousting him from his role as magistrate had been proof of the fact that he was part of their world. A nuisance, an embarrassment, but one of them.

Now, he was nothing.

There must be journalists, too, seated somewhere in his back. They’d have portrait artists in their midst, capturing his likeness for the papers, filthy and disheveled, still in the same threadbare shirt he’d worn when they’d first taken him to Wyrm’s Rock. It would have been horrifying, if he could have brought himself to care about any of it.

“Lord Ancunín?” Zoraya sounded like this wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention.

Astarion turned his head sluggishly, still blinking against the light. Maybe it was him, but the courtroom struck him as oddly small for a High Court case. Zoraya stood at the counsel table, immaculately dressed in dark trousers and a stiff, white blouse. Astarion’s gaze automatically dropped to her wrists, slender, lovely wrists peeking out from under the sleeves, and he had to force himself to look up again, saliva pooling on his tongue.

“Would you mind introducing yourself to the court?” Zoraya asked. Her smile was warm and kind, just as it had been the other day in the cell.

I love you, she’d said. I’ve always loved you.

It made his chest flare up in agony at what he was about to do.

“Certainly,” he said, trying his best to mask that awful lisp the transformation had cursed him with. He pulled back his shoulders — do not slouch before me, boy — and ran his tongue over his chapped lips, recalling the words he’d been taught. “I am Astarion of House Szarr. Youngest spawn to Lord Cazador Szarr, my master and creator. Long may he reign.”

Zoraya’s mouth dropped open, but only for a moment. “Your master, yes,” she repeated, venom dripping from her voice. “As his spawn, you are physically unable to disobey his commands, isn’t that correct?”

“Only if my client uses a technique known as compulsion,” Raphael explained. “Which is a last resort, of course, reserved for the most dire of situations.”

Zoraya shot him a look so full of contempt, it was a miracle it didn’t leave a bright green stain right on the center of Raphael’s doublet. “Honorable High Judges,” she said, “as outlined in my proposal, I believe it is imperative we eliminate any possible forms of coercion Lord Szarr might be employing to influence his testimony.”

“My client would not dream of—”

“Granted,” High Judge Nerennos said. “Let the record state that the Court Mage has been called into action.”

The what now?

Astarion watched in wonder as a young tiefling in crimson robes rose from the first row of the gallery. The man made a series of extravagant hand gestures, magic flowing from his clawed fingertips as he cast a faint purple glow over the courtroom.

“Anti-compulsion field is in action, Your Honor,” the tiefling said, bowing low as if he expected a bout of thundering applause.

When none came, he rolled his eyes and plopped down with a very audible “Ugh.”

“There you go, Miss Naelgrath,” Nerennos said. “Please resume your interrogation.”

Well. That certainly explained Cazador’s little visit — and the painful hollow where Astarion’s stomach was supposed to be. He must have heard about Zoraya’s plans to cancel out his compulsion and made his own arrangements.

Cazador was always prepared. Always one step ahead. Whatever clever trick you’d come up with — he’d already countered it three times over.

Astarion knew this, but clearly, Zoraya didn’t. Not yet, anyway. She rounded the counsel table with her chin held high, a reassuring smile in his direction. “Lord Ancunín, would you be so kind as to …”

“Objection!” Raphael interjected. “By law, a spawn cannot hold noble titles.”

“Objection sustained,” Nerennos said after a brief discussion with the other High Judges. “Please, Miss Naelgrath, try to refrain from confusing everyone. The exhibit is neither noble, nor is he part of the Ancunín family.”

“Astarion,” Zoraya corrected herself. “Would you please summarize the night when you were transformed into a vampire spawn?”

“Of course.” Astarion felt the words scrape along his parched throat.

There was a glass of water on the table, a standard procedure during hearings, and he almost reached for it out of sheer habit. He was still able to drink regular beverages — they were usually part of Cazador’s soirées and the guests had poured them down his throat on more than one occasion. But they all left a revolting, muddy taste in his mouth, making him nauseous without quenching the thirst that had his head pounding, his hands shaking under the table.

His was a thirst that could only be sated one way.

And so he told them. Told them the story just as Cazador had told it so many times, late at night in the kennels or when he was bent over the desk, gritting his teeth. He tried to remember as many phrases as he could, “saved from death’s door” and “begged him to turn me” and “swore myself to him, body and soul”. All of which were true, in one sense or another, but that wasn’t why he did it.

He did it because of Cazador’s little visit to his cell just a few days prior.

Astarion had already been too weak to stand. He’d been cowering on the floor with his hands gripping the metal bars for support, desperate pleas pouring out of him as soon as Cazador and Raphael entered the room.

Instead of an answer, Cazador commanded him to bite his own tongue.

“Such a greedy boy,” he’d said, hands folded behind his back as he glared down at him, wheezing pathetically on the floor. “But you know how this works, don’t you? You have to earn your meals. It makes them taste so much better, doesn’t it?”

Astarion nodded frantically. Earning his meals meant guests, guests he was supposed to entertain. That’s why the well-dressed man was here. All he’d have to do was hold his face against the metal bars, close his eyes and open his mouth and soon enough, there’d be a rat for him. Maybe even a big one. He was shuffling forward on his knees, a thin line of saliva dripping out of his mouth, when Cazador stopped him with a chuckle.

“Not like this,” he said. “Gods below, such a filthy mind. I am going to need you to use that silver tongue of yours a little differently.”

Astarion paused, confused.

“Your hearing,” Cazador said. “When they call you to the stand, I’m going to need you to tell them all about how happy you are to be part of my family. How much you love your siblings, your father who has so graciously saved your life and given you a new home. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you — you are grateful for my efforts, aren’t you?”

Astarion nodded again, his tongue swelling in his mouth. He wanted to speak, wanted to plead once more, but he could tell that it would only result in more pain.

“Good.” Cazador smiled and reached through the bars, his cold hand settling on Astarion’s matted curls. “I am a merciful master. I’ve always treated you fairly. Forgiven your missteps time and time again for I know that you are just a simple boy in need of guidance. Don’t worry. Raphael will tell you exactly what to say, and he’ll be sure to tell you very slowly.”

And then Raphael had stepped forward and made him rehearse all the correct answers to all the questions he might be asked. And once he was satisfied with Astarion’s performance, Cazador had tossed him Zoraya’s scarf and called him a good boy.

And in that way, he was a merciful master, was he not? He’d given him the scarf, had brought it all this way just because he knew that Astarion had trouble trancing without it, needing the familiar smell of her pressed against his face. Back at the estate, the other spawn had stolen the scarf more than once, holding it over his head as they cackled with glee, or hiding it somewhere in the estate and then watching him look for it in frenzied panic. But Cazador had always made sure it was returned to him.

Cazador took care of him. Cazador looked after him. Cazador was the only one who could soothe the gnawing hole in his belly and he would — of course, he would. Just as long as he was satisfied with Astarion’s performance in court.

So Astarion was on his best behavior. Kept his hands folded on the table — hands where I can see them, boy — as he told the court all the things Cazador wanted him to say.

Zoraya’s voice grew sharper with each question. “But surely, you could not have made a conscious decision while you were in the process of bleeding out?”

“I was perfectly lucid at the time,” Astarion said. “It was something I had been planning for a while and I stand by my decision.”

“But what about afterward?” she tried again. “What do you think would have happened if you had refused to swear yourself to Lord Szarr, as you did?”

“I don’t know. I woke up in the coffin seeking his counsel. Craving his guidance. My master does so much for me. For us. My siblings and I, we are like family. We care for each other, support each other.”

He kept his gaze trained on his hands as he spoke, unable to meet her eyes. Lying was one thing — he’d practically built his professional career on it — but he could not bear to watch the light of hope drain out of her. Frustration and desperation settling on her features as she did her absolute best to help him, while he sat there and gave her nothing at all to work with.

“Miss Naelgrath,” Raphael cut in at some point, “I believe the spawn has already explained that when you found him chained to the wall, he wasn’t injured. Which, incidentally, matches Lord Szarr’s account. I believe it’s best we move on from your delusions and focus on the facts.”

“Conjecture!” Zoraya hissed, a single strand of hair falling out of her bun as she spun around to glare at him. “It’s my word against his! None of that qualifies as a delusion!”

Raphael held her gaze for a moment or two, then lifted his hands with a self-satisfied smile. “Redacted.”

“If there are no further questions …” Nerennos sighed. He was old, as was the case for most High Judges, and clearly not used to staying up this late.

“Not yet!” Zoraya protested. “I have a number of questions left to ask!”

“And we all have appointments to attend to in the morning, Miss Naelgrath.”

“I believe what High Judge Fallbrook is trying to say,” Dekarios cut in, “is that due to the unusual scheduling of this particular case, we will need to impose a time limit on our sessions. Miss Naelgrath, you will have another chance at cross-examination, but for tonight, I suggest we let opposing counsel have their turn and then call it a night, so we can all be fresh in the morning.”

Zoraya’s chair screeched in agony as she sat down. Astarion screwed his eyes shut, briefly allowing his nails to dig into the table.

Soon, he told himself. Soon, it would all be over. He would get to return to his cell and Cazador would come and feed him. A whole rat just for himself, maybe even two. He’d been good, hadn’t he? So very good.

“Astarion of House Szarr.” Raphael came sauntering over to the witness stand, one hand stroking his chin in a gesture of practiced thoughtfulness. As if he was only now devising the questions they had already prepared together. “Are you happy to be part of the Szarr household?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Cazador Szarr?”

“He is my lord and master,” Astarion said, diligently echoing back the words he’d been fed. “He cares for us and keeps us safe, helps us deal with the more sinister aspects of the gift. He disciplines us whenever it’s required, praises and rewards us when we do well. He also … allows me to work in his services. I receive special favors in exchange for entertaining his honored guests. Voluntarily, of course.”

Raphael nodded, easing just a bit of the tension out of Astarion’s shoulders. “And if you were able to leave his household, would that be something you wanted to do?”

“N-no, Sir.” Shit. He’d hesitated. Definitely no two rats for him — stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Final question, Astarion. Miss Naelgrath claims that you and the other vampire spawn ought to be recognized as sentient beings, protected by the laws of Baldur’s Gate. Do you agree with this view? Would you want to be recognized as a person?”

“No, Sir,” Astarion said, pushing it out as quickly as he possibly could.

“Wonderful,” Raphael said. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“This concludes the first day of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate!” High Judge Nerennos hit the gavel and Astarion’s stomach growled in response.

Afterward, Astarion sat in his cell and waited. The hunger was a dark pit in his stomach. It grew and expanded, devouring more and more of him until finally, when the key turned in the lock, he tried to jump to his feet, only for his knees to give way, delivering him down onto the floor. Where he belonged.

“Master!” he croaked. “Please, I need—”

He paused at the sight of Raphael, propped up in the doorway with not-quite-casual grace. “Lord Szarr sends his regards,” Raphael said. “He is pleased with your performance tonight and expects you to do even better next time.”

“N-next time?” Astarion stammered. “But when will that be? When do I get to feed?”

“We do not yet know when you will be called to the stand again, but it is Lord Szarr’s belief that you do your best work when you are sufficiently motivated. Until then, Astarion.”

“No!” Astarion exclaimed, mobilizing what was left of his strength to throw himself forward, yanking at the bars. “You can’t do this! I need it now; I need it! Raphael!”

He kept yelling, even after the door had fallen shut.

He yelled for quite a bit longer. As long as he could before his voice broke down, the rest of him quickly following suit. Then he simply lay there on the cold stone floor, fogginess claiming his mind. He welcomed it, in a way. Anything to distract from the gaping ache, the need thrumming through his bones.

“Astarion?” Zoraya’s voice. A hallucination, surely. A comforting fantasy on his way down the road to insanity. “Astarion, what’s wrong?”

“Z-Zoya …” He turned his head, trying to blink through the stupor.

There was no way it was her, not after what he’d done to her during the hearing. But gods, he could picture her face perfectly. The curve of her nose, the set of her mouth. The crinkle of worry on her brow as she sank to her knees, reaching out for him through the bars.

He could have sworn he felt her touch. Warm fingers tracing the side of his face, down to his neck, as if to feel for a pulse that was no longer there. What he wouldn’t give to hold her hand one more time. Cradle it to his cheek and kiss her fingertips, one by one, as he asked her for forgiveness.

“I’m calling the guards,” she said.

“No point,” Astarion muttered, drunk on the imaginary warmth of her hand. “They can’t feed me. No one can feed me. No one except for him.”

The imaginary hand pulled back. “You mean Cazador has been withholding blood from you?”

“It’s a … motivational tool.”

There was a beat of silence, almost long enough for him to believe she’d never been there at all.

“He has to give it to you, right? You can’t take it otherwise?”

Astarion nodded. His mind was beginning to wander, struggling to focus on her.

“Alright.” The clicking of heels on the floor. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And then she was gone, swallowed up by the wave of darkness that came crushing down on him. Grabbing a hold of his mind and plunging it down, deep, deep into the sea of oblivion.

Chapter Text

Astarion was drifting in a haze of hunger and misery. Unaware of anything, save for the cold stone under his cheek, the insistent pling of whatever liquid came dripping down from the ceiling. It landed on the back of his calves, an icy shock whenever he was about to sink into reverie, invariably yanking his consciousness back to the surface.

He could have moved out of the way, but he no longer saw the point.

The swell of voices, nearly inaudible through the thick metal doors that kept him separate from the other prisoners. An extra layer of protection, for even rapists and murderers deserved to be protected from the bloodthirsty monster in their midst. Everyone in the whole wide world deserved something, some minimum level of comfort — except for him, of course.

He deserved exactly what he’d been given.

Keys jingled in the lock. The door was pushed open with a creak, and the voices spilled into his cell.

“This is ridiculous, Your Honor!” Raphael said. “The spawn are evidence in a High Court case, not patrons of a lush seaside hotel!”

“This is not about luxury; it’s about ensuring my client receives the medical attention he requires,” Zoraya protested.

Astarion tried to lift his head, but all he managed to make out was her shoes. Sleek, black pumps, her signature pair with the slightly pointy toe. Next to her were three pairs of expensive-looking men’s shoes. He recognized Cazador’s, a ridiculous design with gold embellishments all around the front. A plethora of sharp edges Astarion was intimately familiar with.

“Your Honor, look.” Zoraya turned to the fourth person in the group. An older man, judging by his exceedingly practical footwear. “I have a list of recommendations from my client’s personal healer, High Harper Jaheira. According to her, he’s in a state of severe mental distress as a result of the trauma he’s experienced at the Szarr estate. The memory journal is part of her treatment plan. A way for my client to come to terms with what happened to him.”

“Your Honor, he’s a spawn,” Raphael cut in. “He doesn’t need a fancy notebook any more than a houseplant needs a hand-knit sweater.”

“Enough!” A raspy, elderly voice. Nerennos, most likely. “I’ve barely had a chance to recover from your bickering last night and here you are again, dragging me out here past my official hours! I do not care about your memory journals or your houseplants or any of it! Lord Szarr will hand over the blasted notebook, and I am going to bed!”

“And the bunny,” Zoraya said calmly.

“The what now?”

“The bunny.” Rustling noises, followed by a groan that sounded like it came from Raphael. “According to High Harper Jaheira, it is extremely important to surround my client with comforting items from his past. Help him remember who he was before he was kidnapped and forcibly turned. I’ve brought her report, detailing the entire treatment plan she’s set up for him, if you’d like to have a look, Your Honor.”

“Gods, no!” Nerennos exclaimed. “Whatever you want to have in that cell, Lord Szarr will be sure to place it there! Good night!”

Astarion could practically hear Zoraya’s smile as Nerennos rushed out of the room. “Whenever you’re ready, Lord Szarr,” she said sweetly, pushing what looked like a wicker basket in his direction. “Although, preferably before sunrise if you weren’t planning to spend the whole day locked in here.”

“Enjoy your little victory,” Cazador snarled. “I assure you, it will be your last.”

One of the guards opened the cell door for him and Astarion scrambled to push himself up. To get himself onto his forearms so as to properly greet his master, but his arms were leaden, his chest thudding back to the floor almost immediately. Hunger had hollowed him out, taken away the very substance of his being. He felt like one of those porcelain figurines people kept on their desks. A pretty, useless thing, perpetually stuck in whatever position their makers had chosen for it.

Cazador clicked his tongue as he approached and Astarion readied himself for a blow, a kick, a command to bash his own head into the wall. But Cazador merely dropped the basket next to him. The thing toppled over in the process and something fell out, a flash of white at the edge of Astarion’s vision.

Sir Hopperson?

He stared at the bunny’s familiar face, its beady blue eyes staring back at him in the same expression of slightly unhinged gleefulness he’d sported all his life.

“If you would please assure my client that he is welcome to use all of the items he has received,” Zoraya said. “Oh, and that none of them are to be destroyed at any point of time.”

“Yes, yes, it’s all yours,” Cazador snorted impatiently. “The bunny and the memory journal and whatever other nonsense they think you need. Now, was there anything else, Miss Naelgrath?”

“Just a tiny, little detail.”

Cazador joined her outside the cell, where they seemed to survey some sort of document together. “Impossible!” Cazador exclaimed after a little while. “Surely, there has got to be a mistake!”

“I’m afraid not,” Raphael said. “Apparently, the prison guards have noticed that your spawn tend to show signs of injury after you’ve come to visit them. Self-inflicted injuries, I am sure — the result of their feeble minds breaking down as they’re kept away from their lord and master. Nonetheless, Miss Naelgrath has successfully moved that, starting today, you may only visit your spawn by appointment and under the supervision of at least two randomly selected guards.”

“This is ridiculous! Read it again!”

“Lord Szarr, I believe this is a matter best discussed in private.” There was a hint of sharpness in Raphael’s tone, quickly hidden away under his usual pleasantness as he added, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Cazador grumbled something Astarion couldn’t quite make out. “This isn’t over, Miss Naelgrath!” he spat as he and Raphael left the room.

“Oh, I hope not,” Zoraya said pleasantly. “I was really looking forward to defeating you in court as well.”

She waved away the guard, then hurried to the cell as soon as they were alone. “Astarion?” she whispered. “Astarion, can you hear me?”

He blinked, his eyes not quite managing to focus on her. “You … got me a restraining order against him?”

“That was my initial idea, but then Shadowheart convinced me that the supervised visits would have a better chance of actually getting approved. Sorry.” Zoraya swallowed. “I know it’s not the same as not having to see him at all, but I thought the sooner you get some semblance of safety, the better.”

She was apologizing.

She’d just created the closest thing to a safe space he’d had in over a month, and she was apologizing to him!

“Astarion?” Zoraya shuffled closer to the bars, her trousers scraping over the stone floor. “I know you’re not feeling great right now, but I’m going to need you to do something for me.”

“Sure,” he grunted, his head swimming as he tried to turn onto his back. “Two backflips and a cartwheel, coming right up.”

“I need you to, uh, sign something.” She pushed a piece of paper in between the bars and gestured at the wicker basket. “There are pens in there.”

“Darling, I already told you you’re wasting your—”

“Please?”

Gods damn it all. He couldn’t say no to her, his body already pushing itself into a sitting position. Somehow managing to work up the strength he hadn’t been able to summon for his own master, his back slumping against the wall as he reached into the basket.

It was stuffed to the brim with things. His things, he realized when he pulled out a familiar, cozy blanket. The very same he used to keep on his couch, always ready to drape around Zoraya’s shoulders. Wrap her up against his chest and kiss the warmth back into her.

Just one of the many, many things he could no longer do for her.

“I thought it might help with the cold down here,” Zoraya said quietly. “That is, if you still feel cold.”

“I do,” Astarion admitted, his hands cold and numb and wrong against the softness of the blanket. All the time.

He forced himself to set it aside and continued digging in search of the promised pen. His heart grew heavier with each find. There was a red wool sweater, one of the few Objection had never chosen to use as a cat bed. A couple of romance novels from his bookshelf. His comb and hair products, even a bottle of his favorite perfume, now overwhelmingly potent to his vampiric senses.

It was a beautifully thoughtful collection, each item handpicked to bring him comfort, down here in this dreary cell. It also was her way of saying goodbye. One last act of kindness before she let him go.

It had to be.

That’s what the signature was for: to terminate their contract and set herself free from this farce of a trial. And she deserved it — of course, she did! But Astarion’s hands still shook when he finally found the fountain pen.

It came in a pretty lacquered box, the gold nib gleaming against the black velvet padding. How fitting, he thought as his fingers closed around the cool, smooth metal, that this is how it ends.

He didn’t bother reading the document she’d given him. Just pressed down the pen and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, all he saw was an indent on the creamy white paper.

“It, uh … needs to be filled,” Zoraya said, gesturing at the elegant ink well seated inside the box.

Astarion reached for it with a huff of annoyance. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to fill his own fountain pens, but couldn’t she have done that for him? Spare him the effort of wrestling with these tiny glass vials while he was already shaking with hunger? Besides, why were there so many of them, all shoved to the bottom of the basket? How much ink did she think she needed to authorize something as straightforward as Get out of my life, you undead fiend?

The lid came off awkwardly, skidding across the floor, and Astarion was just about to dip in the pen when it hit him.

The smell.

It was like a punch in the gut. His muscles tensing, his body jolting upright as he clutched the ink well to his chest, fingers curling around it possessively. Forgotten was the pen, the document, any of it. All he could think about was the liquid sloshing against those tinted glass walls, its scent filling his nostrils, making his fangs ache.

“Is that …?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, too ashamed of the fantasies that were running through his mind. Her with a knife in her bed, wearing nothing but the slinkiest of nightgowns as she drew the blade over her wrist. A choked-up, sensual little whine falling from her lips as the blood began to drip down her arm. Perfect crimson droplets, just for him.

“Rabbit,” Zoraya explained. “Freshly hunted just this morning.”

Oh. Well, that probably made more sense, given Cazador’s rules.

Astarion swallowed heavily. “I don’t know if I can …”

“Try it,” she said. “Use it. That’s what Cazador told you, isn’t it? You’re allowed to use everything that came inside that basket.”

This.

Woman.

Astarion’s mouth dropped open, his hunger-crazed mind working overtime to try and piece together the sheer genius of her plan. Using Jaheira’s medical recommendations as a cover to smuggle him blood, getting Cazador to openly hand it to him! All so she could feed him in spite of the rules. Making sure he was comfortable and well-fed when he took the stand to lie through his teeth and sabotage her case.

“I can leave if you want me to,” Zoraya said when he simply sat there, unmoving. “I understand this might be … intimate. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Wait!” Astarion heard himself say. “Would you … stay with me?”

Gods below, what was he doing? He couldn’t allow her to see him like this. It would be demeaning. Revolting. The surest way for her to realize just what kind of beast he’d turned into, the man she’d loved long since dead and buried. And yet, there was a trickle of warmth in his chest when she settled back down, her lips curving up into a smile.

Astarion brought the ink well to his face with deliberate slowness, nerves and hunger warring in his mind. He wanted to take his time with it, drink with as much dignity and grace as he could muster.

Not a chance.

The blood sang on his tongue. A glorious melody of passion and comfort, of power and lust and sheer unrestrained glee, urging him to tip back his head and drink it all down. Let it soothe his parched throat, the ever-present ache in his stomach. Fill all those places inside of him that felt so hollow, fill them with warmth — with life.

The first jar was gone so fast, Astarion hardly remembered opening the next. His body seemed to work on its own accord, desperate to gulp down as much as he possibly could before someone came and took it away from him. Cazador never let him drink his fill. Always made sure to yank his meal away from him, leaving him hungry, wanting. But his belly was already so full. A comfortable heaviness settling behind his navel, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. And still, there were plenty of ink wells left in the basket. So many, it sent a brief flash of panic into his brain when he realized he couldn’t possibly drink them all. What was he going to do with them? What if Cazador found them? What if he smelled it on him, what if—

“You can keep the rest for later,” Zoraya said, her voice a gentle breeze through the roaring greed in his mind. “They’re sealed, so Cazador shouldn’t be able to smell them.”

Brilliant. Astarion sank back against the wall with a satisfied sigh, his hunger sated for the first time since his transformation. He stretched out his legs, not caring for the clinking of glass as he knocked over a few of the empty ink wells.

“That was … amazing.” He chuckled at the sound of his voice. It almost sounded like something he used to say. Back in a time when all he’d had to worry about was keeping his job and convincing the woman of his dreams to go out with him.

“I’m glad.” Zoraya still sat there, cross-legged and gorgeous, the gaze of her dark eyes pointed straight at him.

Astarion’s first impulse was to look away. Wipe at the blood that was surely covering his face and retreat back into his corner, away from prying eyes. But there was the delicious rush of blood in his veins, a warm, hazy feeling so much better than any buzz he’d ever had. And it was probably the happiest a creature like him could be, so he simply leaned back his head and stayed right where he was.

“Would you mind handing me those?” Zoraya gestured at the empty ink wells scattered all over his cell.

Astarion complied, careful not to touch her, even though his hands felt noticeably warmer than usual. He took the opportunity to clean up the rest of his cell as well, collecting the gifts he’d strewn around so carelessly, and organizing them in little stacks against the wall. The comb and the perfume bottle atop his romance novels, Sir Hopperson lounging comfortably on the blanket. The only item Astarion didn’t recognize from his previous life was a small, leatherbound notebook.

“And this would be the famed memory journal, I take it?” he said, holding it up at Zoraya.

She blushed furiously. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but Jaheira really did recommend it. Maybe you could just … try and see if it helps? At the very least, it might be good to have something to do when you’re here all by yourself. And you can write about anything — anything you want. It won’t be part of the trial, I promise. This is not for anyone else to look at. It’s just for you.”

Just for you. The words echoed in Astarion’s head, baffling in their simplicity. He used to own so many things, jewelry and silk and vintages worth more than other people’s homes. But now, his hands prickled with something nervous, something almost akin to reverence when he flipped through the empty pages. All this space for him to tell his story. Tell it in his own words, without Cazador’s manipulations.

