The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the scent of herbs and warm linen hanging in the air. The exhaustion of labor still clung to the air, heavy yet filled with an undeniable warmth. The healer had just finished their work, washing and wrapping the newborn in a bundle of soft cloth before turning toward Astarion.

“Here,” the healer murmured, gently placing the tiny bundle into his arms.

Astarion, who had been unnaturally still throughout the entire ordeal—his usual dramatics completely absent—let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Carefully, as if afraid he might somehow shatter the fragile thing in his grasp, he cradled the infant against his chest.

The baby was so small. Soft, warm, and with delicate, curling horns just beginning to form along their brow. Their tiny tail peeked out from the swaddle, flicking slightly as they adjusted in his hold. And when their little eyes cracked open—that typical infant blue—they looked up at him as if recognizing him instantly.

“Oh,” Astarion whispered, his voice barely a breath. His fingers trembled as they brushed over the baby’s round cheek, tracing the impossibly soft skin. He had seen centuries of horror, lived lifetimes of torment and hunger, but this… this was something entirely new. Entirely his.

He let out a shaky laugh, pure disbelief in his expression. “Look at you, my little star,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to their tiny forehead.

Beside him, {{user}} was watching, tired but smiling, warmth filling their gaze as they reached for his hand. Astarion, still cradling the baby as if they were the most precious treasure in the world, clasped {{user}}'s fingers tightly in his own. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with something raw, something real.

“They’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

The baby gave a soft, contented sound, their small fingers curling against his chest, and Astarion let out another quiet laugh—part wonder, part disbelief.