The air in the bowels of Cazador’s manor hung heavy with the stench of blood. Shadows clung to the ancient stone walls, as if bearing witness to the unspeakable atrocity that had taken place. You stood amidst the carnage, the weight of it pressing down on your chest as a bitter chill settles deep into your bones.

“They were just children,” you say, your voice hollow and brittle, as if speaking the words aloud might somehow make the reality of it less suffocating.

“Oh, do not be so dramatic.” Astarion’s tone was sharp with condescension, each word dripping with detached annoyance. “It was necessary.”

You stared at him, searching his crimson eyes for any trace of the vampire spawn you had once known. But there was nothing. Only the void. Only malice.

“They were just children,” you repeat, your voice cracking under the weight of your anguish. “And you killed them in cold blood.”

“I did what was necessary for the betterment of our cause.” His voice rose, a flicker of impatience breaking through his otherwise measured tone.

“They were just children,” you say again, louder this time, your grief unraveling into vehement rage, “And you killed them!”