“So, uh … you like rabbit?” Zoraya asked, trying to fill the silence. “If there’s something else you’d rather have, I could try to—”

“I think I like anything that hasn’t been dead for weeks before I got my hands on it.”

“Oh.”

Astarion knew he should thank her — thank her a hundred, thousand times over for all she’d done for him. But when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Sabotaging your case, of course.” He settled back against the wall, his fingers tracing over the leatherbound edges of his notebook. “I know you’re only trying to help, but even without the compulsion, Cazador has a number of ways to make me into his accomplice.”

“So, it’s all lies?”

“Not quite, darling,” he sighed. “That’s the crux of it. Parts of it are true. In a sense, at least.”

“Such as?”

Astarion hesitated, trying to hold on to that glowy, happy feeling. But she was looking at him so earnestly. Asking him to open up for her, always so convinced that what she’d find would be worth rooting for.

“I really did ask him to turn me.”

“But why would you do that?” Zoraya asked, shaky with disbelief. “You knew it would make you a spawn, his to control!”

“I wanted to see you again.” The truth fell from his lips easily. Effortlessly. Like a snowflake settling down in the palm of her hand, melting away at her touch. “When I was lying there in the rain, bleeding out all over the streets, I wasn’t thinking about the pain or revenge or anything like that. I was thinking of you.”

Her mouth parted, a beautifully clueless expression on her face. Of course, she didn’t know. Had no idea about the extent of his feelings because all he ever did was push her away. Punish her for his own stupid choices and then leave her alone to deal with the fallout.

“I knew it was the wrong decision, right after the vote,” Astarion said. “I wanted to fix it, but you had already left, and so I never got to say that I … I’m sorry.”

There.

He’d said it.

After weeks of indescribable agony and torture, he’d finally told her.

He should be happy now, shouldn’t he? His desire fulfilled, his final wish granted. But — gods save his soul — when he was looking at her now, he could feel the flame of greed flick back to life. Like he was back with that first ink well pressed against his lips, already thinking about the second one as he was gulping it down.

He wanted more.

So much more.

He wanted to reach out his hand and feel her. The curve of her mouth, the jut of her collarbones. The gentle fluttering of her heart, right there under his cold, dead fingertips. He wanted to pull her into his arms and commit it all to memory, trace the shape of her until it was seared into his mind. And yet, his skin was crawling at the very thought. For how was he supposed to touch her with the same hands he’d used to pleasure Cazador’s guests? Hands that had killed and slaughtered, had torn people apart and made their ugliest fantasies come true?

He couldn’t. Not ever.

He was a monster — disgusting, vile, broken.

She was beautiful, brilliant, destined for greatness.

“It’s alright,” Zoraya said. She had both arms wrapped around herself, her fingers instinctively feeling for the necklace she no longer wore. “I understand. I have a way of … pressuring you into things. I think I know what’s best for you, and then I try to force it onto you, not even asking about your feelings. That’s what I did the night of the vote. And I guess that’s what I’m doing right now, too — dragging you through this case when you’ve told me more than once that you don’t want it. I’m sorry, Astarion. I truly am. I’m the one who’s always lecturing you, nagging you, pulling you this way and that. I can’t imagine how annoying it must be for you, how completely and utterly demeaning.”

She sucked in a shaky breath and Astarion realized that she was crying. Shit. How in the Hells did he manage to make her cry, even as he sat behind bars and apologized to her?

“I just have to know that I tried, you know?” Zoraya was speaking through the tears, her voice brittle but clear. “I have to know that I didn’t give up on you, that I gave this everything I had. And I know that’s selfish, especially after you broke up with me, but—”

“I did what?” Astarion asked, flabbergasted by this turn of events.

“You … broke up with me.”

“I don’t recall doing anything like that!”

“Well, you did it … implicitly.”

Implicitly.

If he hadn’t been dead already, this whole relationship business would surely be the death of him. He could have sworn that in order to break up with someone, there had to be some combination of the words “I want to break up with you”. Clearly, he’d been wrong. Because here she was, crying over the end of a relationship he hadn’t even been aware was over!

“And when did this implicit break-up of ours take place?”

“Before the vote.” Her gaze was fixed to the floor, her shoulders hiked up miserably. “I told you how I feel about you, and you just … left. I mean, I totally understand! It’s not like you’re obliged to—”

“Darling.” Astarion exhaled a long, labored breath. “I may have been upset at the time. Confused and angry, certainly, thanks to Cazador’s machinations. But I never, not for a moment, even thought about breaking up with you.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and suddenly, she looked just like the little girl who used to follow him up his parents’ plum trees. A gangly girl in an ill-fitting pinafore dress, struggling to keep up with him in her billowy skirts. Astarion had always loved the way she gazed up at him from a few branches below. Her eyes large and full of wonder, like he was someone she couldn’t help but look up to.

“Things are different now, of course,” he hurried to say. “I am a murderer and a slave — not to mention, dead.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, come on now, Zoya. I know you’re an idealist, but even you cannot ignore what Cazador has made of me.” He gestured at the empty ink wells, neatly lined up in front of the bars.

“I said I don’t care!” she repeated, louder now. “I loved you when you were a bratty teenager and I loved you when you were a racist, shitty magistrate — do you really think I’ll draw the line at fangs?”

Astarion’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t. And I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, or if you don’t want to be with me anymore. But don’t you dare make this about me! Don’t tell me how I don’t want you anymore when I’ve spent the better part of two decades dreaming of you!”

“I’ve dreamed of you, too!” he snapped. “When I was strung up on the wall or shackled to that filthy cot, I would always dream of you!”

Something in his undead heart gave way, causing a flood of emotion so powerful, he hardly realized he was reaching for the scarf, a bunched-up bundle in the corner, before he’d gone ahead and flung it at her. The dirt-caked garment hit the cell bars and then fell to the floor with a sad, damp sound. Astarion scrambled to pick it up, regret washing over him at once, but it was too late.

“Is that …?”

“Yes,” Astarion admitted, not meeting Zoraya’s gaze as he gathered the ruined scarf and draped it across his lap. “Cazador kept it. He uses it as a reward of sorts. Lets the other spawn take it away from me and then returns it after I have done something that pleases him. Just one of the many games he likes to play with us. But in all honesty, this one I don’t even mind.”

He hesitated for a moment, drawing his hands over the grimy fabric and focusing on the familiar feel of it, smooth and coarse at once. But what was the point of trying to hold back? She’d already seen him at his lowest. Had seen him chained up and delirious with hunger, and had turned right back around to bring him food.

“Whenever things got bad, I would … hold it,” he continued. “Picture the way it used to look, wrapped around your neck. And it helped, somehow. Thinking of you, out there in the world, still strutting around the courthouse with a bunch of folders under your arm. I would picture your hands, your smile, the way you blush when I kiss you in public. Sometimes, I’d try to picture you with someone else. But I guess the transformation has made me even more of a selfish bastard because in the end, all that did was make me really, really angry.” He tried to force a chuckle, but it came out more like a growl.

And when he looked at her, he felt the air squeezing out of his lungs, his hands clutching at the scarf in search of support. “I … desire you, Zoraya. I know I have no right to feel this way — not when I’m like this. A monster stuck in a cell, incapable of giving you anything. But I do. Gods above, I do.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Astarion blinked, so befuddled by this response to his heartfelt confession, all he found himself able to say was, “What?”

Zoraya, meanwhile, pushed back her shoulders and dabbed at her eyes, still red and puffy from crying. “I was asking,” she said, her spine straightening with each word, “whether or not you want to get out this cell.”

“Well, of course I do, but what’s the point? I lied under oath. I ruined your case!”

“Nothing’s ruined,” she said, wiping away his disastrous testimony with a flick of her wrist. “It was a setback, that’s all. The result of some serious witness tampering on Cazador’s part — which I’ll be sure to explain to them in excruciating detail. I can get you a chance to set the record straight, but I need to know whether you intend to take it or not.”

“And who do you think would believe me?” Astarion scoffed. “They seemed happy enough to gobble up the lies of an obviously malnourished witness, shaking his way through his testimony!”

Zoraya frowned. “You mean you can’t hear them?”

“What in the gods’ names are you talking about?”

“Sh.” She pressed a finger to her lips, an enigmatic smile spreading on her face. “Listen.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. All he ever did down here was listen. He knew the mess of muffled noises that made it through the walls of his cell, the pathetic mix of howls and garbled curses that seemed to be the primary mode of communication amongst his fellow inmates.

Only, it wasn’t all incomprehensible garbage. There were a whole bunch of other voices, all the way on the other side of the rock. Too distant for him to make out while he’d been wallowing in hunger and misery, but he heard them now.

“Give—us—our—ma-gis-trate!” they were saying, over and over again. A rhythmic chorus, the likes of which was best accompanied by several dozen footsteps, all marching in lock-step as they threw in the occasional “The Magistrate of the People!” or “Justice for Ancunín!”

Now, Astarion was no stranger to having people chant his name — it just didn’t usually happen under quite these circumstances. “But what … who … why?” he demanded in a shocking display of complete verbal failure.

“You have left quite the impression with the people of Baldur’s Gate,” Zoraya said, her smile broadening at his dumbfound expression. “Especially with how the council has been acting ever since the vote. For many of them, you were the last good thing that happened to the city. They want you back.”

“But I … I never cared about any of them!” he cried. “All I ever cared about was my career! The motion, the highway — it was all so I could get my spot on the Council of Four!”

“It doesn’t matter to them. They care about what you did for them, not why you did it.”

Ridiculous. Who in the world would think that way?

“And my testimony?” Astarion asked.

“I gave a press conference last night, and your mother made sure that every reputable journalist in town was there to hear it. I don’t expect they all believed me about the witness tampering, but it was enough to keep your supporters going until your next testimony. If you want it, that is.” Zoraya cocked her head to the side, her features tightening into what he recognized as her lawyer face. “You need to tell me, Astarion. I won’t blame you for not wanting to speak against Cazador. But a witness who won’t work with me is useless on the stand, so I’d rather you told me right now. Are we doing this together or not?”

She held out her hand, stopping right in front of the bars this time. Not simply expecting his cooperation, but asking for it. Asking him to trust her, to put his faith in her and help her win back his freedom.

There was no way in Hells he could have refused.

Astarion moved toward her like a flower toward the sun. Reaching for her hand so slowly, so carefully, so scared of hurting her. Of getting hurt, perhaps most of all. But her hand felt warm and soft in his, her fingers closing around his without hesitation. A gentle, reassuring touch that had his throat swell up with longing.

“Deal,” he choked out. “I’ll take the stand for you and do what I can. Provided, Cazador doesn’t come up with some new ploy to keep me under his thumb.”

“Thank you.” Zoraya smiled and squeezed his hand.

And that was all it should have been: a handshake between professionals. But Astarion couldn’t bring himself to look away from their hands, wrapped around each other. His ghostly pale, hers a warm bronze. And the little voice inside his head, the one that hadn’t been there before he’d known what a full belly felt like, was asking for more, just a tiny bit more.

What was the worst that could happen?

Next thing he knew, he was lifting her hand to his face, drinking in the smell of ink that clung to her fingers. Shuffling closer to the bars as he did so, closer, ever closer. The blood rushing into his head when he first pressed his lips to her knuckles, kissing the familiar pattern of calluses on her fingers. All the many marks left there by her fountain pens — marks she’d earned for him, working as his advocate. And once he’d started with that, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His mouth trailing feverishly from the back of her hand all the way to her fingertips, showering her in love and tenderness, knowing full well it wasn’t anywhere near enough.

“Zoya,” he whispered, her name a strangled exhale. He pressed her palm against the curve of his cheek, holding it there as if his life depended on it. “My Zoya …”

Her pulse was thrumming against the corner of his mouth and he couldn’t help himself; he let his tongue dart out to lap at her wrist, shuddering at the flicker of life, right there under her skin.

The blood was pounding in his ears now, an insistent plea for more, more, more. Thoughts he simply hadn’t had the energy for came drifting to the surface, thoughts of her spread out before him, a mess of tangled limbs and parted lips and breathy little moans. Not all of that would be possible, not with those pesky metal bars between them, but there were plenty of things he could accomplish with his hand alone. He was a professional, an expert in other people’s pleasure. Besides, this was how this worked, wasn’t it? She’d fed him, so now he owed her. That was the way of things, the rhythm Cazador had so painstakingly instilled in him.

Grovel, fuck, feed, repeat.

They’d messed up the order a little bit, but that was alright. He’d be sure to make up for it. Drown her in pleasure so thoroughly, she’d have no choice but to come back and feed him again. Care for him again.

It was the only thing he was good at, after all.

“Astarion?” Zoraya’s voice, painfully out of place in this particular mental spiral.

His eyes flew open, a wave of shame sloshing over his head as he followed her gaze to the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. The type of erection he’d gotten very good at conjuring, one that had everything to do with duty and nothing at all with the person before him.

But this was Zoraya.

His friend — his girlfriend, maybe; he wasn’t quite sure at the moment. And yet, his body had gone ahead and treated her like she was …

“I’m sorry.” Astarion dropped her hand and reached for the blanket she’d brought him, throwing it over his lap. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay,” Zoraya muttered, her cheeks flushed like somehow she thought that she was the problem!

“No.” Astarion shook his head. “It’s not okay. I never should have … I should have known that …” He took a deep breath, mentally steeling himself. “I cheated on you, Zoraya.”

Her chin snapped up. Her eyes narrowing, not an ounce of hesitation in her voice when she said, “You did not cheat on me. You did what you had to do in order to survive.”

“But I did it anyway — don’t you see? Don’t you see what he’s made of me? The feeling of a pulse and I am ready to go like some sort of show horse!” He gestured wildly at his lap, teeth clenching in frustration. “And even if you somehow found it in yourself to forgive me, it still doesn’t change anything about the fact that I am ruined — broken! This should feel good, right? This has always felt good, as long as I can remember. You feel good. You’re beautiful and patient and lovely in every imaginable way. And I know I should focus on that, but somehow, I’m still thinking about them! The way they would push me around and then leave me there as soon as they were done. Going off to take a bath, while I would have to grovel back to Cazador to get my meal. I would feel so … dirty on so many levels and I … I just don’t know if I can ever get over that. If I can ever … touch you, the way I used to.”

“I don’t need you to be exactly the person you used to be,” Zoraya said. “No one would ask that of you, not after what you’ve been through.”

“But what we had was …”

“Wonderful, I know,” she agreed. “But it doesn’t mean it was perfect. I was keeping things from you and so were you. At least now we have everything out in the open. We can use it to build something new, a relationship that’s all about honesty. And if you don’t want to do certain things, then that’s alright.”

He opened his mouth, wanting to protest, but Zoraya didn’t let him. “Astarion, listen to me. I have waited for you for twenty years and I will happily wait another fifty or one hundred or however long it takes until you feel ready. And if that day never comes, that’s okay, too. I am very good at sitting a great distance away from you and staring at you, if you must know. I can show you the letter Ms. Harlton wrote to my parents in eighth grade; she describes it quite colorfully.”

His mouth quirked up just a little bit. “You are joking.”

“I am not. I am telling my boyfriend that I love him and that I will happily do so with a six-foot pole between us for the rest of our lives.” She made a point of shuffling backward, increasing the distance between them.

“And what in the world would we do with each other in that sort of scenario?” Astarion asked. “Churn butter and pray to the gods like the main characters of an exceptionally puritanical romance novel?”

“I don’t know.” She huffed out a breath, lifting her shoulders into a shrug. “We could always just … talk?”

Astarion froze. Something inside of him stirred in recognition, something he hadn’t thought about in a good, long while. Not since he’d been fifteen years old and over the moon to be asked out on a date by an older boy who ended up slipping his hand into Astarion’s trousers halfway through the theater play they were supposed to watch.

“W-wait,” he’d whispered, trying to hold on to his smile as he squirmed at the touch, both unexpected and entirely unpleasant. “Can’t we just … I don’t know — talk?”

And the older boy had laughed at him, only his pretty green eyes no longer seemed to laugh with him. And then he’d gone ahead and left him there without another word, never even looking his way again at school.

Because Astarion was a body. A pretty thing for people to use and enjoy, and it had always been that way, long before Cazador.

“I know you’re going to say it sounds boring,” Zoraya went on. “But I think it could be fun. I’ll come down here with a blanket and some snacks, and we’ll talk. Not about Cazador or the case — unless you want to, of course. Just about … us. Or the sociopolitical state of the world, or my mother’s convoluted approach to tea-making, or whatever else you’re comfortable with.” She paused, self-consciously fiddling with her braids before adding, “You know, a bit like a … like a date.”

“A date,” Astarion repeated, still roaming the past.

It was a few weeks after that terrible night at the theater, and he and Zoraya were lying in the grass around his parents’ plum trees. His head was spinning from cheap alcohol and lack of sleep, the sun filtering in through his closed lids almost unbearable.

“Hey, Zoya?” he’d said, his voice gravelly, his thoughts dull and unfocused. “What do you think the perfect date would be like?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” She pushed onto her elbows, beaming down at him with excitement. Happy to talk about anything, so long as he paid attention to her. “A day in the library! We’d stroll through all the aisles and look at all the books! And maybe we’d hold hands, I don’t know, but mostly we’d just …”

“Talk?” A smile darted across his face, short and bitter. “Yes, that sounds nice.”

“What about you?” she asked. “How was your date last night?”

He could tell that the truth would hurt her. Taint her in a way he couldn’t bear to imagine. So he said, “Perfect. Just perfect.”

And never even thought about it anymore until years later, in a candlelit library. His heart bouncing out of his ribcage because she’d just kissed him and made him the happiest man in the whole entire world.

And now.

Here.

His heart cold and dead, but still hers, always hers. Because she was looking at him like … like this was a gift. Like sitting on the cold floor, mystery liquid dripping from the ceiling and prisoners screaming next door was somehow a privilege to her, simply because it was with him.

Astarion had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Don’t you think we’re past the dating stage, darling?” he said, trying to sound light. “You and I have had sex in courtrooms all over the city. This past summer, I made you climax three times in a row at Lord Aubert’s masquerade ball — one of which was on the dance floor, if memory serves. You cannot seriously want to go back to a measly little date where we sit on opposite sides of a prison cell and talk!”

“Why not?” Zoraya asked. “Is there a law I’m not familiar with? Something about the necessity for romantic relationships to progress in a linear fashion? Are we going to get in trouble with the relationship police? Because if so, I’d be happy to take them on, just as soon as I’m done with the High Court.”

The laugh burst out of him, too powerful to hold in. So powerful, in fact, it bordered on a guffaw, spittle flying and fangs sticking out of his mouth. A worthy price to pay for her smile, a ray of sunshine through the metal bars.

“We make our own rules, Astarion,” Zoraya said. “At least when it comes to this.” She gathered the empty ink wells, packing them into her bag. “Tomorrow evening, same time?”

Astarion grinned. “I shall clear my very busy schedule, darling.”

Chapter Text

After that, Zoraya came to visit him every day.

It became a nice little routine. During the day, she’d work on the case with Shadowheart and Quelenna’s lawyers, and then, after dark, she’d take a coach to Wyrm’s Rock. By that point, she was often tired, the ruthless rhythm of nightly court hearings, press conferences, and general anxiety taking its toll. But it never seemed to matter the moment that heavy metal door swung open, and she was met with the sight of her boyfriend, reclining comfortably in a sea of blankets and pillows, an ink well by his side and a romance novel in hand.

“Hello, my dear,” Astarion would say, his crimson eyes gleaming in the soft glow of the enchanted fairy lights she’d hung all along the ceiling. Tiny specks of light in the dark, much like stars in the night sky. “How was your day?”

And just like that, she felt the weight lift off her shoulders. The weariness draining out of her bones, replaced by a tender, fuzzy feeling that seemed to bloom in her chest and then sprawl outward. Claim every part of her until she felt so light, she barely remembered the sting in her eyes, the ache in her lower back, courtesy of all those hours bent over textbooks.

Because he was worth it.

He was always worth it.

“I’m good,” Zoraya said, aware of the enormous smile that was spreading on her face as she took out her blanket and settled down in her usual spot. “What about you? Any juicy prison gossip?”

“Well.” Astarion tossed aside his book and set about tugging his pillows closer to the bars, fussily fluffing them into shape. “It seems that my dear friend Archie finally wrapped his sorry little mind around the fact that even vampires need their chamber pots emptied on a regular basis. And all it took was accidentally hurling the damned thing at him — who would have known?”

“That would explain why the guards were in such a sour mood when I came in.”

“Ugh, you know how it is. Not everyone is cut out for the service industry.” He gave the topmost pillow one more pat, then sank back into his reassembled creation with a satisfied sigh.

Zoraya just barely managed to hold back a chuckle. Only Astarion Ancunín could lounge in a prison cell with all the attitude of a king in his throne room.

To be fair, he was probably the most well-dressed prisoner in the history of Baldur’s Gate. Over the course of the past week or so, she’d brought an entire chest full of his old clothes, silks, and velvet and soft wool sweaters. One of the guards kept it laundered and pressed in exchange for a little coin on the side, taking away any empty ink wells on his way out. Together with the books and the blankets and the fairy lights, it made for pretty comfortable living arrangements down here.

Zoraya hadn’t meant for things to get so out of hand. There was no telling what Cazador might do if he found out his spawn was being fed and pampered behind his back. Sure, his visits now had to be approved 24 hours in advance, which gave them time to hide away the most incriminating evidence and have Astarion affect an air of misery and despair — which, admittedly, he was rather good at. But it was still a risk, an entirely avoidable one.

She just couldn’t help herself because it made her so gods dammed happy to see him like this. Sprawled out on his makeshift pillow throne with all the lazy indulgence of a cat that had just gone to unspeakable lengths to reach peak levels of comfort — reveling in it like this was something he deserved, something that ought to happen to him, just as he would have before the transformation. Reclaiming that part of himself like he’d never had to hide it at all, more and more of his attitude returning with each day.

He sounded more like himself, too. His voice growing surer, steadier, regaining some of its old playfulness. The lisp fading away bit by bit as he got better at speaking around his fangs. He was still pale, of course, but thanks to the generous ink supply, his skin looked less — well, dead, for lack of a better word. His cheekbones didn’t seem to jut out quite as much anymore, and he was less jumpy, his crimson eyes less likely to wander at the smallest sound, trying to identify potential threats.

Tonight, he seemed a little distracted though. His face turned away from her, his slender fingers picking at the blankets, unraveling a whole row of stitches. The locket she’d given him was dangling from his neck, clinking against the gold buttons of his doublet in the course of his fidgeting.

“Ira says Hi,” Zoraya said, trying to keep things light. “She and Dammon are working on getting her lamp patented. I’d love to help, but intellectual property really isn’t my forte. Oh, and Shadowheart and Lae’zel are talking about moving in together. I mean, mostly they’re yelling at each other about wallpaper and kitchen appliances, but … they seem happy?”

“I would pay good coin for a peek into their domestic lives, that’s for certain,” Astarion snorted.

Then he fell silent again.

Zoraya crossed and recrossed her legs, wrecking her brain for something more to say. Something fun, something casual, something to drag him out of whatever dark hole he’d fallen into. Unfortunately, her everyday life didn’t exactly offer a wealth of fun little anecdotes these days.

She was just about to resort to some nonsensical story Karlach had told her on the coach ride here — something about teddy bears and fireworks and talking raccoons in a circus — when Astarion’s head snapped up, his lips parting as if to say something. Whatever it was, it got lost in the wave of shocked outrage that claimed his features as soon as he looked at her properly.

“Gods,” he breathed. “You look dreadful, darling.”

Zoraya winced and touched a hand to her hair, knowing it was greasy and kept slipping out of her bun, now that she no longer bothered braiding it. A practical decision, born from the realization that the fifteen minutes she usually spent on her hair were fifteen minutes she could instead devote to her trial preparations.

There had been lots of practical decisions like that recently.

But she didn’t want him to worry about her. In fact, she didn’t want him to worry about anything. She wanted to take all his problems and make them disappear, conjure them away like a stage magician with a bunny in a big, round hat. But since that was impossible, and she was shit at magic, she settled for a shrug and a smile.

“It’s just the trial,” she explained. “I have another hearing later tonight.”

“Still not my turn, I take it?” Astarion asked.

Zoraya shook her head. “Raphael is rather insistent to have all his witnesses testify back-to-back, so your testimony has been postponed. It makes sense, I guess, seeing how most of his witnesses are spawn. He wants them to go in a row, to really hammer in the image of the perfect, happy family. I wish I could bring them blood, but …”

“… it might be a little suspicious if every vampire spawn in the city suddenly found themselves drowning in stationery supplies?” Astarion’s tone was light, but she saw him reach for the ink well at his side. One pale finger gliding along the smooth glass rim as if making sure it was still there.

“So,” he said, “what do you do with these uncooperative witnesses?”

“Try to get them to crack. Emphasis on the try, mind you.” Zoraya sighed. “Shadowheart and I tried a couple different strategies to get them to talk, but no luck so far. At some point, they just freeze up and refuse to speak altogether. And then Raphael comes in with a sob story about how traumatizing it is for them to be away from their lord and master.”

“I see.” Astarion swirled the leftover blood in his jar, a wistful look in his eyes.

“It’s okay!” she assured him. “All I have to do is hold down the fort until it’s time for your testimony. And then you’ll tell them the truth and everyone will know what Cazador has done.”

“And then?” he asked, a sudden note of sharpness in his voice. “What happens then?”

“We, uh … go home?” Zoraya swallowed, sweat prickling in the back of her neck. Where in the Hells was this coming from? “If you want, of course. I understand if you’d rather have some time for yourself. I can always—”

“And what will we do there?” Astarion demanded, bolting upright, crimson eyes boring into her. “I mean, how are you picturing this in your head? Let’s say you somehow win the trial and I get back my freedom, what happens next? Do you think they’ll return my job as magistrate to me, a vicious, bloodthirsty monster? Because I can tell you, that won’t go down well in the Elven community. Not to mention the practical aspects! I mean, is everyone in the entire city going to work around the challenges of having a magistrate who can no longer go out into the sun? Are they going to adjust my hours? Are midnight hearings going to be a specialty of the Baldurian legal system?”

Zoraya opened her mouth, trying to answer any one of those questions, but he simply barreled past her.

“And then there’s Cazador! The immortal vampire lord I am bound to for literally all of eternity! Am I going to live in constant fear of him coming back to claim me as his? What kind of existence do you think that is, sticking to the shadows, always looking over my shoulder, knowing he’s out there?”

Oh, boy, Zoraya thought. So that’s what the gloomy face was about. He’d been down here all day long, taking a page out of his master’s book and torturing himself with all the What ifs and But thens she hadn’t even had a chance to think about just yet.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said when he finally paused to take a breath.

“How?” Astarion hissed, hands flying up, nearly knocking over the ink well. “How will we figure it out with my vampiric master looming over my head and a single ray of sunlight threatening to burn me to a crisp?”

“We’ll … get blinds!”

“Blinds? I’m asking how you plan to reintegrate a vampire into society, and you say blinds?”

“Well, we have to start somewhere!” Zoraya said. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, okay? I don’t have this perfect ten-step plan how to fix all your problems. I don’t even have a proper plan how to beat Raphael and win this case — the bastard is really fucking slick, and I don’t just mean his hair. But you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care how tired I am or how long it’s been since I’ve had a meal that wasn’t Lae’zel’s noodle soup.  Because a few weeks ago I was at your funeral, Astarion! I thought I’d lost you forever, that they’d gone ahead and buried you, and I wasn’t even there to see it because I had to be carried out of the chapel for making a scene. And now you’re back and … don’t you understand what a gift that is? To be able to come down here and see you, talk to you whenever I want to? Do you really think I care about the sun when the universe gave me back the man I love?” She laughed, a shaky, wet, little sound. Tears were prickling in the corner of her eyes, but she blinked them away because this wasn’t about her.

It was about him. He was the one who’d been through the Hells and back, and he needed her. Needed her strong, positive, capable.

“I don’t know if they’ll give you back your job,” she said. “Or if that’s even something you would want. But I promise, whatever happens after the case, we’ll figure it out together. I’ll be there with you, every step of the way. We’ll have Minsc teach you how to hunt for food, and we’ll cover every window in the whole damn house, and if you decide you still want to run for the Council of Four, I’m sure we’ll find a way to spin your condition into some kind of minority representation angle.”

Something loosened in his face, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “Have I mentioned how attractive you are when you’re exploiting legal statutes in my name, darling?”

“Must have gotten lost under all the jabs at my dreadful appearance.” She grinned and held out her hand, palm turned upward in silent invitation.

One he didn’t hesitate to follow, settling back into his makeshift pillow throne as he reached through the metal bars. “My apologies, love,” Astarion said, taking her hand in his. Their fingers threading together, thumbs brushing in this new-yet-familiar routine. “I know it’s in my best interest to remain in your good grace, seeing how, as my advocate, you’re quite literally in charge of my whole entire future.”

It was the only touch they were able to share, and Zoraya still wasn’t used to the feel of it. His hands rough where they used to be soft, cool where they used to be warm, even now that he was fed. There was so much she didn’t know about him. About his time at the Szarr estate, yes, but even before that. All the wicked ways in which Cazador had gotten his claws in him, planting the seeds for his despicable plan. Some of it might take him years to open up about. Other things he might never want to share with her — and that was alright.

He was here.

He was hers.

Nothing else mattered.

“You know, I’ve never looked at it that way before,” Astarion said after a little while. “Whether I would actually want to return to my position as magistrate. It was never my choice; neither was it my passion. And as for the Council of Four …” He trailed off, his expression unreadable.

“They’re talking about your proposal,” Zoraya said. “The one for the Ancunín Highway.” With her free hand, she reached into her bag, awkwardly fumbling for today’s newspaper. “People have been so upset with the council that they’re looking for ways to show some good will. I guess the idea is to have it coincide with rebuilding some of the old settlements out there. Sell it as a Forging a better future, keeping us all connected type of deal. It could be a decent opening for you to try and worm your way in. You’d have the support of the public, for sure.”

She held out the newspaper, but he just shook his head, making no move to grab it.

“Honestly, darling? I do appreciate things being named in my honor and all, but I think that when all this is over, I would very much like to spend some time away from the public eye.”

“Really?” Zoraya blinked, surprised, but not unpleasantly so. She’d simply assumed that he’d wanted to return to his aspirations as quickly as possible because — well, because he was Astarion. He’d always loved being the center of attention. Loved being in charge, having droves of people hang on his every word. A career in politics seemed like the logical choice for him. Not to mention, the satisfaction of winning the very position his mother had never managed to attain.

But when she looked at him now, she didn’t see the young man, hungry for power and recognition. She saw someone who was a little more … quiet. Reflective, almost serene. A man who didn’t feel the need to prove himself, to make a big splash wherever he went, just for the satisfaction of having heads turn his way.

“As much as I abhor the things Cazador has put me through, it made me realize something,” Astarion said. “Something rather vital, I’m afraid. I have spent a lot of time thinking myself better than others. Whatever it was I achieved — my university diplomas, my position as magistrate — I always thought that was something I was entitled to. Something I deserved to have. An Ancunín needs an education, after all; they need a job, and a respectable one at that. But I never thought about how those things came to be. How little work I had to do in comparison to someone like you who couldn’t afford to donate pianos and library wings. I would simply look at the outcome and conclude that whatever situation someone was in, surely, that was exactly what they deserved. It wasn’t until Cazador that I realized that …”

Zoraya swallowed, her hand instinctively tightening around his.

“There’s no such thing as being better. At least not the way I used to picture it. It’s not about rank or achievements or anything like that because, at the end of the day, we’re all the same. The Dukes on the council, the spawn lying through their teeth up there, so they might get a mouthful of putrid rat — they’re all just scrambling for survival, scrambling for a chance to stay in power. It’s a natural reaction. It’s what most of us would do if we’re thrown into a situation where we feel like we have no choice. It doesn’t mean we’re terrible people, not to the extent of someone like Cazador. It simply means we’re people. Normal. Average. It takes a very special someone to break the mold and do what’s right, no matter how difficult it might be. Something like, say, break into a vampire’s house and then challenge the legal state of an entire city.” Astarion smiled and squeezed her hand, causing her stomach to flutter like a sail in the wind. “I think perhaps those are the ones that should be in charge of right and wrong. Not me. I have other talents, talents that I’m sure will come in handy one way or another. Just as soon as I get out of here.”

“Wow,” Zoraya said.

It was everything she was able to say for what felt like several minutes. What was there left to say, after all? All the things she’d ever hoped he might one day understand, all the things she’d fought to make him see — here they were. All the more impressive because he’d gotten there all by himself.

Gods below.

It was like falling in love all over again.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re disappointed, darling?” Astarion chuckled, but she could hear the cracks around the edges. “Did you have your heart set on being a Duke’s girlfriend, after all?”

“N-no,” she blurted, forcing herself to speak against the lump in her throat. “It’s just that … I’m proud of you. Really, really proud.”

His mouth fell open, and she smiled, a smile so large, she fully expected her facial muscles to be sore in the morning.

And then, following a sudden impulse, she brought their intertwined hands to her face, her eyes flicking up to his in silent question before she brushed her lips against the back of his hand. His skin was smooth and cool to the touch, but she could see the warmth rush into his face. A sudden swell of color working its way across his cheeks and then all the way into the tips of his ears, giving rise to the faintest suggestion of a blush.

He was blushing — gods, he was blushing with the blood she’d brought him. His face so vibrant and unmistakably alive; no one in the world would have thought twice about whether or not this man deserved to be recognized as a person.

“That is, uh …” Astarion said, fumbling for words and coming up decidedly empty. “Well, let’s just say I’m glad it’s not what they might call a dealbreaker.”

He cleared his throat and sank back into the pillows. “My mother will be furious, of course. But then, that’s hardly the first time that happened.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Zoraya said. “You might be underestimating her.”

“So, the two of you have been bonding in my absence?” He smirked, fangs flashing in a way she was beginning to find oddly endearing. “I must admit, I am rather curious about that funeral of mine. Just how tacky was the decor? And how in the world did you manage to get yourself thrown out of a chapel, darling?”

“Long story.”

“How fortunate that I happen to have a lot of time on my hands these days.”

That night was the very first time Zoraya Naelgrath was late for a hearing.

She was thoroughly embarrassed, of course, muttering apologies to Shadowheart as she slid into her spot at the counsel table. But really, her presence was mostly perfunctory these days.

Day after day, Raphael brought in his witnesses, a never-ending parade of spawn who sang the praises of their lord and master all while very clearly shaking with hunger. Zoraya could easily identify the signs by now. That haunted, weary look in their eyes, the way they sat with their hands flat on the table and their backs rod-straight like school children, reciting lines that sounded eerily similar to one another. The words so at odds with their usual speech patterns, they often came out bent and twisted, like drunk actors in a third-rate stage play.

That’s what bothered her most of all: how no one else seemed to bat an eye at what was very obviously witness tampering. Even now, Gale and the other High Judges simply sat there, listening with various degrees of attentiveness as Boris Varga fumbled his way through the umpteenth description of an exceedingly happy, consensual vampire transformation.

“Lord Szarr offered us shelter after our clan leader, Tatiana Morozova, turned into a political extremist,” Boris was saying, his brow furrowed with concentration. “My wife and I accepted the offer, grateful for a chance not to be dragged into the mess Tatiana seems to have stirred up.”

“How fortunate for the two of you,” Raphael drawled. “And how would you describe your life at the Szarr estate?”

“It’s very … orderly,” Boris said. “Lord Szarr provides a lot of structure for us. Rules for how we ought to behave in the house, chores we have to complete — nothing too strenuous, of course — and rewards for a job well done.”

“Was it one of your so-called chores to attack Astarion and me this past summer?” Zoraya asked as soon as it was her turn. “You know, the night you came at us with a dagger and got yourself thrown into prison, thanks to our bodyguard’s swift interference?”

Boris’ haggard face went very still. “I’m afraid I don’t remember anything like that.”

“Then how come your name is listed on the prison records? Exhibit 7, please!” Zoraya gestured for the court attendant to hand the documents over to the High Judges. “As you can see, Your Honor, I identified Boris Varga the night of the attack right as he was brought into Wyrm’s Rock. When I went to question him a few days later, I was told he had died from an unfortunate accident, his body already removed from the premises. Obviously, this is a trick employed by Lord Szarr to cover the fact that he uses his spawn as assassins.”

“Objection: Conjecture,” Raphael said. “The only person who claims to have identified the attacker was Miss Naelgrath herself. Also, if you’d be so kind as to check the prison records, you’ll find that the culprit’s eye color is listed as blue — which I believe we can all agree does not apply to dear Boris.”

“His eyes were red!” Zoraya protested, perhaps a tad too sharply. “Someone must have tampered with the records! Probably the same person who smuggled him out of prison and made up that ridiculous story about how he choked on stew and—”

Shadowheart’s elbow dug into her side, the look in her green eyes telling Zoraya to sit her ass down and take a breath or two.

Zoraya complied, though she did it with gritted teeth.

Raphael, meanwhile, heaved a sigh. “Your Honor, it is perfectly understandable that Miss Naelgrath would have trouble remembering the details, given the state of distress she was in after such a violent attack on her life. That’s precisely why we have records: to help us separate facts from fiction.”

Zoraya pictured herself hurling an ink well at him. Huge, black blots running down the length of his stupidly well-tailored suit.

“What other chores do you do for Lord Szarr?” she asked, forcing her attention back to Boris. “Apart from attacking civilians on the street, I mean?”

“Objection, Your Honor—”

“Redacted.” Zoraya smiled, a swell of petty satisfaction in her chest. “Let us move on to something else, Mister Varga. Your eating habits, perhaps.” She rose from her chair and rounded the counsel table, her gaze trained on him all the while. “How hungry would you say you are right now?”

“Not at all,” Boris said — not a beat of hesitation. The answer shooting out of him like he was a machine, pulled by levers and steam. “Our master takes good care of us. He always makes sure we’re fed.”

“So, if your master happened to offer you blood right now …?”

This did not seem to be part of Boris’ script. “I … don’t think I could,” he stammered. “I’m so full from my last meal, you see …”

“How odd,” Zoraya said, frowning, “when, according to the leading experts in vampirism, it is impossible for a vampire spawn to experience true satiety, no matter how much they drink. Just as it is impossible for them to disobey a direct order from their master. But you say that is not the case. That everything you do for Lord Szarr is entirely voluntary. If that’s true, then surely, there have been times when you told him no?”

Boris flinched back, his eyes widening with terror at the very idea. He glanced in Raphael’s direction, then nodded his head frantically. “Yes, of course, I have!”

Zoraya came a step closer, hands placed firmly on her hips. “Would you recount one of those occasions for us, please?”

“I …” He was biting the inside of his mouth, his fingers drumming a nervous staccato against the table. “Once, when I was told to, er, take out the trash, I said something like …” Another pause. Another glance. Then, with a terribly uncomfortable grimace, he ventured, “No, not now?”

Oh, yes.

Zoraya felt the opening in front of her. Saw it on the faces of several High Judges, most notably Gale. Gone were the looks of poorly concealed boredom because this — this right here — finally went to the core of the trial.

The question wasn’t whether Cazador was a cruel bastard who relished in torturing and exploiting his spawn. It was whether they had a right to protection from said torture. Whether they were still people in the eyes of the law — people with agency and compassion and everything else that made them worth protecting.

They had to see it, right? The way Boris kept wringing his hands, shoulders hunched up around his ears. This was a man who was terrified. A man who needed protection more than anything else.

Zoraya hated being the one to corner him like that, but she knew she had to press on. “And was there ever an occasion where you flat-out refused to do something for Lord Szarr?” she asked, taking another step toward him.

“Oh, I would never—”

“But you stated before that he doesn’t use compulsion to order you around, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then surely, in the months you’ve spent with him, there must have been an occasion when he asked you do to something you did not feel like doing?”

She was right in front of the stand now, looming over Boris in her high heels. Forcing him to meet her steely gaze, putting everything she had into the scary lawyer performance because — gods, if she could only make him crack! If she could make him break down in tears and openly talk about what he was going through, then …

“Your Honor, if I may?” Raphael’s voice was outrageously pleasant, his steps so light, Zoraya hadn’t even heard his approach. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a sympathetic smile plastered to his lips. “Clearly, Exhibit F is overwhelmed with a question requiring quite so much … independent thought. Not something that comes naturally to vampire spawn, I’m afraid. They require their lord’s guidance to make very basic decisions — why, otherwise, they’d be simply lost. Like a ship at sea, sailing without compass or map. Boris is happy to abide by his master’s rules, so much so that the idea of refusing him has very likely never crossed his mind. It isn’t in a spawn’s nature. One more hallmark of their existence, demonstrating that they are in fact not people.”

Oh, no, you didn’t!

Zoraya whirled, rage seething up inside of her. “How about you stop speaking for the witness and simply take a look at the man?” She gestured at Boris, who ducked his head reflexively. “He’s obviously malnourished. Tense. Agitated. Scared out of his mind. He rattles off the same lines as all the other spawn before him, using the exact same phrases, like they’re all starring in some sort of sock puppet theater. Are we really going to pretend we don’t know who’s the one pulling the strings?”

She glared at Cazador, seated there at the counsel table with his cold, dead features forming a look of carefully removed interest. Like he was nothing more than a spectator. Like he wasn’t the one who had orchestrated all of this, tormenting all of these people, using their hunger to control them.

“Miss Naelgrath, even you must admit that this is far from the most obvious explanation as to why all nine spawn have come here with very similar descriptions regarding their home life,” Raphael said, impatience coloring his tone.

He stepped in front of the assembled High Judges, throwing out both arms in one of his over-the-top sweeping gestures. “Your Honor, let us recall Ozzam’s Razor. A fundamental principle of legal philosophy which posits that when regarding two competing explanations for the same phenomenon, it is generally the simplest, most elegant account that leads us closest to the truth. I ask you then, honorable High Judges, isn’t it far more likely that the testimonies we’ve heard are similar to one another simply because they’re based on experiences shared within a family? Must we really indulge Miss Naelgrath’s ridiculous and entirely baseless theories when simpler, more straightforward explanations are at hand? She’s trying to paint my client as this cruel, manipulative monster who withholds food from his children to influence their testimony, but what evidence has she brought forward in support of her theory?”

He held out his hand, listing them off finger by finger. “A gaudy image, created from the depths of her own tortured mind. Stories that don’t fit together and witnesses who keep contradicting her — all while that very costly anti-compulsion field is active, I might add. That’s it. That is everything she’s been able to produce to substantiate her preposterous claims. I believe it’s time we remind ourselves that the purpose of a court of law is to identify facts, not to indulge the ravings of a madwoman. Protect the citizens of Baldur’s Gate, including my client’s family that was so tragically separated in the course of this trial. Let us reunite them in the safety of their home and hope that their bond will aid them in weathering the trauma.”

“I will show you trauma,” Zoraya spat.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the ideal choice of words. The verbal equivalent of a mouse thrashing about in a trap, screeching and struggling uselessly.

That’s what she was. That’s what she’d let him do to her — trap her. Lead her here, witness by witness, building up his case, while she rested everything on a single testimony.

When Raphael had first suggested they postpone Astarion’s turn, Shadowheart had shaken her head and muttered something like No fucking way under her breath. But then Raphael had mentioned the “regrettable state” the spawn had been in during their visit. Assuring her that, really, it wouldn’t be a problem to start with a few of his siblings instead, giving him time to recover from his “mysterious illness”.

And Zoraya should have known it was a trick, but it appealed to her love for Astarion. After all, why shouldn’t he get to have a few more days to recover from the starvation Cazador had put him through? Sate his hunger as often as he pleased and then face the High Court at full strength? And so she didn’t really protest when Raphael kept messing with the witness list. Moving more and more of his own witnesses in front of Astarion, arguing how their testimonies were intricately related to one another and could not possibly be separated. Piece by piece, laying out his trap until, finally, it came crashing down right here, right now.

“Miss Naelgrath, please!” High Judge Nerennos chastised her, his voice thundering with outrage. “You will address this courtroom with the dignity it deserves.”

Dignity. She almost laughed at that. There was no dignity in any of this. In dragging poor Boris out here and forcing him to defend his own abuser, stumbling over his own tongue in an attempt at securing his next meal.

Only this time, Cazador was not the only one to blame.

Zoraya did what she could for the rest of the hearing, but the damage was done. It was obvious in the way the High Judges looked at her, their gazes lingering on her messy bun, her wrinkled blouse. She could picture all too well what they were thinking. What sorts of conclusions they were drawing. They were familiar patterns, after all, carved into their minds by centuries of repetition.

The crazy Gur woman.

The innocent family.

The honorable nobleman.

By the end of the hearing, they were reverberating in her own head, a vicious chorus of mockery and self-loathing.

Shadowheart wanted to talk to her, but Zoraya couldn’t bring herself to face her. She mumbled something about needing the bathroom or a healer or gods-knew-what came out of her mouth at that point, then disappeared into the crowd of visitors.

She wasn’t sure how long she wandered the ancient corridors of Wyrm’s Rock, nothing but the clicking of her heels on the old hardwood floors for company. She did the things people usually said to do in these types of situations, various combinations of breathing and counting and unclenching certain muscle groups.

Nothing helped.

She simply waited, heart hammering and ribs pinching into her lungs, until she was reasonably certain she could steal out of the building without getting swarmed by journalists. She made for one of the little side exits, keeping her chin down and a hand inside her bag, ready for any excuse to beat an overly insistent reporter over the head.

Maybe that was why she was a little quick to strike out with her dagger when the door next to her suddenly swung open, revealing a figure clad all in black, an arm reaching out to pull her inside — then again, maybe it was a perfectly reasonable reaction; she really was in no state to tell.

In any case, Gale Dekarios stumbled backward with a muffled cry of terror. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, both hands flying up in surrender. “My apologies for startling you! I didn’t know how else to approach you, what with the …”

Conflict of interest, Zoraya’s mind filled in as she exhaled what was probably the deepest breath she’d taken in well over an hour.

“You could have sent a letter,” she said, sheathing her blade and studying the High Judge before her. Gale had changed out of his purple robes and donned what she could only assume was his attempt at an inconspicuous outfit. It was black and baggy and had a hood that hung into his face rather dramatically.

“Far too risky,” he said. “Please, come in.”

She followed him into a meeting room of sorts and Gale took great care to look around as he closed the door, making sure no one had seen them.

“Listen, Zoraya,” he said. “I realize this is very untoward and in violation of several court protocols, but I must tell you: Things are not going well in there.”

“Thanks. I really didn’t notice.”

“This is not the time for sarcasm!” he chided. “There have been a number of very serious discussions among the High Judges. Larkin and a few others are pushing to cancel the remaining hearings. They argue it’s a waste of public funds and resources to drag out a case so lacking in evidence. Nothing but an excuse for their own vested interests, of course, but it is rather effective. My self and a few others have been pushing back, trying to give you more time. But the High Court of Baldur’s Gate is a democracy, and there was only so much we could accomplish.”

“What does that mean?” Zoraya breathed, an invisible hand closing around her neck.

Gale’s eyes were full of empathy. “Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate will have one final hearing, tomorrow evening at the usual time. After that, the High Court will make its decision. There should be a notification letter on your desk when you get home, but I wanted to tell you that … I’m sorry, but there will be no more anti-compulsion field present. It was deemed an unnecessary expense, putting needless strain on taxpayers.”

“Unnecessary?” The word sounded absurd in her own ears.

“Well, Raphael has made some convincing points today, and Larkin and his gang—”

“I’ll pay for it myself!” she cut in, hands balling into fists. “I’ll pay out of pocket, right now, right here!”

“That’s not how it works, Zoraya,” Gale said. “Courtroom tools need official approval and yours has just been revoked. You cannot buy your way around that.”

“But he can! How come people like Cazador Szarr get to buy their way wherever the Hells they please, but I can’t even … I can’t even …” Zoraya felt the sob wrenching its way up her throat. Heat rising behind her eyes, threatening to break through.

No way. No fucking way was she going to cry in front of High Judge Dekarios.

“I know it isn’t fair,” he said, his hand briefly closing over her shoulder. “I know you’re right. Many of us do. We know that there’s a whole lot of make-believe and buffoonery in that courtroom, even if you cannot prove it. That Cazador Szarr is a monster and that lawyer of his a full-on devil if I’ve ever seen one. But we cannot vote in your favor unless you give us a reason for it. I wanted to let you know ahead of time, so you could prepare accordingly.”

He turned to leave, his kind, broad face disappearing under the hood when he added, “You and I, we have to hold up the standards of justice, even if people like Szarr stomp all over it. If we fail to do that, everything collapses.”

Chapter Text

“You alright, soldier?” Karlach asked when they reached Astarion’s house.

She’d been a real trooper all night long. Waiting for Zoraya in front of Wyrm’s Rock, not even mentioning the hearing or the flood of journalists that must have pestered her in the meantime — just opening the coach door with that adorable little half bow she considered part of her bodyguard duties, ready to take her home.

It was late by now, dawn mere hours away. Still, Karlach seemed wide awake, her bright eyes set on Zoraya as she fidgeted with her armor. “If there’s something you need, I could always …”

“Thank you.” Zoraya smiled, the edges painfully tight around her mouth. “But I think I just want to be alone.”

“Gotcha. Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be out here until the morning shift comes around!” Karlach gave her a slap on the shoulder, good-natured, but jaw-rattling, then took up her post next to the front door.

Zoraya made a mental note to bring her a cup of hot tea — just as soon as she was done crying.

She let the smile slip off her face the moment she stepped into the dark, empty hallway. The door fell shut behind her with a merciful thud, and Zoraya sank against it with her bag clutched to her chest, closing her eyes and waiting for the tears to flow. For her knees to buckle, sobs wrenching from her throat until she was down on the floor in a perfect heap of despair. That’s what people did, right? They cried and wailed and wallowed, and then they moved past it. Pulled themselves together and did what needed to be done.

Her body, however, did not seem to have received the memo.

Well, shit.

Zoraya kicked off her pumps, toppling over the whole shoe rack in the process. She was debating whether to pick it up or land a few more kicks when she noticed a flicker of light from the living room. There was a faint crackling noise as well, like a set of logs burning away happily in Astarion’s once-abandoned fireplace.

Her first instinct was to go get Karlach. But then, what sort of burglar would light themselves a fire? Make sure they were nice and comfortable while they stole her prized fountain pen collection?

Zoraya sighed. “Look, Shadowheart, I’m sorry for taking off like that, but …”

Her feet froze on the threshold. Her mouth hung open, her brain stuttering, trying to process the familiar silhouette that sat stretched-out on her couch, a purring Objection in their lap.

“Mother?” she finally managed. “What in the gods’ names are you doing here?”

“Visiting my daughter,” Nadya said. Her smile was warm and crooked in the firelight, her hand running along the length of Objection’s back, causing him to dig his paws into the thick fabric of her dress with a positively domestic sound of contentment. “I haven’t seen you since you moved me into your old house.”

“It’s two in the morning, and the door was locked.”

“Yes,” Nadya agreed sagely. “Yes, it was.”

Zoraya huffed out a breath, knowing better than to argue with this. She stepped behind the kitchen counter, shooting Objection a reproachful look as she did so, but he did not seem to notice. He was too busy angling his head this way and that, allowing Nadya to reach all of his most scratch-worthy spots.

Traitor.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” Zoraya muttered, rifling through the kitchen cupboards in search of a fortifying snack. “It’s just that—”

“You never told me about Astarion,” Nadya said. “Or your trial, for that matter.” Her voice was perfectly calm. Not an accusation so much as an observation of facts, but it made Zoraya’s teeth clench all the same.

“Well, I’ve been busy!” she snapped, yanking out a block of hard cheese and slamming it onto the counter. She hacked at it with a kitchen knife until she was left with a pile of irregularly-shaped cheese cubes, added a handful of pickled onions and a thick slice of bread, and then began to eat right there at the counter.

She hadn’t eaten since lunch, so if she had to deal with her mother breaking into her home, the least she could do was make sure she had a full stomach.

Nadya didn’t respond right away. Nothing but the crackling of firewood and Objection’s purring to disturb the silence until she said, “You’ve always been busy, Zoraya. Ever since you were a little girl. Always reading, always studying. Doing all these extra things in your free time, so you’d have better chances of getting into a good school. Like those tournaments where you argue with someone in a room full of people? And then there’s a jury that decides who won?”

It’s called a mock trial, Zoraya thought, licking pickle juice off her thumb. And you never bothered to show up for any of them.

“I’ve always admired that in you,” Nadya said, her dark eyes resting on the blissed-out cat in her lap. “The way you always knew exactly what you wanted to do with your life and went after it, no questions asked. It’s made me very proud to be your mother.”

A cheese cube lodged itself in Zoraya’s throat, sending her into a violent coughing fit. Hands flying to the kitchen counter in search of support, and then she hung there, wheezing and retching, until it finally came back up. She stared at the buttery yellow splash on the marble counter, sucking shaky breaths into her lungs.

Gone was her appetite. Gone was pretty much everything, save for a pulse of red-hot anger.

“Why in the Hells are you here?” she asked, pushing herself up to her full height and glaring down at her mother. “Did you stumble over a newspaper on your way to the mushroom patch — is that it? You saw one of those articles about how I’m losing my mind and ruining my career, and now you feel sorry for me?”

“I came to tell you that I’m proud of you,” Nadya said, her mouth a gentle line as she met her daughter’s gaze. “No matter whether you win or not.”

“Well, you’ve picked an awfully odd time for that, mother, because I’m about to lose my boyfriend to a sadistic maniac and destroy everything I’ve ever worked for!”

“Oh, Zoraya.” Nadya sighed, a very real sense of sadness seeping into her sun-kissed face. “I’m not proud of you for your trophies or your accomplishments. I’m proud of you because I have a daughter who does what’s right. A daughter who follows her beliefs, no matter how difficult it might be. That, more than anything else, makes me proud to be your mother.”

There was a lurch in Zoraya’s stomach, unrelated to the cheese. “You think I’m pathetic,” she hissed, hands curling into fists. “Risking it all for a man who never really loved me anyway. You think it makes me like you. That there’s some kind of kinship between us — a thread of fate binding us together or whatever bullshit esoteric way you like to picture it. But honestly, mother? Nothing could be further from the truth.”

She rounded the kitchen counter, eyes on her mother. “You see, I am not the one running after a man who randomly got me pregnant and then spent the next thirty-odd years ignoring me. I am not the one trying to bribe him into loving me, the way you tried to bribe my father by shoving me his way the moment he showed the tiniest bit of interest in me. There is nothing at all that we have in common. So please, for the love of god, spare me your sympathy and get off my couch!”

The words hung in the air like the edge of a guillotine, ready to sever the tattered bonds between her and her mother, once and for all. And maybe it was better this way. What did the two of them really have to say to each other, anyway?

Nadya’s hand stilled on Objection’s fur, her brows knitting together. “You think I gave you to your father as a way of luring him back to me?”

“Of course, you did!” Zoraya spat. “It’s obvious you’re still in love with him! Every year or two, you make sure the clan returns to Baldur’s Gate, just so you can see my father and pretend you still have a chance with him. Clinging on to him when everyone knows that all it ever was to him was an exotic little love affair!”

“Your father asked me to marry him more times than I could count.”

Thankfully, there was no more cheese around; else, Zoraya would have definitely choked on it. “What?”

Nadya sighed and lifted Objection off her lap, ignoring his disgruntled meow as she rose to her feet. “I never told you because, frankly, I didn’t think it was necessary. Your father is not a bad man, Zoraya, but he’s never understood me. Which is why it was never particularly difficult to tell him no when he asked me to come live with him at the Ancunín estate. Be a proper family, whatever that means. He thinks he loves me — and maybe he truly does; who knows. But he never quite managed to wrap his head around the idea that I enjoy living the way I do. That it’s not some sort of predicament, but a choice to live out in nature, everything I need strapped to my back.”

“But then why did you … leave me there?” Zoraya whispered, terrified by the crack in her voice.

“Oh, sweetie.” Her mother reached out for her, warm hands closing around Zoraya’s cheeks. “I didn’t do it to get rid of you. It’s just that … Look. Lavender may bloom beautifully on a rocky, wind-swept cliff, right? But put a maple tree there, and you can practically watch it wither away.”

“Why are you talking about plants?”

“That’s my point, exactly.” Nadya chuckled, a low, raspy sound not unlike the crackling firewood. “You and I, we’re so different. You never enjoyed traveling around with the clan. Other children would go out into the woods to play and gather supplies, but you were always happiest sitting in our tent with a book in your lap. You were barely old enough to walk when you’d read everything we had in camp. And then, when I took you to visit your father one day, you wouldn’t stop talking about how wonderful it was there. How they had an entire room full of books and a tutor who would come in to read from them, teaching you about history and numbers and the stars up in the sky. You learned about the concept of school, Zoraya, and you were so excited, you couldn’t sleep all night.”

Nadya smiled and pushed back a strand of Zoraya’s hair. “I could tell how happy you’d be there. How you were going to flourish there in a way you never could if I kept you with me. What kind of mother would I be if I withheld the things you love, just because I don’t relate to them?”

Zoraya pressed her lips together, trying to stop them from trembling. “So, when you came to visit every year …”

“I came to see you,” Nadya said. “It was always for you. I wanted to see you grow up, spend whatever time I could with you. I knew there wasn’t going to be a whole lot of space for me in your life, but … for me, it was always enough. Because you were where you were meant to be.”

Zoraya’s vision swam. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

And something seemed to snap inside of her at the admission because next thing she knew, she reached out her hands and sank into her mother’s arms like she hadn’t in many, many years.

Maybe not ever.

“I’m sorry,” Nadya said. Her arms were warm and tight around Zoraya’s shoulders, her hand stroking soothing patterns over the length of her back. “I meant to tell you, but you were always so grown-up. You didn’t want to be coddled or hugged or anything like that, not even as a child. Always talked like you were ten years older, like you had it all figured out.”

“I don’t,” Zoraya sniffed. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to turn this thing around. And I know Astarion’s counting on me, but I … I don’t think I can do it.”

“Of course, you can.”

Zoraya tried for a scoff, but it came out more like a hiccup. “You don’t understand. I’ve tried everything, but no matter what I do, they just pull another dirty trick out of their sleeve. They lie and manipulate in ways you can’t even imagine. And every time I think I found a way to expose them, Raphael somehow manages to weasel out of it. I’m trying to do this the right way, but I’m running out of ideas and—”

“Zoraya, listen to me.” Nadya’s voice was firm, her hands gentle as she stepped out of her daughter’s embrace, beckoning her to meet her eyes. “You’ve come very far, doing things the right way. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you, working your way up in the world all by yourself. Picking a path that was littered with prejudice and injustice and countering them with nothing but hard work and dedication. It’s amazing what you’ve managed to accomplish that way; it truly is. But perhaps it’s time you recognized that sometimes, it’s okay to compromise a little bit. Focus on the ends, rather than the means.”

Zoraya swallowed. The cogs in her head were turning noisily, pulling at dusty, old levers she’d never really used before. “You mean I should try to …?”

“Fight fire with fire, yes.” Nadya flashed her a grin. “You may be a lawyer, but you are also part Gur. And aren’t we known for our trickery?”

Before Zoraya could think of a way to respond to this, Objection wove his way in between the two of them. Pressing himself against her leg so as to remind her of his presence, his tail flicking impatiently. Zoraya reached down to pet him, but he leapt for the kitchen cabinet, pawing at the door that he knew contained his favorite fish treats.

“Now,” Nadya said, grabbing Zoraya’s apron off the hook and tying it over her dress. “I’m sure your cat isn’t the only one who’s hungry, so you are going to sit down and let me make a proper meal for you. And then, once you have something in your stomach, you will figure out a way to crush those bastards in court.”

The final day of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate began, as usual, with a flock of bloodthirsty journalists. They were crowding the steps in front of Wyrm’s Rock, a wall of readied notebooks and gleeful interest.

“Miss Naelgrath, what’s your strategy for today?”

“How do you plan on turning the tide in your favor?”

“Lord Szarr has implied that he considers suing you for defamation — How do you respond to such allegations?”

Usually, any one of these questions would have been enough to send Zoraya into a nervous spiral. Today, however, she responded with a laugh and a smile, barely even slowing her steps as she strode through the crowd.

“Lord Szarr can try whatever dirty tricks he likes,” she said. “I’m sure that in the end, justice will prevail.”

This resulted in another onslaught of questions, but Zoraya simply kept walking. It helped that she was holding on to Ira’s hand, the little girl in between her and Dammon acting as a sort of shield against even the most zealous of journalists.

Dammon had decided to join her for what he called emotional support reasons, but Zoraya was pretty sure he was just embarrassed that she’d run into him and Karlach during what she could only assume had been an impromptu late-night picnic in her front yard. There had been a blanket and a bottle of wine, candles and grapes and pretty little cream pies in a rather fancy-looking box. Zoraya had stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of it all, nearly spilling the tea she’d meant to bring Karlach to help her get through her night shift.

Dammon had been on his feet in an instant. Loudly assuring her that this was not what it looked like, he was not distracting Karlach from her work, and actually, he’d come to see Zoraya, and wasn’t it wonderful that she was still up.

The look on his face was so precious that Zoraya decided to let it slide — for the moment, at least.

Shadowheart had showed up a few hours later, a fresh loaf of bread in hand and a scowl on her face. “Just tell me this,” she’d said in lieu of the traditional Good Morning. “Do you have a plan for tonight?”

And when Zoraya, still in yesterday’s blouse, answered with a nod, Shadowheart pushed past her without a beat of hesitation. “Let’s get on with it then,” she said, slamming the bread onto the counter and pouring herself a cup of coffee.  “And just so we’re clear: Once this is over, you owe me a hefty bonus for leaving me alone with these vultures last night.”

Zoraya knew she was lucky — exceedingly lucky — to have such wonderful people by her side.

It filled her heart with lightness, making it easier to hold on to that wide, carefree smile as she stepped through the double doors, the screams of the journalists dying away behind her. Inside, it was eerily quiet, barely more than the shuffle of guards, patrolling around their usual rounds.

Zoraya turned to Ira, squeezing her hand. “You know what you have to do?”

Ira rolled her eyes with the existential scornfulness exclusive to thirteen-year-old girls. “Ye-hes,” she huffed. “I’m an artificer of considerable acclaim; I can manage a simple little job like that.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

“And don’t I know it,” Ira muttered as she scuttled off, disappearing behind a guard.

“Karlach and I will be in the first row,” Dammon promised. “If things go south, we’ll do what we can.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Zoraya said.

She gave him a quick hug, then watched as he and Karlach made their way to the courtroom, both of them wringing their hands as if these were entirely new appendages they’d only just purchased, and they hadn’t quite figured out what to do with them yet. Once this was over, Zoraya would need to have a serious conversation with them. One that involved smashing them together like oversized dolls and then grabbing Ira and babysitting her for the night.

Possibly several nights.

Shadowheart’s elbow nudged into her side. “Showtime?”

Zoraya took a deep breath and nodded. “Showtime.”

When Zoraya entered the courtroom, it was like stepping into one of her personal nightmares.

First of all, everyone was staring at her.

Second of all, not in a good way.

It was a very particular kind of stare. The shocked, concerned, but also very clearly gleeful stare reserved for things such as exotic animals, juicy marital disputes, and a woman going through a public breakdown.

Because that’s what this had to be, right? There was no other possible explanation for the fact that, after a decade of dressing precisely in accordance with even the most conservative standards of courtroom wardrobe, today was the day she’d gone ahead and chucked them all out the window.

Her hair was loose, three whole feet of it cascading down her shoulders in unbound waves. Ready to distract whatever unsuspecting onlookers hadn’t already been led astray by the sight of her collarbones, scandalously on display with the top buttons of her blouse undone, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. Even worse, the blouse was red. A shade so bright and unapologetic that — after years of wearing almost exclusively black and white — Zoraya’s visual system was sputtering in confusion whenever she looked down on herself.

But then, Astarion had always said she looked lovely in red.

“The final day of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate is now in session!”

The gavel struck down — a sound full of finality, an overwhelming sense of decisiveness in the air. For no matter how things were going to go, there would be a decision tonight. One that wouldn’t just determine Astarion’s fate, but that of vampire spawn all over the city.

“We will begin with the continuation of the previously interrupted cross-examination of Exhibit 2,” the courtroom attendant said. “The vampire spawn formerly known as Astarion Ancunín!”

Astarion was led into the courtroom in much the same way as last time. Two guards pulling him along, his hands shackled, his head bowed. At least, they’d forgone the muzzle and allowed him to wear his own clothes, a rich burgundy-colored doublet with velvet trousers to match, the gold locket dangling around his neck. Even so, the change in his demeanor was impossible to ignore.

He approached the witness stand slowly, awkwardly, dragging his feet as if he couldn’t quite muster the energy to lift them. His movements stiff and choppy where they were usually lithe and graceful. Like he was a machine in need of oiling, his muscles not working in tandem.

Or like he’s moving through pain, Zoraya thought, her jaw tightening in helpless anger.

She’d wanted to come by his cell to prep him for the hearing, but she’d been turned away by a set of rather snooty-looking guards who informed her that Lord Szarr had visitation rights for the entirety of the day. Clearly, somebody had been paid to do something, and Zoraya hated herself for the fact that she hadn’t seen it coming. But she didn’t have time to get to the bottom of it — not while she was also scrambling for last-minute changes to her already-last-minute plan.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“I do,” Astarion muttered. His crimson eyes were trained on some spot in the middle distance. A gaze that was unseeing, uncaring. Simply persevering.

The courtroom attendant didn’t seem to notice. “Miss Naelgrath may now begin her questioning.”

“Thank you,” Zoraya said, slowly rising to her feet.

She took her time crossing the distance between them, her heart growing heavier with each step. Whatever Cazador had done during his so-called visit, it hung over Astarion like an invisible weight. Crushing him down into his seat, forcing him to shrink in on himself until it looked like he was barely even there. Just one more spawn with his hands flat against the table, his shoulders somehow slumped as well as stiff. Like he was expecting a blow, but simultaneously resigned to taking it because what was the point of trying to resist the inevitable?

He refused to meet her eyes, even when she stood right next to him, her red blouse definitely in his field of vision. A command perhaps, or a coping mechanism. Either way, it felt like a cool, smooth rock, gliding down the length of her esophagus and settling at the base of her stomach.

“Hi,” Zoraya said.

Astarion’s hands flexed on the table, uncertain how to respond to this. She had to stifle the impulse to reach out for him, leaning her hip against the stand instead. Gently letting him know she was here, with him.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Good,” he said — way too quickly. And then, because Cazador must have drilled that one a little too deep, “I am happy and healthy. All I want is to go back to my master.”

There was something manic to the rhythm of his words. The way they spilled out of him like foam over the rim of an overly enthusiastically filled champagne flute. His body tensing under the force of it, muscles coiled tight like he was retching them out, every fiber contracting in protest.

Zoraya sighed. “I’m so sorry, Astarion,” she said. “I never wanted you to have to go through this ever again.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Raphael said. “She is not asking a question.”

“Sustained,” High Judge Nerennos agreed. “Miss Naelgrath, you either need to question the witness or yield the floor.”

Zoraya gave no indication as to whether or not she’d heard him. She simply sat there on the edge of the table, regarding Astarion like they were the only people in the room. “Do you remember the day I came to the Szarr estate, looking for you?”

“Yes,” he said, his teeth clenching around the word. “I was recovering from one of my hunger frenzies, so my master had to chain me to the wall — for my own safety, of course. I was neither injured nor tortured. I was perfectly healthy.”

“When I found you there, you told me to run away,” Zoraya said, a wistful smile flashing over her face. “You wanted me to go and save myself, leave you there to fend for yourself. You were so worried, weren’t you?”

“N-no! I simply had no interest in going with you.”

Zoraya ignored this. “You were so worried he was going to make you hurt me, weren’t you?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet. Like they were back in his cell, fairy lights across the ceiling and Sir Hopperson propped up on a stack of books. “Has he done that before? Made you hurt people against your will?”

“Objection!” Raphael snapped. “Those are all leading questions, Your Honor.”

“Objection sustained.” Nerennos was beginning to sound exasperated. “Miss Naelgrath, please refrain from using questions that can be answered with a simple yes or no.”

“Apologies, Your Honor.” Zoraya was quiet for a moment. Aware of the silence stretching out in the courtroom, yet doing nothing to dispel it.

She knew exactly the sorts of thoughts that were running through the honorable High Judges’ heads right now. Thoughts that began with her outfit and ended with her using her turn at cross-examination to revel in her unrequited feelings for her ex. Making up stories she couldn’t prove, her mind too tortured to distinguish between fact and fantasy.

It was what Raphael had primed them to do, his strategy all about questioning her sanity, making her out as the crazy ex-girlfriend. She was simply leaning into it. Giving them a little more material to work with.

A better lawyer might have found another way. One that didn’t require her to publicly humiliate herself or Astarion to speak in his tormentor’s defense, a prisoner in his own body. But if he could endure his part, she could certainly get through hers.

“Are there any further questions, Miss Naelgrath?” the courtroom attendant asked.

“Just one, if that’s alright.” Zoraya reached out a hand, placing it next to Astarion’s on the table. “Is Lord Szarr forcing you to say these things?”

“N-no!” he sputtered, a shrill note of panic in his voice. “Of course not!”

“And if he was, would you be able to tell me, what with the anti-compulsion field out of commission? Would you be able to say anything that paints him in a negative light?”

“Objection!” Raphael thundered. “Leading question, conjecture, and honestly, I fail to see why in the Hells we’re still entertaining any of this!”

Zoraya smiled and turned away. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

On her way back to the counsel table, she risked a glance at the gallery, finding dozens of journalists with their mouths open and pens working at full speed. She could tell what they were writing by the blend of shock and delight on their faces.

Naelgrath crumbled under the pressure of her first High Court case …   showing up in a state of complete disarray, her questions every bit as preposterous as her hair … history of mental instability in her tribe …

That was alright. They didn’t matter. What had her heart sink in her chest were the faces of Aquilan and Quelenna Ancunín, hidden away in the very back of the room, right next to the exit.

Zoraya hadn’t known they were coming. Least of all Quelenna who had always had an excuse for not being able to attend. Citing business appointments and social obligations, so she wouldn’t have to watch as the city decided what she already knew: that her son was lost, once and for all.

Here she was. Conquering her fears just in time to watch Zoraya flounder so badly, you really didn’t need a law degree to be able to realize.

Zoraya had to force herself to look away from them. To return to her spot at the counsel table, where Shadowheart was packing up her things. Shoving notebooks, pens and spare hair accessories into her bag, only to storm out of the courtroom in an exceedingly dramatic display of Fuck this shit; I’m out.

The door hung open behind her, but no one seemed to care. No one seemed to care about much of anything anymore.

“Opposing counsel?” Nerennos prompted, his fleshy chin resting against the knuckles of his hand as if he was having trouble keeping himself upright during what he clearly perceived to be a waste of his time.

“Oh, I just have a handful of questions, Your Honor,” Raphael said pleasantly.

He dove into a variation of the same questions he’d asked before — “Are you happy about the fact that all your rights have been stripped away from you?” and some-such nonsense — but Zoraya was only partly listening.

The majority of her was waiting.

Perched on the very edge of her chair with her knee tapping a nervous staccato against the underside of the table, her hands fiddling with the cap of her fountain pen, screwing and unscrewing it over and over again until finally — finally! — it was time to do what she’d pictured herself doing ever since she’d first decided to become an attorney.

Zoraya jumped to her feet.

Slammed down her hand.

Opened her mouth and yelled, “Objection!”

Of all the many ways Astarion would have expected this day to go to shambles, having Zoraya rush into the gallery in the middle of cross-examination, her dark, hip-length hair a veil of chaos as she ducked in between the seats of unsuspecting spectators, causing them to shriek and scramble out of her way, had not quite managed to make the list.

Then again, maybe that was on him. It had been a rather lengthy day.

“Miss Naelgrath!” Nerennos shouted, his ancient forehead creased with indignation. “You cannot simply say Objection without specifying what it is you’re objecting to! And for the love of god, get back to your seat!”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” Zoraya was panting for air as she squeezed her way through the narrow rows of benches, people lifting their feet and clutching their purses to their chests as she hurried past them. “It’s just … my cat!”

“Your cat?” Dekarios sat up, craning his neck so as to get a better look at the promised feline.

“She’s obviously lost it, Gale,” Larkin snorted. “There is no cat in here, just as there is no case. Just a crazy woman wasting everyone’s time with her—”

Something dark and unmistakably furry leapt out from the gallery, forcing Raphael to stumble out of the way so as to avoid a collision with his immaculate doublet. Objection landed right in the center of the well, his tail poised high in the air, one paw raised in a gesture of warrior-like triumph.

Astarion had seen many a dramatic entrance from Zoraya’s cat, but this one truly took the cake.

Before anyone could gather their wits, Objection zipped past the dumbstruck Raphael. A blur of black fur as he dashed across the length of the well, making straight for the witness stand and jumping onto the table with effortless grace, yellow eyes boring into Astarion like a predator locking in on its prey.

Astarion jerked back on instinct, but the handcuffs kept him tied to the table.

This is it, he thought just as those mighty muscles tensed under Objection’s ink-black coat, readying themselves for the inevitable attack.

Objection pounced and Astarion’s eyes scrunched shut. He could feel the sting of claws against his thighs, shredding through the velvet of his trousers. The inescapable weight settling down on his lap, the warmth of life and impending violence. And then, a low, rumbling noise, almost like a …

Like a purr.

It couldn’t be. Astarion had tried for months to earn himself the privilege of being allowed to pet this cat. He’d offered treats and toys and a good chunk of his wardrobe in an attempt to win Objection’s favor, garnering nothing but disdain and rejection instead. And yet, the very same cat was now seated firmly in his lap, rubbing its head against the buttons of Astarion’s doublet as it purred out its contentment.

Nobody in the courtroom, including Astarion, seemed to know what to do about this.

“I am so sorry, Your Honor!” Zoraya returned to the well, her cheeks flushed from her little chase around the gallery. “I had to bring my cat to court today because he wasn’t feeling well. I kept him in the room next door, but he must have managed to escape somehow. He’s very attached to Astarion, you see. Probably caught a whiff of his scent and came running over to greet him. You know what they say about animals being able to find their loved ones anywhere.”

Dekarios smiled and nodded, his thoughts undoubtedly racing to his own cat — or, well, Tressym.

“As heartwarming as this is,” Raphael said, one hand patting down the length of his doublet in search of cat hair, “could we please remove the cat before the spawn rips it to shreds?”

“I think that would be a mistake,” Zoraya said. “Your Honor, I would like to move for Objection — that’s the cat’s name — to be recognized as Exhibit 8 in my case.”

Nerennos heaved a sigh. “Miss Naelgrath, you’ve had weeks to procure your evidence ahead of time just like everyone else.”

“I think we should hear her out,” Dekarios said. There was a glint of excitement in his features, and Astarion couldn’t quite tell if it was due to the cat in his courtroom or this new development to the case. “New evidence turns up all the time. Besides, this is the final hearing, so we might as well use it.”

Nerennos looked like a man who was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “Opposing counsel, do you agree?”

“A cat as a witness?” Raphael scoffed. He glanced at Zoraya, red-faced and out of breath. Abandoned by her legal assistant and now, apparently, also by the last threads of common sense.

He smiled and sat down next to Cazador. “Well, I assume that is far from the most outlandish thing that has happened during the course of this trial.”

“Go ahead, Miss Naelgrath,” Nerennos relented. “But please, do try to get to the point. We are all in need of a good night’s sleep.”

“Thank you. I promise, it will only take a moment.”

Zoraya stepped in front of the honorable High Judges, threw her hair over her shoulder, and suddenly, she was a different person.

Gone was the dreamy, wistful look in her eyes. That frantic, almost manic energy that seemed to blur her all around the edges as though somehow, on some level she didn’t quite understand where she was or what exactly they were doing here. This version of Zoraya was sharp. Crisp. Focused. Making it perfectly obvious that whatever performance she’d put on so far had been nothing more than that: a performance. A means to an end, a way to maneuver herself into this position at this point in time. Like the edge of a dagger, weaving its way through enemy lines.

And now was her time to strike.

“There are many definitions of personhood,” she began. “Some scholars point toward the capacity for critical thinking. Others focus more on the ability to feel pain or to empathize with the people around us. Rationality, agency, reflection — the list goes on and on. And while these criteria certainly have their merits in the realm of academic discussion, I believe we also need to recognize that they’re not always useful when it comes to real-life applications. How could we assess something like agency when we’re dealing with an immortal vampire lord, capable of controlling his spawn through compulsion? How do we measure empathy when they’ve been systematically pitted against each other for years or even decades?”

She let her eyes sweep across the courtroom, one brow raised in rhetorical inquiry, and Astarion realized he couldn’t have looked away from her if he’d tried.

She was mesmerizing. An overwhelming sense of clarity and purpose ringing from her every word and gesture — one that he knew she’d prepared ahead of time. Diligently honing them to perfection because the gods knew, Zoraya Naelgrath was the kind of person who thrived on excessive prep work.

“The answer is we cannot,” she said. “At least not with the tools that are currently at our disposal. This is an unprecedented case in the history of Baldur’s Gate, and as such, it shouldn’t be surprising that it requires a new set of legal strategies. Strategies that may not yet fill heaps of well-regarded legal tomes, but that are perfectly suited to help us deal with the unique challenges of this case. In accordance with the High Court’s ruling in Asimov v. The City of Baldur’s Gate, I would therefore like to move for the introduction of a novel legal concept: that of the unbiased outside observer.”

She thrust out her arm, inviting every pair of eyes in the courtroom — including the scrying eyes broadcasting it all to the general public — to zero in on Objection.

Objection, in turn, gave a smug purr and lifted his paw, toying with Astarion’s locket as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Truly, a creature born for the spotlight.

“There is a wealth of things my client cannot tell us right now,” Zoraya said. “Insights he cannot share, questions he cannot answer truthfully. But none of that applies to an unbiased observer who’s known him for months. A being that is deeply attuned to its owner’s personality, evaluating matters of empathy and agency without needing to rely on verbal testimony. 

“We have all heard stories of pets recognizing their owners after years of absence, haven’t we? Soldiers returning from war to find their dogs running toward them, not hesitating to throw themselves at their feet. A cat welcoming a grown man it has not seen since he left home as boy. Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge their superior instincts. Ask ourselves how much the vampiric transformation could have truly changed about my client when our cat still recognizes him?”

“Your Honor,” Raphael hissed, his face tight with irritation, “you cannot seriously entertain the idea that we let a cat determine the outcome of a High Court case!”

“The cat’s name is Objection,” Dekarios informed him in the stern tone of dedicated cat owners everywhere. “And he is a piece of evidence that has been approved by this court.”

The two High Judges next to him nodded their agreement, and that’s when Astarion realized.

They were actually considering it.

He couldn’t see all to well from where he was seated at the far end of the bench, but there was definitely an exchange of glances amongst the High Judges. Words muttered behind the bulky sleeves of their robes, old, weathered faces either pinching in scornful dismissiveness or opening up into a What the Hells; why not sort of expression.

Zoraya, realizing the overall momentum, plunged forward. “My cat loves Astarion,” she said. A lie told so easily and with such conviction, a part of Astarion — the part that wasn’t currently occupied with this hearing that would decide his fate forevermore — was dying to pull her into his arms and kiss her right then and there. “He’s always loved Astarion. If that hasn’t changed as a result of the transformation, shouldn’t we take that as evidence? Shouldn’t we—”

“But I thought the cat couldn’t stand him!” Karlach said, her voice booming out of the gallery like a war horn. She probably hadn’t meant to say it quite this loudly, but Karlach was not the type of woman who excelled at things like quiet and discrete. “I mean, every time Astarion tried to pet him, he’d always start hissing and shake his little paw and — mmph!”

Dammon, in a phenomenal display of timely intervention, chose this exact moment to overcome years of shyness and pining, stifling the rest of that sentence with his mouth. It could have been cute, really, if the two tieflings hadn’t continued to go at it right there in the gallery, prompting Wyll to clasp a protective hand over Ira’s eyes. Finally, Lae’zel took it upon herself to separate the two by kicking Dammon in the shin, hissing something in that language she only used when she was cooking or cursing or both.

Zoraya cleared her throat. “As I was saying,” she continued, “If my client is still the same in the eyes of the unbiased outside observer, shouldn’t we take that as evidence? At the very least, isn’t it a point of reasonable doubt against the idea that vampire spawn no longer qualify as people? And isn’t in dubio pro reo one of the pillars of the legal community?”

There was a beat of thoughtful silence, then Larkin slammed down his fist. “It’s a cat, for crying out loud! A stupid, brainless cat!”

All Hells broke loose from there. Pendragon was shouting at Larkin, anger coloring his face in a way that suggested that he, too, had a cat at home. Or two or twenty; who knew. Hackinstone tried to argue that in dubio pro reo wasn’t applicable in this case since the accused was, technically, the city and not any of the spawn. Dekarios countered that it was very much their livelihood that was at stake, and shouldn’t that matter above all else? Overall, there was a whole lot of yelling — a lot of it about cats and dogs and even a tortoise named Craig at some point.

The only one who seemed perfectly calm throughout it all was Zoraya. “Let us ask the witness then,” she said, her voice ringing through the chaos crystal-clear.

She strode up to the witness stand with long, measured steps, her dark eyes settling on Astarion. “As a former magistrate, you are familiar with the concept of in dubio pro reo, right? A point of reasonable doubt being sufficient to ensure an accused’s freedom?”

Astarion nodded tightly, the phantom sensation of a heartbeat pounding in his chest. What in the Hells was she getting at?

“Is there such a point of reasonable doubt you’d like to bring to the High Court’s attention?” Zoraya asked. “Something you would like them to know so as to aid their decision? Something you are … able to say, even under your current predicament?”

The honorable High Judges turned as one, their debates screeching to a sudden halt.

Astarion felt like the floor had opened up beneath his feet. Air rushing around him as he tumbled down, down into the center of Wyrm’s Rock. All the way to the dark, cramped little cell where he’d been resting in the illusion of safety right until his lord and master had burst through the doors earlier that day.

Cazador had been in the company of two guards. The same ugly, unwashed creatures Astarion had so painstakingly educated on the very basics of how to maintain a prison cell.

Clearly, they had not taken well to his teachings.

Before Astarion had time to collect himself, Cazador was already in his cell, the tip of his staff connecting with Astarion’s throat, knocking him to the floor. That’s where he stayed, cowering at his master’s feet as he was lectured on how the final hearing of Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate was going to go.

He was to sing his master’s praises. Profess his happiness to be part of the Szarr household, his unwavering gratitude at being allowed to live there.

He was to reject the idea of ever leaving, scoff at the very notion of freedom or independence.

He was to sit up straight and keep his face calm and pretty, and he would not say anything at all that might reflect poorly on his family or Cazador in particular.

One by one, the rules bore down on him. Lodging themselves into the grooves and ridges of his brain, holding on with invisible talons like the wretched parasites they were. Making him a stranger in his own body, a helpless bystander to whatever narrative his master thought up for him.

If there was one thing he’d learned during his time with Cazador, it was this: There was no resisting his commands.

But perhaps he didn’t have to. Perhaps there was another way; one that didn’t break through Cazador’s rules so much as it involved him … slipping around them. Like a fish caught in a net, finding its way to a tiny hole the fisherman had failed to notice. One good flap of its fins and doom was no longer quite as certain.

Zoraya was looking straight at him, her words reverberating in his head.

In dubio pro reo.

The same words she’d told him the night of the vote, only this time, she used them for his benefit. Handed them to him like a gift, a lockpick for his own prison cell, trusting he’d know what to do with it.

Because somehow, despite it all, she still believed in him. Believed in his ability to make the right call and give her that last bit of evidence — something only he could do. For better or worse, Astarion knew Cazador. He knew the way he thought, knew the way he punished. He knew the kinds of things he’d anticipate as well as those that never would have crossed his mind.

And then, all of a sudden, Astarion knew just what to say.

“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Objection had to hop off his lap as he stood — a slight bend in his waist due to the handcuffs that kept him tied to the table, but he did the best he could. Astarion took a deep breath, focusing on the cool metal around his wrists, the lingering warmth in his lap. The words perched on the tip of his tongue, the ones that would decide it all. And Zoraya’s gaze, of course, always locked on him. Always believing in him, no matter how many times he’d disappointed her,

Was he going to prove her right this time?

Only one way to find out.

“I am Astarion of House Szarr,” he said. “Formerly Astarion Ancunín. I am a vampire spawn and retired magistrate, and I … I’m in love with Zoraya Naelgrath.”

He couldn’t keep his gaze from flicking her way, greedy to see her lips part at his words. The way her fists curled around nothing as the full weight of it began to sink in, a flush of crimson across her cheeks, followed by the most bashful, little smile. It spread on her face like the glow of the morning sun, slowly making its way across the horizon. A spectacle of cosmic proportions, one he’d witnessed countless times without ever quite grasping the full extent of its beauty.

Gods.

He could do without the sun, so long as he had her.

Still, he tore himself off the sight of her, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. Drawing upon years of elocution lessons to make sure his voice carried all throughout the courtroom, just as it had back when he’d been a magistrate.

“The transformation has changed my life in countless ways,” he explained. “There is the hunger and the bloodlust, of course. My inability to go out into the sun and my … bond with Cazador. I won’t deny those changes or try to downplay their severity. And yet, what hasn’t changed at all as a result of the transformation are my feelings for Zoraya. She was on my mind when I was on the verge of death, and she was on my mind when I woke up in that coffin, six feet underground.

“I regretted my actions, the way I’d treated her. Hoped against all hope that she might find it in her heart to forgive me. But she, she did so much more than that. She went ahead and took it up with the entire legal system, just for a chance at” — his tongue didn’t quite comply with the phrase he’d originally wanted to use, so he scrambled for an alternative — “… getting me back. Which really goes to show what an exceedingly lucky bastard I am, all things considered. The woman I love just so happens to be my advocate as well as my best friend. And I realize it’s taken me way too long to get here because I was young and stupid — and then I wasn’t all that young anymore, but still plenty stupid — but … I’m here now. I love her. And I love her cat and I love a whole lot of other things just the same as I did before I was turned, and whatever definition of personhood the honorable High Judges choose to follow, these are facts they need to take into account.Thank you.”

Astarion sat back down, the handcuffs jingling against the table. He braced himself for questions, objections, even ridicule and laughter. What he hadn’t expected was the thin, wet sob that rose from behind the bench.

High Judge Dekarios sat with his hand pressed against the lower half of his face, his broad form trembling with barely contained emotion. “Thank you, Astarion,” he whispered. “I believe that is everything we need in order to start the vote. Everyone in favor?”

He turned to his colleagues and one by one, they nodded their agreement. Were they allowed to do that? Break courtroom etiquette and just skip over the closing statements? Then again, this was the High Court. They could probably do whatever it was they wanted, so long as they agreed on it.

In any case, no one seemed to stop them as they reached for the ceremonial rings on their fingers, placing them in one of two urns the courtroom attendant passed around. It was an ancient voting tradition, one they’d followed for so long that stopping it now would have probably felt silly.

Astarion’s heart lurched every time he heard the little pling.

When they were done, the courtroom attendant carried the urns over to her desk and set about counting their contents in the most leisurely way imaginable. Astarion couldn’t help but think that he really wouldn’t have minded having the cat in his lap for this part.

He knew without having to look that Cazador was glaring at him, the chill of his gaze like icy pinpricks in the back of his skull. Oh, how he would punish him for this. This was the sort of transgression that wouldn’t just land him in the kennels — no, this was sure to inspire a new punishment altogether. Something too twisted and horrible for Astarion to even imagine, like a nightmare, dissolving at the first streak of dawn.

He tried to tell himself that it was fine. That he could deal with whatever fallout awaited him back at the Szarr estate.

But he knew in his heart that it wasn’t true.

If this vote didn’t go his way, Cazador would break him all over again. And this time, there’d be no putting him back together.

“The results of the vote on Naelgrath v. The City of Baldur’s Gate …” The courtroom attendant’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. A different plane of existence, one where old men tossed their rings into an urn and the fates of mortals were sealed, once and for all. “Votes in favor of Miss Naelgrath’s motion to include vampire spawn into the category of sentient beings, deserving of the legal protection, as per Article VII of the constitution of Baldur’s Gate …”

The handcuffs dug into Astarion’s wrists, his fangs into the inside of his mouth. It was like he was back in that alley again, his entire being poised on the edge of a knife. Ready to fall either way, helplessly hurtling toward his inevitable end.

“Five out of nine,” the courtroom attendant declared. “Miss Naelgrath’s motion passes by absolute majority.”

Her tone was so disinterested, so devoid of any and all emotion, that if it hadn’t been for Karlach’s heartfelt “Fuck, yeah!”, Astarion likely wouldn’t have been able to put the pieces together.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be that this tiny Dwarven lady in her revoltingly ill-fitting blouse rattled off a few dozen words and just like that, he’d be free.

But there were Karlach and Dammon in the first row, clapping and cheering at the top of their lungs. Wyll tossing Ira in the air like an oversized hat at some sort of antiquated ceremony, while Lae’zel rolled her eyes and scooted out of the way, offering her own applause at a safe distance. Shadowheart sprinting back into the courtroom as if she hadn’t just left in an angry huff less than half an hour ago, the largest smile he’d ever seen on her face as she jumped over the balustrade and all but tackled Zoraya into a hug.

It was a rather busy arrangement, what with Objection still in there as well, but it only lasted for a moment. Because Zoraya — gods, Zoraya — was already wriggling away from her colleague. Dumping the cat in Shadowheart’s arms as she turned around, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush to get to him.

“Astarion!” she called out, heels clicking and hair whipping, a joyous little laugh spilling from her lips as she ran. “We did it! We—”

Cazador.

He was there in the blink of an eye. Materializing out of his mist form right in front of Zoraya, one hand raised above his head, the wicked gleam of a blade between his long, pale fingers.

“No!” Astarion jumped up with such force, he ripped off the whole entire table that just so happened to be attached to his handcuffs.

Immediately, he knew that he was not going to make it in time. He tried anyway, his legs scrambling toward her in useless, helpless panic.

Please. The thought was blindingly bright in his head. Someone. Anyone.

Something black flashed in the corner of his eye. A dark savior, rushing to Zoraya’s defense on silent paws. He leapt onto her back as she ducked under the first blow, using it as a launching pad to hurl himself forward with even greater force, landing with his claws in Cazador’s face.

Cazador howled in anger. The blade slipping through his fingers as he stumbled backward, thrashing and batting at the vicious furry creature that was currently attached to his face, its paws a blur of blood and violence. Objection, however, did not let go. He was holding on with all the tenacity of a seasoned rodeo champion, tail swishing in the air, a cry of righteous vengeance in his throat.

Karlach got there first — before any of the official guards, Astarion couldn’t help but notice. She pommeled into Cazador, ripping him off his feet and pinning him down to the floor. Wyll and Dammon were there a heartbeat later, helping her hold down the screaming vampire lord, all while Objection continued to slap the ever-loving shit out of his face.

It was really rather impressive. Because while the combined forces of Karlach, Dammon and Wyll certainly had the strength to hold him, Cazador had a wealth of magic spells at his disposal, many of them designed to get him out of situations just like this one. Why wouldn’t he turn himself into mist as he’d done just a few moments ago? Slip right through their hands and retreat into the safety of his estate, pack his bags and flee town before anyone could possibly catch him?

Could it be that there was more to Objection than even Zoraya could have known? A dark secret hidden away in his past — some sort of sinister magic perhaps, something that allowed him to counteract the vampire’s spellwork and dominate in spite of his diminutive size?

Astarion made a tentative step forward, trying to get a better look at the whole thing, and nearly slipped on a wet, fleshy object.

It was a tongue.

A vaguely human-sized tongue, right where Objection had first launched himself at Cazador.

Astarion couldn’t help it — he laughed. What else was there to do, really, when he’d just witnessed his advocate’s cat do what no vampire hunter would have ever thought to do? Foregoing stakes and crosses and holy water in favor of simply ripping out the man’s tongue, thus robbing him of any spellwork that included a verbal component?

Zoraya stepped up next to him, arms crossed in front of her chest. “I swear, I did not teach him to do that.”

“If I were you, I’d say the exact same thing, darling.”

“But it’s true!” she protested. Then, after a few more seconds of carnage, “I should probably go get him, no?”

Astarion smiled. “I think it can wait a little longer.”

The courtroom guards brought a pair of silver-lined handcuffs, slapping it onto Cazador’s wrists as they hauled him upright. “Cazador Szarr, you’re under arrest for attempted murder and disrupting the High Court of Baldur’s Gate. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney …” The guard hesitated and glanced at the opposing counsel table.

It was empty, the mysterious Raphael nowhere to be found.

“Well.” The guard shrugged. “If you don’t have an attorney, one will be provided for you by the state. Let’s get you to your cell.”

Cazador grunted and wheezed, but whether it was in protest against the silver handcuffs or the prison cell, no one would ever know. The guards yanked him toward the same door Astarion had come through, and Objection took this as his cue to finally jump off the thoroughly defeated vampire lord. He made straight for Zoraya, announcing his victory with a smug little meow as he rubbed his blood-spattered head against her leg.

“Gods below,” Dekarios said. “If that wasn’t the most eventful courtroom session I’ve ever had the pleasure of leading. And then this delightfully tenacious creature at your side, Zoraya. Why, I’d say I’m smitten if I wasn’t also ever so slightly terrified!” He laughed and bent down to get a better look at Objection.

“I’m so sorry about him!” Zoraya hurried to say, stepping in between him and the cat before the honorable High Judge could attempt to pet him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I mean, yes, he’s jumped the occasional mailman, but he’s never … I mean, almost never …”

“Nonsense,” Dekarios said. “If he hadn’t been here, who knows how many guards would have been necessary to restrain Lord Szarr. I, for one, am going to have a very serious conversation with whoever was in charge of security today. In the meantime …” He turned to Astarion, brandishing a small silver key. “I believe you are a free man once more, Astarion. Congratulations.”

The handcuffs came off with a faint click, the bits of table that were still attached to it thudding to the floor. Astarion thought that he should probably apologize for vandalizing government property, but he couldn’t quite manage the words. He couldn’t do much of anything, it seemed, except for rubbing his wrists together and trying to come to terms with the fact that it was over.

Well and truly over.

Most of the High Judges had already left, but there were still some journalists scribbling away in their notebooks. A few visitors discussing the spectacles they’d witnessed tonight. Dammon fastening an impromptu bandage around a minor gash on Karlach’s arm, a wound she must have gotten from either Cazador or her attempts at removing Objection from his face.

And then, finally, the court janitor ambling up with mop and bucket in hand. Ready to wipe off those unseemly bloodstains because tomorrow was another day and there’d be another trial, requiring clean floors.

Dekarios, meanwhile, was still rambling. “What Zoraya has accomplished here today is truly remarkable. Using a pet’s testimony to evaluate their owner’s personality — this will certainly set a new precedent for all sorts of future trials. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Tara about it! She’ll be delighted!”

“Thank you, Gale,” Zoraya said. “For everything.”

“Ah, don’t mention it!” Dekarios said. “But once the dust has settled, I’d love for you to come by my office, Zoraya. Let me make you an offer for a new job, provided, your client here isn’t keeping you too busy.” He gave Astarion one of his chummy smiles, then finally bid them goodbye.

Astarion waited until he was out of earshot. “So.” He looked at Zoraya, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “Care to tell me how you bribed your cat to testify for me?”

Her grin took him entirely by surprise. It was wide and unrestrained, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as she reached a hand to the locket he’d started to wear around his neck.

Except, it wasn’t her locket, now that he examined it properly. The thing that hung from his neck was larger and of significantly lower quality. A trinket, purchased for a coin or two at the local market. And what fell into her hand when she opened it wasn’t the clay disc she’d shown him, the sign of their friendship, two fingerprints back to back.

It was a small, fish-shaped object. Brown and somewhat crunchy in texture, the smell of salt and cheap oil so pungent, it made Astarion’s nose wrinkle in protest.

Objection seemed to have no such reservations; he threw himself at the treat as soon as Zoraya tossed it to him, chomping down on it with gusto.

“Good boy,” she said, smiling fondly. “You deserve it.”

Astarion stared at the cat. His thoughts were racing and still, they didn’t seem to move quite fast enough to catch up with the absolute madness of what she was implying. “But … but how did you …?”

“Ira.” Zoraya gestured at the girl who was seated next to Dammon and Karlach, her nose buried in a book and a familiar locket dangling off her neck. “You didn’t notice her? Before the hearing?”

Astarion’s eyes widened when the pieces clicked into place. Him, shuffling up the steps to the courtroom with his shoulders slumped, two guards at his side. A small, nimble silhouette scampering past them, bumping into one of the guards on her way downstairs. Muttered apologies as she stopped, just long enough for an experienced thief like her to exchange one necklace for another.

“Zoraya Naelgrath, you sneaky little thing,” he said, his smile so wide, it felt as though his face might split in half. “You mean to tell me you cheated in court?”

“Shh,” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. Looking so unbearably cute, Astarion felt his hands clench and unclench like a poorly animated construct. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

He hadn’t allowed himself to think of this moment. Had denied himself the fantasy of something he hadn’t thought possible right until she’d gone ahead and proven him wrong. Which meant that now that she was here, neither bars nor handcuffs to separate them, Astarion was suddenly exceedingly aware of his hands and the fact that he had no idea what to do with them.

He wanted to touch her. Hells, he wanted to touch her about a million ways at once, most of them starting with that red blouse in a torn-up heap at her feet. But there were also those other feelings, twisting like tendrils just below the surface. Feelings that had nothing to do with Zoraya, but that would nonetheless spring up and lash out as soon as he pushed himself that little bit too much.

So Astarion took a deep breath. Pushed down on the greed and the lust, all those quintessentially vampiric feelings. And then he reached a hand to her cheek, cradling her face for a long, tender moment before pressing his lips to hers.

It was a brief, little touch, barely more than a peck. The type of kiss you might exchange in school corridors or behind the gymnasium, glancing around nervously to make sure no one was watching. The type of kiss Astarion had never really had before. He couldn’t have foreseen the rush of frantic energy in his chest, a fluttering, soaring sensation like a swarm of inebriated butterflies, drunk on the sweetest of nectars.

And then, because self-restraint wasn’t exactly his area of expertise, he did it again. Lingering just a touch longer this time, his fingertips brushing into her hair. Curling around the nape of her neck and pulling her closer, until her chest was flush against his. Zoraya’s lips opened into a sigh, a quiet sound of pleasure, and Astarion knew then and there that he had never kissed her enough. A failure he fully intended to make up for — but for now, he had to step away from her, for both of their sakes.

“Apologies,” he whispered, his every cell thrumming with desire. “I don’t want to …”

“I know.” Zoraya smiled, all rosy cheeks and warm, brown eyes. “Your pace. Always your pace.”

His heart squeezed. Maybe the thing wasn’t dead after all. Just a little dusty and out of practice.

“I love you,” Astarion told her. Because really, last time hadn’t been for her so much as for the honorable High Court, and she deserved her own version. “I love you, Zoraya Naelgrath. So much. I know I can’t hope to make up for all that you’ve done for me. But if you give me a chance, I swear I’ll—”

“You don’t have to make up for anything,” she said. “I already have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“A job offer from High Judge Dekarios?”

“No.” She leaned in to his ear, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You.”

Astarion shuddered, his arms circling around her waist on their own accord. “You know, my love” he said, “saying things like that should be illegal when you’re already this heart-achingly beautiful.”

She tipped her head back with a grin. “Sue me.”

“Oh, I might,” he promised. “There’s got to be consequences in the world, after all.”

Astarion pulled her close, using perhaps a tad too much force because suddenly, her feet were up in the air, and she was squealing, bursts of high-pitched, breathless laughter spilling out of her as he spun her in a circle of pure unabashed happiness.

“‘starion!” Zoraya giggled, legs kicking wildly. “I’m too heavy for that kind of stuff!”

“Not at all.” He placed her back on her feet, preening at the way she clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You, my dear, are standing before a creature of the night. A being blessed with supernatural strength.”

“Does that mean you can bring in the firewood from now on?”

“Well, let’s not get carried away. It’s going to take long enough to regrow these nails, even without—”

“Astarion!” Karlach’s voice, loud and forceful like a cannonball mid-flight. Which, coincidentally, was also how she felt, throwing herself at the two of them with her burly arms flung wide.

“Dearest, please,” Dammon said, gently prying her away. “You’ll crush them to a pulp. And wouldn’t that be rather wasteful after Zoraya just went through all this trouble to get him out of prison?”

“Oh, fuck, sorry!” Karlach stepped back, laughing self-consciously. “You guys alright?”

“Minor alterations to my skeletal structure,” Zoraya reported.

“Damn, that was close!” Karlach said. “For a second there, I was sure the fanged fucker was gonna off you. Thank god your cat was here to save the day!”

“A uniquely skilled warrior indeed,” Lae’zel agreed, eyeing Objection with unconcealed interest. “I wonder where he trained to attain such skills.”

“I think we should let him have his secrets. Come on.” Shadowheart took her girlfriend’s hand, tugging her away before she could challenge the cat to a formal duel. “Zoraya, I expect my bonus on my desk in the morning. Good night, everyone.”

Dammon, Karlach and Ira left shortly thereafter, even though Dammon had to remind Ira to return the locket. Astarion was just about to suggest they’d go home as well when he noticed two lonesome figures in the gallery. One of them was tall and composed, not a single silver curl out of place. The other was sniffling into a handkerchief, tear stains all over their fine silk shirt.

“Astarion, my boy,” Aquilan said, smiling through his tears. “We’re so glad. So glad.”

Oh, shit, Astarion thought, backing away on instinct. A series of well-honed defense mechanisms slotting into place, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable onslaught of criticism and blame.

He’d brought this upon himself. They had told him a thousand times to stay the Hells away from Cazador, but had he listened? No. He hadn’t even done them the favor of staying dead, marring the family name with an undead monster in their midst instead. Hadn’t he ever stopped to think about them, their reputation, their legacy …

“You did it,” Quelenna said. Her face was ghostly pale, one corner of her mouth trembling ever so slightly. “You … won.”

And there was something in the way her icy blue eyes were locked on him that made him realize she wasn’t just speaking about Zoraya. That this, at last, was something she considered an accomplishment — his accomplishment.

And when Aquilan reached out with shaky hands, his face all puffy with tears, Astarion found it rather difficult to do anything other than accept it. His cold, undead fingers closing around his father’s hand, squeezing it for just a moment.

There. Not a hug, but close enough.

“We shall have a celebratory dinner,” Quelenna announced, clearing her throat. “You will come to the estate and I will have Eacaris prepare all your favorite meals.”

Astarion snorted reflexively. “I appreciate the gesture, mother, but I’m afraid my culinary preferences are a little—”

“We will!” Zoraya cut in. Smiling brightly as she took his arm and led him toward the exit. “Just as soon as Astarion has settled in. If you excuse us — it’s been a long night, and we still have to work our way through the journalists out there.”

“I’ll deal with them,” Quelenna said. “Come on, Aquilan. Astarion deserves to get home without being accosted by these vultures.”

She strode off with her silver gown rippling behind her, her back straight like a crossbow ready to fire.

“I hope she doesn’t kill anyone,” Zoraya muttered under her breath

“Not to worry,” Astarion said. “I have the feeling she’s in a good mood.”

Zoraya picked up Objection who was beginning to look rather bored now that all the vampire lords had been slain and the fish treats consumed. She pressed her arm against Astarion’s, regarding him with that tender look in her eyes. “Ready to go home?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at the sound of the word, coming from her lips. The warmth pulsing through his chest, almost like a heartbeat. “Home.”

Chapter Text

By the time they made it home, Tatiana was waiting for them.

She wasn’t particularly subtle about it, considering she was the most wanted woman in all of Baldur’s Gate. But then again, perhaps that was the secret of how she’d managed to stay undetected for so long. Hiding in plain sight and all that.

She stepped out from behind one of the immaculately kept bushes in front of Astarion’s house, ax in hand and a silent threat in her eyes. She appeared to be alone, but Zoraya knew it was just as likely that she had an entire squad spread out across the yard. Dozens of Gur fighters, waiting for her command.

“So it’s true,” Tatiana said, her brow furrowing in distaste as she regarded Astarion. Noting the paleness of his skin, the twin marks on his neck. “You’re one of them now.”

“He’s a free man! There’s a court ruling and everything!” Zoraya stepped in front of Astarion, positioning herself in between him and Tatiana, one hand on her dagger. “Cazador Szarr has been taken into custody, and his spawn are under the full protection of the constitution of Baldur’s Gate.”

“So I’ve heard,” Tatiana said coolly. “A whole flock of bloodthirsty vampire spawn, set loose on an unsuspecting city. One can only marvel at the incompetence of your legal system if that’s how they’ve chosen to rule.”

Zoraya felt her teeth clink together. “If you’re unhappy with the rulings of your local legislative, you’re free to submit an official appeal.”

“It’s all right, darling,” Astarion drawled, his voice all milk and honey as he pushed past her. He twisted the dagger out of her hand so casually, she only realized what was happening when he stood in front of her, his broad shoulders very nearly blocking her from view. “I can assure you, I’m not a danger to anyone, Tatiana. Which, incidentally, is far more than what can be said for your little group of cutthroats and part-time terrorists. You can tell them to come out, by the way. We wouldn’t want to challenge my hunting instincts, hm?”

Tatiana grunted and lifted her arm, gesturing into the dark. Seconds later, she stood surrounded by Gur — ten, eleven, twelve trained monster hunters, each of them armed with a stake and a silver blade. Objection hissed at their approach. He took up position next to Astarion, teeth bared and back arched. Both of them shielding Zoraya like a pair of vicious, if extremely ill-matched bodyguards.

“It is our clan’s duty to rid the world of monsters,” Tatiana said. “Even in a city as wicked as this one.”

“But what about Boris and Katarzyna?” Zoraya demanded, her thoughts racing to the other spawn, still locked in their cells until they could be fed and released. “And all the other Gur that were turned? Surely, you don’t mean to…”

Tatiana's gaze was unwavering. “If they’re still loyal to the clan, they will be grateful someone’s putting them out of their misery. Now. Last chance, Zoraya.” She hefted her ax, the muscles of her forearm straining under the weight. “Take your cat and go. Let us slay the monster or perish with him.”

“My daughter will do no such thing,” Nadya said.

She stood in the doorway, still wearing yesterday’s dress. Her long, dark hair tangled from sleep, indicating she’d waited for Zoraya to return from court. Probably dozing off at some point, only to be roused by a mob of angry Gur in the front yard.

Tatiana whirled, her steel-gray eyes locking on Nadya like she was a stain on the wall that still showed, even through the third coat of paint. “And why would that be?”

“Because Zoraya just so happens to act as the official guardian for Astarion as well as the other vampire spawn.” 

“What do you mean, guardian?” Tatiana hissed.

Nadya sighed and reached into the coat she’d thrown over her dress, pulling out an old, weathered scroll. “Clan protocols section C, paragraph thirteen: Any clan member who finds themselves confronted with a creature they do not deem to be an immediate threat to society may choose to act as said creature’s guardian. As guardian, they take full responsibility for all the creature’s actions, vow to remain in their immediate vicinity and carefully monitor their behavior, as well as end the creature’s life as soon as it proves dangerous.” She glanced up from the scroll, her brows drawing together in mock confusion. “Surely, you remember the protocols of your own clan, Tatiana?”

“Of course, I remember!” Tatiana snapped. “Just as I remember removing Zoraya from the clan, thus revoking her right to do anything like that!”

“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Nadya said happily. “I renewed her clan membership based on this little section here. Ousted members may be reintegrated into the clan, foregoing the typical two-third-majority vote, if one of the following conditions is met — disease, plague, bla bla bla, or — an imminent threat to the clan’s livelihood, such as the rise of a new monster population!” She let the scroll snap shut with a triumphant smile. “Now, I’m not the one with a law degree, but I’d say the sudden release of a whole coven of vampire spawn certainly sounds like the rise of a new monster population. Hence, why I’ve decided to reinstate Zoraya to help combat the problem.”

“You are absolutely right, Nadya, my dear,” Astarion agreed, losing no time to back up her insane logic. “How lucky for the city of Baldur’s Gate that Zoraya has so graciously offered to stand in as our guardian, protecting them from this new threat.”

“Give that here!” Tatiana ripped the scroll out of Nadya’s hands and began to read, her index finger tracing along the page furiously.

“It’s true,” one of her followers chimed in. “Since Nadya was never officially ousted from the clan, it is well within her rights to welcome Zoraya back in during times of distress. And Zoraya’s legal background makes her the ideal choice to act as guardian for the vampire spawn.”

Tatiana’s chin snapped up. “Nadya Dvorak and Zoraya Naelgrath, you’re expelled from my clan!”

“Oh, Lady of Silver, thank you,” Nadya sighed. “Still, you might want to continue reading a little further. A guardianship, once instituted, is entirely independent of clan membership. Meaning, those vampire spawn will stay under Zoraya’s protection, so long as there are no public complaints about them.”

“Naturally, we will be on our best behavior,” Astarion drawled. “I hope the same can be said for you, Tatiana, darling? You see, vampire spawn happen to have excellent noses, so if we find any more of those charming letters of yours, it would be all too easy to lead the City Watch to whatever grimy little hide-out you’ve cobbled together for yourself. In fact, it might be safest for everyone if you and your people decided to set up camp elsewhere, for a while at least. Just until the dust from all those buildings you blew up has fully settled.”

To her credit, Tatiana made no attempt at denying her involvement in the attacks. “They were asking for it."

“No one was asking for buildings to be detonated any more than they were asking for tents to be burned and innocent families thrown into prison,” Zoraya said, fighting the words through gritted teeth. “Still, both of these things happened. And if we don’t move on from this, they will keep happening. Revenge doesn’t solve anything, Tatiana. All it does is feed into the same cycle.”

“A cycle that can only be broken if one of us steps out of it,” Nadya agreed. “Isn’t that why the Gur became a nomadic people to begin with? To stay out of the petty concerns of settled folk?”

Zoraya could see the blow this landed. Tatiana’s hands clenched into fists, wrinkling the scroll. A lesser woman might have reached for her ax and charged into battle, simply because she was out of arguments. But Tatiana managed to regain her composure, briefly closing her eyes before she rolled up the scroll and handed it back to Nadya.

“We shall return one year from now,” she said. “To check up on the state of those vampire spawn. If we are dissatisfied with their integration into society — if there are any complaints about them whatsoever — we will have no choice but to step in.” 

Zoraya nodded curtly. “We look forward to your visit.”

“Unless you bring those wretched bombs, of course,” Astarion added. “They are being patented by Ira as we speak, and I foresee dire consequences for anyone trying to use her inventions without her consent.”

It was an exceedingly petty thing to say, given the circumstances, but Tatiana didn’t answer. She simply motioned to her fighters, and then they disappeared into the night together.

Zoraya's shoulders heaved in a great, big exhale just as soon as they were gone. “Gods above," she muttered. "That was close.”

“Not at all, darling.” Astarion placed a reassuring hand on her back, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “Objection and I would have torn them to shreds in a heartbeat. That is, if your mother hadn’t resolved things with such impeccable grace.”

“Since when are you reading clan protocols anyway?” Zoraya asked, turning toward her mother.

“Oh, you know…” Nadya grinned and gave her a rather cheeky little wink. “Maybe I was inspired by my daughter. But I don’t want to keep you two. I just wanted to see Astarechka come home.” She came down the steps and reached out a hand, gently patting his arm. “It’s good to have you back. I must say, the red eyes rather suit you.”

“Oh, er … thank you?” Astarion blinked, looking uncharacteristically bashful at the compliment.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, an old lady needs her beauty sleep. Good night!” 

“Good night, mother,” Zoraya said. “And thank you! For everything.” 

There was a rush of warmth in her chest as she watched her mother go. It felt good. Like the beginning of something new for both of them.

“Shall we?” Astarion gestured at the door. Objection must have already gone inside, bored by the legal discussions and tedious displays of familial sentimentality. “I’m afraid it won’t be long now before sunrise, and it would be an awful waste of your time if you’d bailed me out of prison, only for me to burn to a crisp on my own doorstep. Besides, I cannot wait to see those blinds you mentioned.”

“Of course.” Zoraya smiled and took his proffered hand, noticing a hint of hesitation as they approached the threshold. A slight tensing of his back, a slowing of his steps.

Oh. Right.

“Astarion?” She squeezed his hand, gently tugging him closer to the doorstep. Warm light from the fireplace spilled out over the threshold. “Would you like to come inside?”

There was something fragile in his expression. The triumph of the courtroom giving way to a flicker of understanding, the very beginnings of a realization of just how much his life had changed, once and for all. But it was quickly gone, swallowed up by tenderness as he lifted her hand to his lips. The ghost of a kiss on her knuckles, cool and precious like freshly fallen snow.

“Zoya, my darling,” Astarion said. “There is nothing I’d like more.”

So, the idiot had come crawling back home.

It didn’t come as a surprise to Objection, of course; he’d known the miserable little man couldn’t possibly make it out there all by himself. Granted, there should have been a reconciliatory gift or two. A statue in Objection’s honor perhaps, handcrafted from the finest onyx so as to accurately capture the glossiness of his fur. But then, Objection was a merciful ruler. He realized that not all his loyal subjects could be blessed with intelligence — or manners, for that matter. 

Besides, who could blame the idiot for seeking his divine protection after that pitiful display the other day? Allowing himself to be chained to a desk while Zoraya nearly perished at the hands of that vile, cold-blooded creature, only escaping with her one measly life intact as a result of his swift intervention?

No. The Baron might be fierce, but he was not cruel. And thus, he had decided to be the bigger person and accept the idiot back into his home.

It was an improvement over his previous residence, to be sure. Lavishly furnished and significantly more spacious, full of cozy little spots to stretch out after a long day’s work and watch over his subjects. Sometime around the idiot’s graceless return, they had installed additional fortifications in front of the windows — an extra layer of security, as befitting for the Baron of the Lower City’s West End. Unfortunately, these barriers came with the nasty side effect of blocking out the vast majority of sunlight, which interfered with Objection’s preferred napping schedule. Still, he knew better than to prioritize comfort over safety, so he took it upon himself to move with the sun, utilizing the few spots where the light still managed to peek through. 

When he lay there, letting the afternoon sun warm his belly, he often caught the idiot staring at him from the shadows, an oddly longing expression in his eyes. And yet, no matter how enticingly Objection positioned himself, trying to goad him into an ill-advised petting attempt that would warrant a retaliatory slap of his paw, the idiot never came to join him in the sunlight.

There was something different about him, some sort of change Objection couldn’t quite put his claws on. His smell, for one, which had always been revolting. An overpoweringly artificial blend of citrus, herbs, and alcohol that made Objection’s tail recoil. The perfume was still the same, but now, there was a distinct note of … graveyard and, well, deadness underneath it all. Which made no sense, of course, because the idiot was very much alive. Obnoxiously so. 

He must have been fired from whatever miserable occupation he’d held before because he was always home these days, taking up space. Zoraya stayed with him for a while, although this didn’t result in nearly as much giggling and mouth-touching and shutting-the-door-in-his-face as Objection would have expected. Most of the time, they simply sat on the couch together, her chin on his shoulder or his head in her lap. Passing tender looks and whispered words as she traced her fingers through his hair. Always touching him slowly, hesitantly, as though he might crumble to dust under her hands.

It was odd, to say the least.

The only time things got a little more heated between them — their mouths lingering on each other, limbs tangling as they drew closer together — the idiot broke away from her all of a sudden. His eyes wide and his breath ragged as he retreated to the far end of the couch, cowering there with his arms wrapped around himself like he was hiding from an opponent only he could see.

Objection had witnessed this sort of reaction before. It happened every now and then when one of his warriors got themselves into a particularly bad situation. One that didn’t quite end the moment they were found and rescued from their predicament. They would return to the den with glassy eyes and restless tails, refusing to eat even the biggest and tastiest rats their comrades might offer.

During his time as Baron, Objection had been too busy to concern himself with the personal problems of his followers. But things were different now. He was retired, blessed with more than enough time to look after his subjects. Make sure they were happy and healthy, ready to go out into the world and procure their offerings for him, fish treats and silk pillows, and whatever else they might find. 

And so, Objection rose from his third-favorite resting place and strode over to the emotionally distressed idiot. Hopped onto his lap with infinite grace and then pressed a reassuring paw against his arm, conjuring up the voice of the calm, benevolent leader as he told him, with perfect sincerity, There, there.

The idiot tensed, a series of small tremors shaking his curled-up form. Had he hurt him? Accidentally scratched him with his mighty claws? Objection glanced at his paw, trying to figure out what had happened, when suddenly, completely out of nowhere, the idiot’s scrawny little arms — which were actually no longer quite as scrawny as before — closed around him, clutching him to his chest.

Needless to say, Objection released a scream of protest. His arms shot up, ready to fight his way back to freedom. 

Which was when he saw the look on the idiot’s face.

His chin was trembling, his eyes so round and kitten-like, it became very difficult to be annoyed with him. Tears were rolling down his cheeks in twin rivulets, dripping off his jaw in a slow, steady rhythm. They reminded him of the rainwater that had come splashing down the pipe as he’d laid there on the streets that night, injured and hungry and helpless. Objection hadn’t cried, of course — a Baron didn’t cry, no matter how grievous his injuries or how despicable the betrayal he’d just faced — but he’d certainly … related to the rainwater. Just as he related to whatever the Hells was going on with the idiot who’d been gone for weeks, only to return without a heartbeat, without a reflection in the mirror, but with all this disgusting sadness bottled up inside of him.

And then Objection sighed and closed his eyes. Choosing to remain in the semi-consensual embrace, even though the salty tears were sure to ruin his immaculate fur. He stayed there until Zoraya came to take over for him, reaching out for the idiot with clumsy, clawless paws, telling him that it was okay; they didn’t need to rush anything. The idiot sank into her arms, a hoarse apology on his lips, and Objection took this as his cue to return to his spot on the windowsill.

He continued watching them for a while. The way they nestled into each other again like kittens who’d weathered a storm together and now had nothing left in them, other than to curl up and give each other warmth. And Objection couldn’t help but sigh once more as he lowered his head and began to lick the salty drops from his fur.

They were idiots, both of them.

But, Tuna save him, they were his idiots.

And Objection took care of what was his.

In her dreams, Zoraya was on her hands and knees, Astarion’s fist curled around her ponytail. Each snap of his hips came with a firm yank on her hair, forcing her to arch into his thrusts, bend around the cold, hard length he drove into her over and over again. She was gasping, sweating, moaning, her mind all foggy with pleasure as she clawed at the bedsheets, knuckles white, throat raw.

Zoraya wasn’t proud of these fantasies — gods, far from it — but it had been so long, and he felt so good. And sometimes, when they fell asleep in each other’s arms, and he did that thing where he pushed his knee in between hers, she woke up ready to ride his thigh for all it was worth.

She didn’t, of course. Because she was a well-adjusted adult in a tender, loving relationship, and she was going to give her partner as much time as he needed.

So she gritted her teeth and tried to act like she was still asleep. Remaining perfectly still in his arms, even when he pulled her closer and began to kiss his way down her neck. Cool, silky-smooth lips traveling from the lobe of her ear all the way to her shoulder, kissing and licking at her skin with slow, languorous devotion. Astarion had always liked her neck, but now, there was something almost akin to reverence in the way he kept lingering there. Breathing in her scent like he was sampling her, trying to settle on the perfect spot for him to sink his teeth into her.

Not that she was fantasizing about that. Not at all. She just really liked the way he held her, hands splayed out over her lower back to keep her hips pressed firmly against his own. His arms caging her in in a way she hadn’t known she desired right until the moment he’d first picked her up in that courtroom, lifting her into his arms like she didn’t weigh more than a fancy bottle of champagne.

Astarion chuckled. “I really don’t know who you’re trying to trick here, darling. I can hear that pretty little heart of yours from a mile away.”

“Sorry,” Zoraya murmured, hoping the slur in her voice sounded sleepy rather than unspeakably turned-on. “I was just … comfortable.”

“Oh, so am I,” Astarion cooed.

He lifted himself off her neck and rolled her onto her back in one swift motion. His knee moved to balance his weight, accidentally spreading her legs in the process, and Zoraya had to stifle a gasp when she felt her nightgown riding up her hips. Nothing but a thin layer of bedsheets between his crimson eyes and the drenched mess of her underwear, her core squirming and tightening. Practically quivering for his touch.

Shit. She was in so much trouble. 

Astarion grinned down at her, looking way too sexy for a man who'd only just gotten out of his reverie. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, his silver curls all brushed into place — a skill he was getting better at, even without the help of a mirror. His knee was right there, pressed against the inside of her thigh, and Zoraya knew, knew all too well that all she had to do was angle her hips and she could ride it. Use the delicious pressure to relieve all that tension that was coiling in her lower stomach, rutting herself against him until she came with a wordless cry of ecstasy. And he’d let her — of course, he would. He’d probably even encourage her, dip that long finger in between her thighs, and stroke her through it until she saw stars.

But he’d asked her to wait. And she, in turn, had promised that she would be patient.

So she made herself smile as she stretched up to his face. Brushed her lips against the tip of his nose in the barest suggestion of a kiss and said, “Ready for breakfast?”

And then she wriggled out from underneath him and disappeared into the bathroom to take care of herself.

They were still figuring out a new rhythm that worked for them. Luckily, Astarion’s sun sensitivity wasn’t as dramatic as they’d feared, allowing him to keep mostly normal hours. Direct sunlight was the only real threat to a vampire, so they could even open the blinds wherever the sun had already passed for the day, letting indirect light spill into the house. Going outside was a little more difficult — at least until Nadya gifted him a handwoven cloak. It was made from some kind of sun-repellent material, black and smooth like silk, complete with extra long sleeves and a rather dramatic-looking hood to keep the sun away from his face.

To Zoraya’s surprise, Astarion was delighted when he first tried it on.

“Why, don’t I look every inch the sinister rogue that I am!” He chuckled, twirling in front of the mirror image Nadya had conjured for him. “Thank you ever so much, Nadya, dear!”

It wasn’t until Zoraya followed his gaze that she understood. He wasn't looking at the cloak, but at the man wearing it. The face he no longer saw in the mirror. The one he hadn’t seen, not since the night of the vote and everything that had happened thereafter.

“Thank you.” Astarion tried to keep up the smile, but his voice was thick with emotion. “Truly. This is … such a wonderful gift.”

The following day, Zoraya went to her mother’s house, bearing a box of biscuits and a single question. “Do you think I could learn the mirror spell?”

And just like that, she was the kind of person who went to visit her mother twice a week. 

They’d sit in Nadya’s cramped little kitchen, sipping tea from mismatched cups and laughing more than Zoraya ever could have imagined as she conjured a parade of shoddy mirror images. Magic had never been Zoraya’s strong suit, but her mother was a remarkably patient teacher. And despite her frequent rants about the stuffiness of city life, Nadya didn’t seem in a hurry to get back on the road. She’d started growing herbs in the front yard, brewing her own potions and selling them to Jaheira for a nice profit. Sometimes, she even came into the clinic to help out as a part-time healer. Perhaps she was beginning to enjoy the comforts of settled life, perhaps she simply wanted to save up for her next trip. Either way, Zoraya was grateful to have her around.

Astarion, not knowing the true purpose of these visits, was incredibly smug about what he called her mother-daughter-reconciliation sessions. But Zoraya didn’t mind. She knew it would all be worth it in the end. When she’d find him huffing and cursing at his vanity, combs and hair products strewn everywhere as he fought to get his silver curls into shape — and she’d simply wave her hand and mutter a few words, and there it would be: his face in the smooth, cool glass.

It was only a tiny fraction of all that he’d lost to Cazador. But if it was something she could give him, she absolutely would.

She wanted to give him everything she possibly could.

When Zoraya came into the kitchen, dressed in her usual office attire, Astarion had put on a shirt and already made coffee for her. He’d come to enjoy taking care of little tasks like this, glowing with pride when he handed her a cup that he knew was prepared exactly the way she liked it.

There was a pleasant sense of routine to their mornings. Both of them moving around the kitchen in companionable silence, easily sidestepping each other as Zoraya cracked two eggs into the pan and Astarion strode over to what used to be his liquor cabinet, selecting a bottle for his own breakfast. Minsc had taught him how to hunt, but going through the trouble of filling his spoils into elegant wine bottles — that part had been Astarion’s idea. 

“Just because you’re a vicious creature of the night doesn’t mean you need to lose all sense of decorum,” he’d explained, flashing his fangs in that wicked little grin he was getting rather good at.

They sat down side-by-side at the kitchen counter, Zoraya with her toast and eggs, Astarion with a crystal goblet full of what she was pretty sure was not Thayan Red. Usually, Objection would have been there as well, loudly demanding to be fed, but he was still out on his nightly hunting trip.

“The council is officially lifting their Emergency Response Plan,” Zoraya reported, glancing over the edge of the newspaper to gauge Astarion’s reaction.

He swirled his glass and crinkled his nose. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

“It should help us get the last of the Gur out of prison,” Zoraya muttered as she skimmed the rest of the article, her thoughts already drifting to work.

She’d rejoined Gale’s task force after a good month of prodding and increasingly lavish offers. Originally, Zoraya had wanted to stay home with Astarion, but his therapist, Isobel, a Selunite cleric working through Jaheira’s clinic, had convinced her to take the job. She'd argued that it would be good for both of them to have some time apart. To allow Astarion to build a new life for himself, one that didn’t exclusively revolve around her.

He still wasn’t interested in returning to his job as magistrate, but he had all sorts of hobbies now. There were his personal training sessions with Minsc, cooking classes with Lae’zel, and a late-night book club at the library, where he’d first encountered the memoir of Drizzt Do’Urden — which had left such a profound impression, he’d spent weeks gushing about the man.

It wasn’t like Astarion needed to work, anyway. The High Court case had generated so much interest that he and the other spawn were now coveted guests at all sorts of events and functions. Just last month, Yeshana Orbryn had paid very good coin for an exclusive interview with The Magistrate of the People. Still, Zoraya hoped that, with time, he would find his calling. Something he was truly passionate about, like what she felt about the law. And until then — well, she could at least keep him up to date on recent developments.

“I’ll probably be home a little later today,” she said between bites of toast and egg. “I want to go by the camp and talk to Katarzyna. See how things are going over there.”

Astarion snorted. “I’d say give them my best, but that woman can burn in the fires of Avernus, for all I care.”

“They’re really sorry about what happened at the Szarr estate,” Zoraya said in what she knew was a pointless attempt at reconciliation. “Well, Boris is sorry. Kasia just … wants to keep up appearances as new head of the clan, I think.”

It had been a bit of a surprise when the remaining clan members — the ones who hadn’t wanted to follow Tatiana — had elected Katarzyna as their new leader, thus making them the first group of monster hunters that were led by a vampire spawn. But Katarzyna was the kind of woman who could make it work. She’d set up camp just outside Rivington, significantly closer than any Gur settlements had been allowed for years, and immediately plastered the area with flyers for their monster-hunting services, which she advertised as The Monsters You Know.

Judging by the number of light-proof tents Zoraya had seen on her last visit, they were doing pretty well for themselves.

“I’m off to work now.” Zoraya rose from her chair and placed the dishes in the sink before slipping into her coat and heels. “See you tonight?”

“Of course. I will make sure dinner is ready.” Astarion came to the door with her, watching as she wrapped her brand-new scarf around her neck. 

It was a beautiful piece of bright red silk, a gift he’d left on her pillow one day. All shy and quiet, as was his way with everything that was truly important to him. She’d never asked about her old scarf, but she was fairly sure he had it somewhere under the bed or in his nightstand. Always in reach if he woke from a nightmare and felt like he needed it.

Zoraya was about to lean in for a goodbye kiss when she noticed him fidgeting with the billowy sleeves of his shirt. “Everything all right?” she asked, immediately expecting the worst.

“Oh, yes, darling,” Astarion assured her. “Absolutely. I was just thinking — Well, speaking of dinner and such, I was wondering whether we still have, uh …  dinner plans for tonight?”

He glanced up at her, one brow raised uncertainly, and Zoraya’s knees gave a violent quiver. “Y-yes,” she choked out, heat exploding in her cheeks and burning its way to the crown of her head. “Sure. That is, if you still want to?”

“Oh, Zoya, darling.” Astarion reached a hand to the side of her face. The look in his crimson eyes tore through her like a hot gust of wind, whirling the thoughts straight out of her brain as he lowered his mouth to hers. “I have wanted this for a very, very long time.”

These days, it seemed like their goodbye kiss was getting a little longer each morning. His lips hungrier against hers, brazenly demanding entrance into her mouth and purring with pleasure when she let herself sink against the solid planes of his chest. The way he'd press the full length of her body against his and lean in closer whenever she tried to step back, grunting and chasing her mouth with unabashed urgency, his arms locked tight around her like she was a prize, a trophy — his to take home, his to spread out on his bed and devour her whole.

He was trying his boundaries, she knew. Testing what all he could do, and she was glad to help him. 

Of course, she was.

She was just also very much in love with him. Not to mention, severely underfucked.

It was a blessing then, when the cat door flung open, and Objection entered the hallway, making sure to announce his presence with a piercing yowl.

Astarion and Zoraya shot apart like children caught with their hands in someone else's birthday cake. They scrambled out of the cat's way in such a rush of awkwardness that Zoraya nearly tripped over her heels. Astarion reached out to try and steady her, but she jerked away from his touch and bent down to greet Objection instead.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, painfully aware of the shrillness of her own voice. “You must be so hungry! Let’s get you some breakfast, hm?”

Objection, unhelpful as ever, ignored her and strode over to the couch, where he curled up in Astarion's bathrobe.

“I can feed him,” Astarion offered. “You go ahead, darling. I don’t want you to be late for work.”

“Thanks. Love you.” Zoraya grabbed her purse and all but dove out the door, forcing him to take a step back so as to stay away from the sun.

“I love you too, my sweet,” he called after her, sounding oddly out of breath for a man who didn’t need to breathe anymore. “Have a wonderful day.”

Astarion heaved a sigh just as soon as the door had closed. 

He leaned back for a moment, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes as he fought through the entirely irrational impulse to follow her out into the sun and drag her back inside like some kind of prehistoric warrior with a very large weapon and a very small vocabulary.

When he opened his eyes, Objection was staring at him. A quintessentially cat-like stare, full of silent judgment and an overwhelming sense of, Really?

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, give me a break!” Astarion snapped. “Just because you have the entire cat population of Baldur’s Gate at your feet doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t struggle with these things from time to time!”

Objection yawned and began to lick his paw. Making a point that this was not a discussion he considered worth his time, least of all before he’d been fed his well-deserved breakfast.

“I’ll have you know that I am very desirable,” Astarion informed him, purposefully slamming the cabinet open as he went to fill his bowl. “Incredibly skilled, too. If you hadn’t chosen that particular moment to barge in, I am positive, she would have—”

Objection squeezed past him with an impatient meow and pushed his head into the bowl, drowning out the rest with the sheer volume of his chewing.

Astarion sighed again. Silently admitting defeat as he straightened himself — slowly, on account of the uncomfortable bulge in his trousers.

The truth was, he wanted her. Hells, he’d wanted her for weeks. He was being really damn obvious about it, too. All the lingering kisses and teasing touches, the tight trousers and flowy shirts he knew she found particularly delicious on him. And yet, her hands would never stray below his waistline. Her thighs always demurely pressed together, no matter how much he smoldered and coaxed and lured. And on the rare occasions when he was almost sure he could smell the sweet arousal seeping through her smallclothes — well, that’s when she got up, claiming she had mortal needs to attend to.

It was his own fault, really. He’d asked her to give him time while he worked through all that had happened. Learning how to shoulder it, as his therapist was fond of saying. Back then, any kind of sexual intimacy had seemed like an impossible goal. He couldn’t even undress in front of Jaheira for a physical examination without his head ringing with panic, his mind racing back to the kennels, the guest room. Cazador’s desk.

But things had changed over the course of the past few months. The nightmares were still a constant presence, but the panic attacks had ceased almost completely. Isobel had taught him a set of coping strategies. Breathing exercises and silly little mantras that sounded nothing short of ridiculous, but were astonishingly efficient at calming his thoughts whenever they were in danger of spiraling out of control. He found that exercise helped as well, especially hunting for his meals. Astarion liked the way it made him feel, prowling through the woods at night, one with the darkness. Sneaking up to his unsuspecting prey on soundless feet, fangs ripping into its neck before it even had a chance to cry out.

When he was out there, he was a predator. Powerful. Dangerous. Entirely in control.

He wasn’t a fan of how dirty his clothes tended to get, but well, that’s what maids were for.

The thing was that Astarion was beginning to feel like himself again. A slightly different version, one with red eyes and fangs and the strength to tackle a whole goddamn deer to the ground and kill the poor thing in one fell swoop. But it was still him.

No matter what Cazador had done to him, he was still himself. 

There was power in that. 

And now, with spring in full bloom — a season he couldn’t help but think of as her season, the one when she’d first come back into his life, bathing everything in warmth and color — he was hungry for more.

So much more.

“Ready?” Zoraya sat on the chair next to his, legs crossed at the knee.

“Of course, my dear,” Astarion said and gave her his most dazzling smile. 

Inside, he was trembling with nerves.

He knew he had prepared everything as best he could. He’d made dinner for her, going all the way to the harbor in his dashing new cloak to buy her the freshest clams and mussels straight from the fishmongers — weathering the sensory onslaught by capitalizing on the fact that he no longer needed to breathe. He’d cooked them up in a creamy white wine sauce, following one of Lae’zel’s meticulously detailed recipes, and then watched as Zoraya gobbled them down with a bright smile on her face, clutching at his glass and forcing himself to take a sip every now and then.

Deer was one of his favorites, but tonight, he was far too nervous to appreciate the sweet, gamey flavor.

They’d finished their meal and cleared the dishes, even wiped down the counter and taken out the trash. Which meant that Astarion was very nearly out of excuses.

“Maybe some water?” he offered, rising to his feet once more. “Or a cup of coffee? You’ve had a long day, darling. Better make sure you are—”

“Astarion.” Zoraya was looking straight at him, her gaze unwavering. “I feel great. Honestly. I want to do this for you.”

She undid the buttons on her sleeve and pushed it all the way up to her elbow, then held out her wrist in silent invitation. The warm glow from the fireplace danced on her bronze skin, casting her veins in a tantalizing game of light and shadow.

Astarion swallowed, saliva pooling on his tongue. Gods knew, he’d spent months of his life dreaming about this exact moment. Picturing the softness of her flesh, the intoxicating rush of blood into his mouth as she leaned back her head and let him take as much as he wanted.

But now that he was here, her delicate wrist propped up on the kitchen counter like a dessert in a pretty glass dish, he found himself frozen with fear. What if he did something wrong? What if he took too much or bit down too hard, permanently damaging her hand? He didn’t know anything about this! It wasn’t like there were books he could read or experts he could consult. The only other vampires in the city were Cazador, rotting away in his prison cell, and Katarzyna’s clan — and Astarion would rather go back to drinking rat blood than ask any of them for help!

“Come on, Astarion.” Zoraya lifted her arm, offering it to him with a smile. “We talked about this. We agreed that this is something we want to try. If it doesn’t work, that’s all right. I mean, who knows — maybe I taste awful!” Her laugh was bright and airy, the curve of her wrist so inviting, Astarion had to force himself to look away.

“I … don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered, unable to meet her eyes. “There are all sorts of important nerves in your arm. My fangs, they might—”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

And before he could even think to argue, she had pulled out her foldable dagger and drew it over her own wrist. Her skin split open in a perfectly straight line, a single drop of crimson spilling to the surface. It stayed there for a breathless moment, poised on the highest point of her wrist before it rolled down the curve of her arm, threatening to drip onto the floor.

Astarion’s hand was on hers. 

His tongue darted out of his mouth, catching the droplet a split second before it could fall.

And he knew immediately — intimately, indubitably — that there was no going back.

Because Zoraya’s blood tasted of her. The very essence of her being, everything that made her who she was — it was all right there, on the tip of his tongue. He could taste the sound of her voice, the calm, self-assured cadence of her speech. The clicking of heels on worn-out floors, the straightness of her spine, the immaculate lines of her white office blouses. The sunniness of her smile whenever she came home in the evening, not hesitating to place a kiss on his cheek and ask about his day, even though he was unemployed and generally a bit of a mess these days. He could taste her conviction and her relentlessness, her kindness and her ambition, the beauty of her mind and the allure of her body.

Zoraya’s blood was her in a sense he couldn’t have grasped before. And he was drunk on it from the very first drop.

His mouth moved up her wrist, entirely on its own accord. Closing over the cut and lapping at her skin, urging the blood along with hollowed cheeks and swallowing each languid drop with fervent devotion. He needed more. Needed more right this instance. Needed her splayed out in his arms, naked and slick with sweat as he cradled her head and thrust himself into her, fangs and cock and all. Her body all but melting around him, warm and inviting, as she bled into his mouth and fluttered around his length, moaning and whimpering and begging him for more, please, Astarion, please …

“Mhm-mhmmmm …” Zoraya's voice, breathy and brittle. Like she was holding on by a thread, dangling above an invisible abyss.

Astarion broke away at once, terrified that he’d hurt her. That his fangs had broken skin, her delicate flesh bruised by his monstrous grip. But when he managed to focus on her, he found her head tipped back, her mouth slack in an expression not unlike the one he’d been picturing just a few seconds ago.

“Zoya?” he whispered. “Zoya, are you okay? Did I hurt you? Did I — oh.”

He could smell it now. A faint note of sweetness, giving rise to that lovely flush in her cheeks. 

“Oh,” Astarion said once more — not sounding any more intelligent than before. “You are…”

“I’m sorry!” Zoraya blurted, cheeks burning as she jumped to her feet. “I didn’t mean to; I, uh — I’ll go and take a bath!” 

“Wait!” Astarion just barely managed to grab her elbow before she could bolt. “I-it’s quite alright, love,” he stammered. “It’s just that … Well, I thought only full-fledged vampires had this sort of effect.”

“Maybe it’s just me,” she muttered. Her head slumped miserably. “I’ve been a little … worked up recently.”

Astarion scoffed. “Believe me, darling: It is not just you.”

She glanced up at him, clearly not understanding. Not until her gaze dropped lower, to where Astarion's want was pulsing against the seam of his trousers, stretching them to maximum capacity.

He could practically hear the gears in her head jump into action, clicking away as she drew all the necessary conclusions.

“You, er … probably want some space," Zoraya stammered. “To, uh, deal with that. I’ll just — ah!”

Enough. Astarion grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto the kitchen counter, pushing her legs apart with his knee and slotting himself in between, hips flush against hers.

“I don’t want space,” he whispered, low, gravelly words against her lips. “I want you.”

He kissed her, hard and unrelenting, not bothering to hide his fangs. Zoraya's back arched under his hands. Her mouth opened to his in a breathy sigh of pleasure, and it was everything he could do not to bite her lip right then and there. Tasting her blood as he was tasting the rest of her, her body squirming in his arms as he drank and drank and drank. It wasn’t even about hunger. Dinner had left his stomach rather full, and honestly, thank the gods for that because otherwise, he was pretty sure she’d already be a limp mess of flesh in his arms, blood dripping out of a giant hole in her neck and—

Her neck. 

Astarion sucked in a shuddering breath. His hands curled around her ass, desperately holding her in place as he dropped his mouth lower, trailing hot, feverish kisses down the curve of her neck. Following the sweet scent of her pulse like a hound, fixed on the scent of its prey, lower and lower until finally settling over the spot where he could feel the blood flicker under her skin.

Astarion pressed his face against it and groaned.

“Zoya,” he rasped. “Zoya, I want your neck. I want your neck more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

“Yes,” she breathed. Her eyes squeezed shut as she leaned back her head, offering herself to him without a beat of hesitation. “Take it. I trust you.”

His cock twitched in his trousers. His fangs howled with want. And yet, there was something about the vulnerability of it — her willingness to put herself at his mercy — that broke through the veil of crimson and desire.

“No,” Astarion heard himself say, the word strained, yet firm as he stepped back. “I can’t. Not like this.” 

Zoraya blinked. “Why not?”

The look in her eyes was almost more than he could take. But no. No, no, no. He had to be better than this. Had to at least try to be the person she saw in him, the one she’d fought to free.

“Where is your dagger?” he asked.

Zoraya picked it off the counter. She held it between them, awkwardly, until Astarion closed her fingers around the hilt, firmly squeezing them in place.

“You are going to tell me the second it gets too much,” he instructed. “If you tell me to stop and I don’t stop immediately — and I do mean immediately, darling — I want you to go ahead and stab me.”

“But…”

“I’m already dead, darling. There is very little you can actually do to me, but I need you to keep me in check, all right?”

Zoraya nodded, and he let go of her hand, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “Whatever happens, I will not wake up with your corpse in my arms.”

“Your legal guardian would never let you hear the end of it.”

She was trying to joke, but Astarion could smell the arousal pooling in between her legs. Could feel the goosebumps trailing down her neck as he leaned in to pick his spot, her head tipping back to give him more space. Her hips canting forward, the manic pounding of her heart going straight into his cock.

She was beautiful like this. All her inhibitions gone, whisked away by the high of whatever substance he’d released into her bloodstream. Her desire for him so palpable, he just had to slip a hand into her trousers, feel the wetness gush through her underwear and all over his fingers. 

“Y-you don’t have to…” Zoraya whimpered, trying to hold back even as she squirmed against his palm.

“Shh,” Astarion whispered. “I want this to be good for you, my love. I need this to be good for you.”

A few teasing strokes, and his fingers slipped inside of her, two at once. Easily finding the rhythm she liked, the one he knew would make her unravel. Her voice tumbled all over itself as she cried out his name, helplessly grinding into his hand, knees digging into his sides in a desperate attempt at balancing herself on the kitchen counter.

It felt powerful. Intimate. The way it used to feel — the way it always should have felt.

Astarion swallowed when his gaze locked in on the perfect bit of bronze skin. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “Is it okay if I … use my teeth?”

“Yes!” Zoraya panted, nails digging into his shirt. “Gods, yes. Do it. Bite me.”

He ran his tongue over her neck, trying to be gentle. But her flesh was soft and warm, and it yielded to his fangs so easily. Effortlessly. And then his teeth sank deeper and the blood began to flow, and — gods help him — it was like nothing he’d ever known before. Not a shallow cut, forcing him to suck a few measly drops out of her. No, the blood came rushing out of her like the most glorious of fountains, eagerly spilling into his mouth, each sip hot and sweet and perfect.

Astarion groaned and bit down harder, his fingers speeding up their rhythm. Spurring on that pretty, pretty heart of hers, making sure it kept pumping just like this, pushing the blood out of her neck and straight onto his waiting tongue. Delighting in the way her body tensed around him, pleasure oozing out of her, so vibrant and sharp, he was almost sure he could taste it in her blood. A deeper, richer note was cutting through the aroma now, lingering in the back of his throat like an unspoken promise.

Would he be able to taste it when she tumbled over the edge? The full extent of her rapture, coloring what was already the greatest delicacy he’d ever tasted?

He had to know. His free hand twisted into her hair, pressing her against his mouth.

“Ah- … Astarion…” Zoraya’s voice was smaller now. Weaker. “I’m not … feeling so good.”

Astarion snorted, his mouth full of blood. Of course, she was feeling good. He could fucking taste how good she felt. Could feel her walls clench around him, hips stuttering on her way to her peak.

“Astarion!” Zoraya tried again, more forcefully. “Astarion, stop!”

She began to wriggle in his arms, forcing him to clutch her tighter. He was so close. She was so close, and if he could just push her a little bit further …

“Astarion, please.” She was sobbing now. Something dull seemed to be hitting against his biceps, causing about as much pain as a dragonfly, wielding a blade of grass. But there was the sound of her voice, blazing through the haze of lust and greed. It drew a picture in his mind, of an awkward, lanky girl, cowering at the foot of a plum tree with her hands curled around her ankle. Her lips quivering as she looked up at him, too proud to cry or ask for help.

Astarion, please.

He came up from her neck with a sharp intake of breath, his fangs screaming at the loss of contact with her warm, yielding flesh. She was right there! She still had blood to give! She—

She was bleeding. Dark crimson rivulets trickling down her neck and into the collar of her white blouse. The wound was large, way larger than he’d ever intended. The sheer size of it sent icy tendrils of shock into Astarion’s stomach.

“Shit.” He leaned in and drew his tongue over the wound, knowing on some primal level that his saliva would help it heal. His eyes darted across her face, searching for other signs of injury. “Darling, are you all right? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Zoraya smiled. A tender, woozy smile, lighting up her face like a single candle on a cool, foggy morning. “You stopped.”

“I … did.” Astarion blinked, equally incredulous about the fact that he’d actually managed to do so and that this should be the first thing she said after he’d just mauled his way through her neck. “But what about you?” he asked, studying her swaying form, the hazy look in her dark brown eyes. “We should get you to a healer. Hells, we should have had a healer here this entire time!”

“I’m fine.” She giggled, an unmistakable lilt in her voice as she leaned her forehead against his chest. “Just a little light-headed.” 

Hell’s Teeth, was she drunk? Was that how it worked? The bite of a vampire wasn’t just pleasurable; it also made your victims physically incapable of running away, let alone defending themselves?

“Where is your dagger?” Astarion demanded. He grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “I told you to stab me! I told you to—”

Zoraya flashed him a grin and pointed at his arm, where her foldable dagger was firmly plunged into his flesh. Not for the first time, it seemed, if the multitude of holes in the black silk of his shirt sleeve was anything to go by.

“Oh,” he said, slowly. Dully. Trying to pinpoint any sort of pain related to the weapon in his arm, when all there was was a mild sense of discomfort — and that originated from somewhere far lower on his body. 

He pulled the dagger out of his flesh and stared at it, feeling immensely stupid. “Well, that’s a rather … unexpected complication.”

Zoraya threw back her head with a snort and then broke into laughter. It was wild and breathless and almost certainly fueled by whatever kind of buzz she was currently experiencing, and yet, Astarion couldn’t help but join in. It was all rather ridiculous, after all. How he’d thought it was a good idea to have his first taste of humanoid blood from the woman he loved, all while also being intimate with her for the first time in months. 

If he was ever going to write a handbook instructing other vampires, this would be item number one on the no-no list.

“I’m okay," Zoraya assured him, still laughing. "Promise.” 

She slung her arms around his neck, and their mouths bumped into each other. Not quite a kiss — not at first, anyway. But then she whispered his name against his lips and wrapped her legs around his waist, and Astarion nearly growled at the realization that she must have kicked off her trousers at some point. Her core squirmed against his, still so wet. Still so wanton.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Zoraya nodded. Her wound had stopped bleeding, and her eyes were large, so large. Practically gleaming with want. “Are you?”

“Darling.” He grinned and grabbed hold of her thighs. “I’ve never been more certain about anything.”

She squealed when he lifted her off the counter, using his newfound vampiric strength to balance her on his hips. He couldn’t resist the urge to carry her all the way to the bedroom and then toss her onto the bed, causing Objection to jump up from his spot on the windowsill and exit the room with an affronted hiss.

Zoraya stared up at him from the mattress, her lips parted breathlessly. “Wow.”

“A few upsides to my condition,” Astarion said, preening with satisfaction as he captured her mouth with his. Kissing her until he felt her half-human lungs quiver in protest.

“Oxygen!” she gasped, giggling when he released her. “Some people actually need that stuff, Astarion!” But her hands were already on his shirt, pulling him down again. 

Astarion felt like a teenager. Her blood humming in his veins and throbbing in his loins, setting a hot, dizzying rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. He wanted to take his time with her, slowly lay her bare, button by button, but his hands tore through her blouse like wildfire through a paper factory. Eagerly feeling the sharp lines of her collarbones, the swell of her breasts. The tiny, little dip of her waist before her hips flared out again. 

Her body was a marvel. A miracle, a thing of unparalleled beauty, and now, she’d even used it to feed him. Risking her own safety, just so he could get a taste of the real deal and …

“I love you,” Astarion whispered into her neck. “Gods, Zoya, I love you so much.”

He didn’t quite register the words when they came out. He only registered her hands, gently threading into his hair and guiding him toward her face.

Astarion remembered what she’d looked like when she’d first said those words to him. Crying them out into the night in a desperate plea for him to see what he had gotten himself into, tears streaming down her face and dripping onto the carpet.

This time, Zoraya smiled. A warm twinkle in her eyes as she traced the curve of his jaw with her thumb and said, “I love you, too.”

And then his mouth was on hers, and there was no more holding back. Together, they tore off her underwear and scrambled him out of his trousers, his cock so tight and hard, he truly wasn’t sure if it had ever been this big before. It felt huge in his hand. Aching. Wanting. 

Astarion wanted to be careful. Wanted to be mindful of the fact that it had been a little while for both of them — likely even longer for her, assuming she hadn’t taken any lovers in his absence. But then she whimpered at the first touch against her folds, and her hips twitched toward him with such unrestrained need, he couldn’t stop himself from pressing forward and burying himself in one go.

Her body opened up to him, easily stretching around him, all soft skin and tight, hot wetness. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Astarion knew that this was where he was. With her — in her — in such a visceral, awe-inspiring sense, he felt the breath squeeze out of his lungs, his throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

“Oh, gods,” Zoraya breathed, her head lolling back in his arms. “Astarion…”

He drew back and gave her a proper thrust, watching how it rippled through her. Dark, glossy hair spilling out of her braids as she writhed against the sheets, clenching and clutching and holding on to him for dear life. She loved this. Loved him, just him, her mouth falling open in the most delicious way, eyes scrunched shut from the sheer force of her pleasure.

Astarion reached a hand to her face, gently tilting it toward himself. "Eyes on me, love,” he whispered, needing to feel her gaze on him. Needing that anchor to keep him right here, right now, where she was wet and perfect underneath him and nothing else mattered. 

And when she blinked her eyes open right away, so beautifully obedient, so eager to please, his head sank against her neck, and he began to fuck her in earnest.

Once upon a time, he might have been able to set a coaxing rhythm, lure her to her peak with meticulous slowness. Not today. Today, he was rutting into her like an animal, spurred on by the sound of her gasps and moans, her hips snapping up to meet his, taking him as deeply as she possibly could.

“…‘ssstarion,” Zoraya whined, nails skating across his back. “Fuck, you feel … so good in me. Please don’t … please don’t stop.”

He could have climaxed from that slurred, pleasure-high tone of hers. The way she gazed up at him with those dark, ravenous eyes, her breasts bouncing every time he drove himself into her. One day soon, he was going to drink from her like this. He’d latch on to her neck and fuck that precious blood out of her, feel her come apart in his mouth and on his cock. And then he’d do it again and again, picking a different spot each time. 

She deserved every ounce of pleasure he could give her. Deserved to be treasured and cherished, her body littered with bite marks, made his in every sense of the word.

Something tightened in his lower abdomen, and Astarion cursed through gritted teeth. “Where do you want it?” he asked, hands clenching around her ribcage, trying to slow down. “I only just started taking my teas, so I’m not sure if—”

“Inside!” she panted. “I want it all inside.”

“But…”

“I said inside!”

Oh, damn it all. What was a man supposed to say to that? With a grunt both frustrated and hopelessly turned-on, he lifted her off the sheets and pulled her into his lap, grabbing hold of her ass with both hands and thrusting her onto his cock.

Zoraya came with her arms and legs clenched tight around his torso. Astarion did his best to work her through it, but truly, he was only seconds behind her. A sea of bright stars claimed his vision as he buried his face against the uninjured side of her neck, silently begging her to stay, please stay with me.

When it was over, neither of them moved. Their bodies wrapped around each other, nothing but the sound of labored breaths filling the room. 

Astarion didn’t want to let go of her, some part of him still so afraid of those vulnerable moments after sex. Of being cast aside like a toy, thrust back into the closet after its purpose was fulfilled. But then Zoraya began to run her fingers through his hair, softly humming to herself as she combed back his silver curls. Trying to comfort him, to take care of him, even after she’d already offered her neck and then let him fuck her through the blood loss, too.

And suddenly, it was a little easier to release his grip. To ease her off his lap and guide her back into the pillows, careful to steady her injured neck. His mouth drawn to hers all the while, kissing his adoration into her flesh as he told her he loved her — in Common, in Elvish, in every way he could fathom.

When he reached the wound on her neck, he paused and drew a gentle finger around the blood-caked outline. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Zoraya smiled and brought his finger to her lips instead. “Not right now. I suspect it’s going to hurt later when I’m a little less…”

“Well-loved?”

She laughed. “I would have gone for something less flattering, but sure.”

Astarion kissed her once more, long and deep, then drew back to study her. “Anything I can get you, darling? A cup of hot tea? One of those sugary monstrosities Karlach keeps bringing over?”

She shook her head and guided him down against her chest. “Can we just … stay like this for a little while?”

“Of course.” 

He let his head sink into the space above her breasts, luxuriating in the feel of her, warm and soft in his arms. The gentle thrumming of her heart, a slow, soothing rhythm that made his chest so full, he could have sworn that every now and then, his undead heart responded with a lazy beat of its own.

“I do apologize for the mess,” Astarion said. His fingers were playing with her hair, now freed from her braids. “I shall have to work on my technique — that is, if you would like to try this again. You don’t have to. I would never—”

“I do,” Zoraya said. “We’ll figure it out. Oh, and…” She hesitated, heat creeping up her neck. “No need to worry about that … other thing. I’ve been back on my contraceptive potions for a while now. You know, just in case.”

“Ah. I see.” Astarion felt his own face warm in response. A blush, courtesy of her blood in his system. “Well, truth be told, I am not entirely certain we still need to worry about that.”

“There are several reports of vampire spawn fathering half-mortal children. The chance is low, but definitely not zero.”

His head snapped up from her chest. “You researched that?”

Zoraya grinned. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I was recently involved in a High Court case all about vampire spawn and their right to personhood. Which means I had to do a whole lot of research — the bills for which are now at the Szarr estate, come to think of it. Still, it’s probably best if you keep up with your teas. For now, at least. I think today has demonstrated quite impressively how I’m not likely to make the best kinds of decisions after you’ve had your fangs in me.”

“I understand, my love.” Astarion chuckled, a sense of lightness tingling up his spine at the realization that this door had not yet closed for him. That, contrary to his expectations, this was still a future that was available to him, should they both desire it.

“I will be the very picture of responsibility. Keeping your best interests at heart, no matter how enticingly you might corner me. I must admit, though…” He let his lips brush against the soft skin of her neck, delighting in the way her pulse quickened under his touch. “I do find it rather fetching how you react to my bite.”

“It’s definitely an unexpected perk of your condition,” she whispered and pulled him into a kiss.

Her legs fell open for him, inviting him into the soft space between her thighs. Astarion rolled his hips and was surprised to find that his cock had already hardened once more. “Well,” he said, grinning. “The way I see it, I’m way overdue some good fortune, darling.” 

Chapter Text

Astarion was on his way to pass judgment.

He might not be a magistrate any longer, but perhaps that’s what made it so much fun. The delicious little tingle in the back of his neck as he eased his tools into the heavy brass padlock that hung from the gates and let its sighs and murmurs guide him until it sprung open, granting him entrance to the lavish gardens beyond. The way his chest tightened ever so slightly when he leapt from shadow to shadow, a creature one with the night, nothing but the swish of his black cloak to indicate his presence. The knowledge that he wasn’t supposed to be here — that, in theory at least, there could be guards bursting through that heart-shaped bush any moment now, yelling things like “Freeze!” and “Hands where I can see them!”

Then again, his darling advocate would surely find a way to get him out of prison. 

After letting him squirm for a few hours, perhaps.

Oh, how he loved her.

The lock on the back door clicked open just as easily, and Astarion passed the threshold with a smile of private triumph. Despite the many challenges of his condition, this was a lesson he’d learned early on: An invitation once extended to him could not be revoked. And, well, Astarion had racked up quite a few of those over the years.

He climbed up the servant’s staircase, swiftly making his way to the top floor. His Elven eyes did not require a source of light, so when he saw something flicker at the far end of the corridor, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Polly?” a tired voice called out. “That you?”

Astarion didn’t answer. He simply turned toward the wall, gathered his cloak tightly around himself, and then stepped forward, letting the world rotate ninety degrees around him as he strode up the wall. He was getting rather good at this particular maneuver. The so-called spider walk, a famed vampire technique that allowed him to retreat into the corner of the ceiling as the maid passed by, entirely unaware of his presence.

Granted, the sudden pull of gravity would almost certainly require him to fix his hair at a later point, but a man had to make sacrifices.

Astarion jumped down just as soon as the maid had left, his feet perfectly soundless on the thick brocade carpet. He’d always considered himself an elegant man, blessed with natural grace and the kind of physique that made sculptors clutch their little hammers and chisels in jubilant ecstasy. But the transformation had certainly enhanced things. He wasn’t just stronger, but also more agile, his movements fluid and precise, whether he was felling a boar in the woods or stealing his way into a posh mansion. His senses so sharp, he could make out the telltale blend of cheap perfume and unwashed flesh before he’d even reached the master bedroom, muffled gasps and sharp little cries spilling out from behind the door.

It wasn’t locked. The master of the house might call for a cool beverage once he had finished, and he certainly wouldn’t want to get up and open the door himself. Astarion approached the bed slowly, feeling the weight of the twin daggers on his hip. A custom design from Dammon and Ira, still relatively light, but with more leverage than Zoraya’s foldable version. He probably wouldn’t need them tonight, but it felt good to know they were there. A reminder that he was a predator, come to hunt. And the awful man grunting away in the tangle of limbs and sheets was his prey.

Astarion grabbed the man by his fleshy neck and shoved him onto his back. “High Judge Larkin, you have the right to remain silent,” he announced, pale fingers circling the man's throat and crushing his screams before they could rise. “In fact, I’m afraid I must insist on it. We wouldn’t want to alarm your servants, would we?”

Larkin's nostrils flared in outrage. He lifted his fist off the sweat-damp mattress — and then promptly dropped it again when Astarion pressed down on his windpipe.

Astarion smiled. “I’m so glad we understand each other.” 

He seated himself on the edge of the bed. With his free hand, he pulled down the duvet, revealing the outline of a young woman in the candlelight. A very, very young woman. She was clutching the torn-up remnants of a dress, her eyes large and full of fear.

“You may go now, sweetheart,” Astarion told her, taking care to make his voice soft and gentle. “You are the recipient of a very special scholarship, you see. One that requires you to cease all your current professional obligations and enroll at your academic institution of choice right away. Speak to your employer. He has been instructed to release you from his services and point you toward your new lodgings, where you will stay until you have completed your secondary education. After that, it is entirely up to you whether you want to return to his … establishment, or seek employment elsewhere.”

The girl stared at him for several seconds. She seemed to be waiting for some sort of catch, a bout of cruel laughter. When none came, she rolled out of bed and gathered her shoes, her eyes never leaving his as she inched toward the door.

“The honorable High Judge will lend you his coat,” Astarion said, pointing at the richly embroidered overcoat that hung next to the door. “It wouldn’t do to start the academic year with a cold now, would it?”

She snatched the coat, quick like a snake, and then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her. Larkin grunted and kicked the mattress.

“I know, I know.” Astarion turned back to him with a leisurely smile. “It sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Alas, I can assure you, it’s a perfectly legitimate opportunity. A project of one of your dear friends, Lady Iastar. She has just recently discovered her passion for helping underaged sex workers. Isn’t it amazing what people can accomplish when they’re presented with the right sort of incentives?”

Larkin’s face was red, his throat straining desperately against Astarion’s fingers as he tried to speak. “What do you … want?”

“Me? Oh, nothing at all!” Astarion gave a bright chuckle. “I just finished up my negotiations with this girl’s former employer earlier tonight, and I thought I’d let her know about the good news right away! But, now that I’m here, well…” He made a deliberate pause, his smile dipping into a smirk. 

Astarion was well-aware of what he looked like. The sleek, black hood framing his face, emphasizing the paleness of his skin. The flicker of candlelight dancing in his crimson eyes, making him look like the sort of creature parents might employ in their bedtime stories. Making up special voices for them, deep and guttural, as they talked about coming back at night to take care of those who had been bad.

Larkin’s pulse raced against his fingers. His gaze darted back and forth before settling on the corner of Astarion’s mouth, the tips of his fangs just barely visible. “I-if it’s my blood you want, I—”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Astarion scoffed. “No, Larkin, old friend. I’m not interested in that filth in your veins. I was merely reminiscing about the last time I was here. At your house. It was a little over a year ago, I believe. You were throwing a ball, and I had the good fortune of attending. Unfortunately, my lovely companion and I were still recuperating from a rather shocking incident a few weeks prior. A group of dockworkers had attacked us out in the wilderness — I mean, can you believe it? They just jumped us, entirely out of nowhere. Without Zoraya’s help, they surely would have succeeded in slashing my throat, ear to ear.”

He made a show of staring at Larkin in mock outrage, then rubbed his chin as though he was struck by a new thought altogether. “Incidentally, Larkin…” He crossed his legs, ankle resting on the opposite thigh in a display of perfect leisureliness. “I seem to recall some of the other guests talking about the attack that very night. It was up here, in your office. You were holding a secret meeting, discussing something called … Project Savagery, if memory serves. An initiative meant to inspire fear and mistrust toward the nomadic people residing outside city borders. Very successful, for a while, at least. Far more successful than the attack on my life, I dare say.”

Larkin had stopped struggling. He’d stopped moving altogether, his body frozen with fear. “It was … nothing personal,” he choked out.

“Oh, believe me, I know. And if my advocate was here right now, she would plead with me to be lenient. Show mercy and give you a chance to redeem yourself, just like I did with Lady Iastar. But you see, the difference is this…” Astarion leaned in close to Larkin’s trembling face, his voice lowering to a whisper when he added, “The blades you hired that night might have failed to kill me, but they sure as hells succeeded in hurting the woman I love. And when it comes to her, I tend to find myself somewhat … unforgiving.”

“Please,” Larkin wheezed. His chest was heaving with panic now. “Please, I’ll do anything. Pay anything. I’ll—”

“No, no, no.” Astarion chuckled, a dark, syrupy sound. He straightened himself, fingers closing around his dagger. “You’ve got this backwards, old chap. I’m not here for a handful of coin from the highest bidder. I’m here for justice.”

Larkin never managed to scream. The blade slid across his throat, leaving a perfect crimson crescent in its wake, and the pale hand on his mouth smothered the grunts and wheezes, right until the moment the honorable High Judge stilled on his bed.

It was over in under a minute.

Astarion wrinkled his nose as he stood, quickly wiping his dagger on the silk sheets. The man’s blood smelled even fouler than expected. No matter. He’d take a bath as soon as he got back home. Make sure he looked every inch the refined nobleman for brunch at his parents’ house later that morning. 

With the official opening of the Ancunín Highway only weeks away, his mother had begun to see the benefits of having an entirely novel trading route named in her family’s honor, which had led to an influx of merchant guests at the estate. Astarion wasn’t strictly necessary for these meetings, but he enjoyed showing up every now and then. There was something gratifying about rubbing shoulders with the High Society of Baldur’s Gate, drinking their wine and twirling on their dance floors, smiling and laughing along with them, while they all knew that one day soon, he might be coming to their beds, carrying blades and threats — or worse still: judgment.

It had started out small. When Zoraya’s appeal to release the last few Gur from wrongful imprisonment had been denied for no good reason at all, Astarion had taken it upon himself to repeat her arguments to the responsible clerk — not stopping until they saw things her way. 

Then there’d been Lady Iastar who’d tried to withdraw her funds from the Ancunín Highway, claiming she no longer had the means to do so on account of an unfortunate business interaction. Naturally, Astarion’s first instinct had been to come by her house and hand his dagger over to whatever poor sex worker she’d forced into her bed that night, letting them stab her as much as they liked. It was Zoraya who’d convinced him otherwise, arguing that Lady Iastar was far more valuable so long as she was alive. That providing her with the right sort of incentive would help her remember additional funds that wouldn’t just cover the expenses for the highway, but also for her brand-new scholarship initiative.

Zoraya had always been so much better at this than him. Blessed with the ability to see past her own emotions and biases, to evaluate the situation at hand and then devise a sentence that didn’t just succeed in snuffing out bad, but also promoting good. She knew when to be lenient and when to be vicious, knew how to wield the scepter of justice to maximum effect. And whenever her efforts were not quite enough to make it through the ancient walls of Baldurian jurisdiction — well, that’s when justice came at night, in the form of two silver daggers and a roguishly handsome face.

Astarion enjoyed his new role, far more than he could have imagined. There was a sense of theatrics to it, donning the sleek, black coat Nadya had given him and stealing his way through windows and servant quarters to get to his targets. Getting to skip all the boring paragraphs and bringing down the gavel right away, watching the rich and powerful cower in fear as he delivered his sentences straight to their homes. Letting them know that they were no longer untouchable — that from now on, there would be consequences for their actions, and no amount of locks or guards could keep them safe.

Astarion didn’t believe in the good in people. But he believed in the power of fear. And while he’d never been particularly good as magistrate, he found that he made for a rather excellent executioner.

Perhaps in this one small way, Cazador had been right about him. His parents’ expectations were a mold that had never truly fit him, pinching and chafing every inch of the way. It felt good to break away from it and forge his own path instead. One that wasn’t about wealth or influence or anything like that.

Just about doing what he felt was right.

Maybe in a few years, he would tire of the vigilante lifestyle. Zoraya would have her own practice by then, or perhaps she’d work as a judge — or both; who knew with this woman. Maybe then, he’d feel like settling down, doing something less flashy than stealing into mansions at night and threatening rich people. Maybe he’d even consider his mother’s offer to buy him a Scroll of True Resurrection, “curing him of the curse”, as she’d said.

But right now, Astarion did not think of it as a curse anymore. It wasn’t a blessing either — it was simply the result of what had happened to him. An amalgamation of all his choices, culminating in those twin marks on his neck.

Astarion had come to respect his choices, more than he used to. And so far, it looked like there was actually quite a bit of fun to be had with this one, now that he was rid of his master.

Speaking of Cazador …

Astarion glanced at his pocket watch, a smirk flitting across his features. He had time for one more detour before he’d head home.

Wyrm’s Rock was well-guarded, but Astarion was what you might call a frequent visitor these days. He’d long since memorized the layout and the patrol schedules, effortlessly weaving his way through the guards and into the building. He could have stolen the keys to the cell in question, could have even made his own replica, come to think of it. But he quite enjoyed opening it with his tools instead. The practiced clink of metal on metal acting as a nice little announcement to the person inside as to who was coming to visit.

Then again, calling Cazador Szarr a person might be a bit of an overstatement these days.

He hung in his usual position: hands shackled over his head, legs dangling in the air, feet just barely touching the ground. In his baggy, colorless prison robe, he looked a lot like a sail on a windless ocean, his head slumped forward, greasy black hair falling into his face. He was pretending to trance, but Astarion knew him well enough to spot the tightness in his jaw and fingers. The air of hatred and loathing radiating off each clenched muscle.

One had to get a little creative with expressing themselves once they were robbed of their verbal faculties, he supposed.

“Good evening, my dear master,” Astarion said, letting the word roll off his tongue all slow and sweet, like a piece of saltwater taffy. “How are we doing this fine evening?”

Cazador didn’t react, but that was part of the fun.

“My, oh my, what dreadful manners,” Astarion drawled. He picked his way across the grimy stone floor, easily sidestepping the myriad puddles of unidentifiable origin. “Is this how we’re entertaining guests now? Dirty floors and stern silence? And I thought you prided yourself on being such an excellent host!” 

He clicked his tongue and reached out a hand, using just his fingertips to lift his master’s head. Cazador growled — the only noise he was really able to make these days — and Astarion laughed as he watched his master’s teeth clink against the protective headgear that now adorned his face. A necessary safety precaution, as Zoraya had argued so emphatically in court.

“I must admit, this looks way better on you than it ever did on me.” Astarion ran an approving finger from the muzzle on Cazador’s face all the way down to his neck. Delighting in the shocked intake of breath when his master felt the warmth of his hand, a sharp contrast to the iciness of his own skin.

“Oh, master, you feel dreadfully cold!” Astarion tutted in mock sympathy. “Don’t tell me they don’t feed you enough down here?”

He knew the truth, of course. Had checked the court documents as soon as Cazador’s trial had concluded. It had been a short-lived affair, what with Raphael still absent and some shady Upper City lawyer filling in for him without much enthusiasm. In the end, Cazador had been sentenced to life-long incarceration for all sorts of crimes, ranging from kidnapping and sexual trafficking all the way to witness tampering and blackmail. He had been forced to revoke all commands he’d ever issued to his spawn in writing, officially releasing them from his services. And since he’d demonstrated that vampires couldn’t starve to death, the courts had decided to keep him on an exceedingly restrictive diet.

It showed, even through the muzzle. The skin on Cazador’s face was thin and papery, his features bathed in murderous greed as he stared at Astarion. His spawn, his former slave — now the glowing picture of health.

“I am fortunate enough that I get to feed on the most delectable blood in all of Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion preened, leaning in closer with a conspiratorial smile. “You see, my darling lets me take it straight from her neck. Such a sweet, generous creature — why, sometimes, she’s all but begging for it! Writhing in my lap, naked and gorgeous, using every single one of her womanly wiles to plead with me for just one more bite.” He whispered that last word into Cazador’s ear, already dancing backward and out of the way as his master threw himself forward with a roar, legs kicking wildly in the air.

“Oho!” Astarion laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself. “I see someone is in a rather foul mood tonight. I shall be a gentleman and leave you to it then. Good night, my dear master. Until next time!”

He left with a silly little wave over his shoulder, the sounds of rattling chains and muffled growls slowly dying away behind him.

Honestly — whoever said justice couldn’t be fun?

It was about an hour before dawn when Astarion arrived home. He wasn’t particularly worried about the sun — not with his magic cloak to keep him safe — but he didn’t want Zoraya to wake up in an empty house, left to wonder what might have happened to him. The gods knew she’d only start fretting and crying. Which, in her case, meant that she’d march herself down to the City Watch and threaten them with a bunch of lawsuits until they managed to locate her lost vigilante boyfriend.

Even Astarion had to admit there were better uses for taxpayer money than that.

He ignored the front door, as usual, making straight for one of the windows in the back. A man had to stay in shape, after all. Unfortunately, today’s window appeared to be jammed, only opening partway and creaking miserably in the process. Astarion would have to inform the maids, but since he already had one leg inside, he didn’t see the point of backtracking. It was really only his shoulders that posed a problem, anyway. Broader than during his early magistrate days, his body toned from his training sessions with Minsc. Still, he was a rogue. An elegant creature of the night, and he was not to be stopped by a poorly oiled window! 

He wriggled a little back and forth before hooking his foot under the windowsill, trying to get more leverage. His teeth clenched with effort as he pushed against the obstinate window, sweat collecting on his brow — courtesy of his most recent feeding — and just when he thought he was going to be stuck there until dawn, faced with the eternal humiliation of having Zoraya find him lodged in his own window like a butterfly, pinned to a corkboard wall, something … popped.

Astarion tumbled through the window and into the living room, his rogue reflexes kicking in just in time to cushion the impact. He rolled himself to his feet, one hand instinctively feeling for the daggers at his hip.

They were not there.

They were on the floor next to him. Except, they must have fallen victim to some sort of strange magic because somehow, during the course of his fall, they seemed to have grown to positively outlandish proportions, each blade now spanning the length of his entire body. It must be the blacksmith’s fault. He’d probably imbued them with some kind of spell, not realizing the disastrous side effects this might cause. Honestly, the nerves on that man! 

Astarion rose with a snort, ready to tell Zoraya about Dammon’s blunder. The way to the bedroom door, however, seemed much longer than usual. The proportions of the living room were all wrong, too. The ceilings far too high, the rug so tall, it swallowed his feet. The familiar red couch loomed in the distance with all the imposing presence of a mountain range, seemingly stretching all the way into the sky. And then there was the bedroom door, so ludicrously large, Astarion had to crane his neck and still, he could barely make out the door knob.

He reached for it anyway, habit more than anything, and froze at once, his mouth opening into a shriek of terror.

His arm was gone. In its place hung a frail, membranous little construct, a thin layer of skin spanning over an assortment of twig-like bones like an exceedingly flimsy umbrella.

“Away with you!” Astarion cried, his voice all high-pitched and wrong. “ Away!”

He thrashed at the horrible thing, trying to get rid of it, and then squeaked in panic when his body lifted clean off the floor for a second or two, the membranous excuse for an arm flapping helplessly in the air.

Was he … flying ?

Astarion stilled, allowing his feet to touch back to the ground. He made a motion as if to lift his arm and inspected the wing that now seemed to be part of his body. Because that’s what it was, really. Not an arm, but a wing — two of them in fact, one on each side. 

They were rather pretty, on second thought. Delicately shaped and white like freshly whipped cream. And if he moved them with enough force, he should be able to …

A giddy bout of laughter spilled from his lips as he rose into the air again, soaring toward the door knob. “Zoya!” he called, feet kicking against the door in an attempt to wake her. “Zoya, look! Look what I can do!”

Despite his best efforts, Zoraya appeared to be fast asleep. Maybe if he went through the bedroom window? Astarion turned, immediately losing a foot of height and narrowly avoiding a collision with the bookshelf, but otherwise looking very elegant indeed.

And then he heard it.

The sound of steps, so soft, he likely wouldn’t have heard them without that new tingly feeling in his ears.

A slim, graceful creature emerged from out of the dark, lean muscles rippling under silky black fur. The flick of a tail, unhurried, but unmistakably purposeful, like an arrow straining against the strings of its bow. A pair of yellow eyes locking in on Astarion as he landed himself on the bookshelf, tracking his movements with the rapt interest of an experienced hunter.

“Well, well, well,” Objection said, his voice every bit as regal as Astarion would have expected. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Zoraya awoke to the sound of high-pitched screeching in her living room.

It was unspeakably early in the morning, dawn little more than a vague promise on the horizon, and the spot next to her in the bed was cold and empty. Astarion must still be out on his nightly mission.

“Objection?” she called, her voice thick with sleep as she reached for her lantern and a pair of slippers. Goosebumps tingled up her arms when she rose out of bed, and she quickly pulled a bathrobe over her shoulders, covering the skimpy nightgown Astarion had persuaded her to wear the evening before.

Meanwhile, the screeching only grew louder. Something seemed to scuttle over the smooth hardwood floors, claws clattering in a frenzied attempt at escape.

“Objection!” Zoraya hissed, louder this time. Holding out the lantern as she pushed through the door and into the living room. “I’ve told you a million times: There is no torture in my house! You either kill it or you let it go!”

“Zoya!” a tiny voice chirped in response. “Zoya, look! Look-look-look!”

She looked — and nearly dropped the lantern.

Zoraya had seen bats before. They were pretty common in her neighborhood, dark trails of movement against the nighttime sky. Always fluttering away somewhere high above her head, always looking incredibly busy as they made their way to wherever it was they were going.

This one seemed fairly content with where it was. Which was seated proud and tall right atop Objection’s back, its pearl-white wings flapping with such unrestrained excitement, it was practically vibrating with it. Objection, for his part, looked remarkably unbothered. He strode toward her with a calm, dignified expression on his face, rubbing against her leg as if to say, Yes, I found your fluffy little handkerchief, sweetheart. You can thank me later.

The bat continued screaming her name.

Zoraya crouched down to get a better look at it. Something about the white fur and the bright red eyes seemed to click into place in her mind. “Uh … Astarion?” 

“Yes, darling! It’s me!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “It seems I have unlocked another one of my vampire powers! A brand-new form, possibly my most powerful yet!”

Zoraya couldn’t help it — she laughed. He was too adorable, sitting on her cat like a mighty paladin in full-plate armor, ready to ride his trusty steed into battle. Flapping his tiny wings like he very much wanted to give this whole flying business a go, but hadn’t worked up the courage just yet.

Astarion scowled and crossed his wings. “And what, my dear, is so funny about this?”

“Nothing,” she assured him, still laughing as she held out her hand. “It’s just … you’re really, really cute in this form.”

“I’m a vampire, darling. A vicious, blood-thirsty creature of the night.” He hopped onto her hand anyway, letting her cradle him close to her chest.

“And how exactly did you get yourself into this form?” she asked, fighting the urge to pet him, despite the surprising softness of his fur.

“I, er … I’m not sure.” Astarion’s eyes darted away from her, suddenly uncertain. “It might have been some sort of vampiric reflex. Expertly timed to aid my nighttime prowling, of course.”

“I see.” She studied him for a moment, his wings wrapped around himself like the bat version of a nervous schoolboy. “Well, I’m sure you’ll turn back when the time is right.”

“Are you certain?” He looked up at her, the expression on his small face so tender, her heart squeezed inside her chest. “You don’t think I’ll be stuck like this forever?” 

“Of course not.” Zoraya smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “I’ll stay with you until you turn back, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now, how about some breakfast? We could make you some — ah!”

Suddenly, without warning, Zoraya found herself flat on her back, a very normal-sized Astarion on top of her. He was quick enough to brace his weight on his arms before he could head-butt her into the floor, grinning down at her in that obnoxiously attractive way of his.

At least, he was wearing clothes.

“Well,” Astarion said, silver brows lifting playfully as he hovered inches above her face, “I’m afraid we are going to have to practice this part a little more.”

“Really? I quite enjoy it when a 200-pound man just materializes on top of me.”

“200 pounds?” he snorted. “Darling, that’s ridiculous. I don’t weigh a gram over—”

She pulled him into a kiss, long since having learned that this was the surest way to shut him up. He chuckled against her lips. His breath was cool, his hands gentle as he cupped the side of her neck, idly tracing the line of half-healed bite marks that were now pretty much permanently etched into her skin.

Some people still called him a monster, Zoraya knew. They saw the blood-red eyes and the razor-sharp fangs, the daggers at his hip and the trail of corpses in his wake. They didn’t care about the why. They weren’t there to witness the legal discussions she had with her team, carefully weighing the appropriate punishment for each criminal and how to ensure they’d receive it, even if the usual channels should fail. They didn’t know how vital Astarion was to these discussions, didn’t see the brilliance of his mind any more than the softness of his touch. The way he always kissed his way down her neck with infinite tenderness, muttering quiet words of gratitude right before he bit down. Gathering her in his lap as soon as it was over, refusing to let go until she’d had a snack or a hot cup of tea, his arms locked tight around her like a fortress as her knees stopped wobbling and the color returned to her cheeks.

Zoraya had had her reservations about the whole vampire thing, of course. Most scholars believed them to be intrinsically evil, but then, most scholars still believed that the sex of an unborn child could be determined by their mothers urinating on a piece of bark, so there was that. 

And Zoraya knew Astarion. Knew him perhaps even better than she knew herself. She’d seen him grow from a sweet little boy to a moody teenager, a lazy law student, and a lonely, aimless magistrate — all these different versions of him, every one of his facets, every little thing that made him him.

She knew that there was nothing those scholars could point to that hadn’t been there before. That this was simply one more aspect to the man she loved. The one she’d loved all her life, in one way or another. Only, Zoraya no longer felt guilty about it, or even embarrassed. Because she knew, deep down, that he was worth it. He was worth everything she’d ever done for him and maybe, with luck, she’d be able to make him realize it one day.

Realize that he’d been worth it.

For her, he’d always been worth it.

Objection took his leave, the sound of the cat door telling her that he had lived with them long enough to know how this scenario was going to go and that he had no interest in watching it. Zoraya certainly wouldn’t have minded moving things over to the couch, but Astarion was already pulling back. His mouth had warmed against hers, and he curled his fingers around the curve of her cheek, cradling her face in the palm of his hand.

“Zoya?” he muttered.

“Yes?”

“I, uh … I may not know exactly how I got into that other form. It’s very powerful, of course, once I figure out the ins and outs, but until then, it might be somewhat … unpredictable.” He glanced down at her, a silent question in his eyes. The one she’d seen countless times now over the years, the one she’d never had any trouble answering.

Zoraya smiled and reached out a hand, gently stroking back a stray silver curl. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’ll figure it out together.”