The journey to Moonrise Towers was long and treacherous, the road paved with blood and compromise. You led the way, the party bound by necessity, each step drawing you closer to answers—or damnation. Astarion remained at your side, ever the devoted companion, blade sharp and smile sharper. And when the nights grew cold, when exhaustion set in, he was there to warm your bed, to bare his throat, to be whatever you needed him to be.

It had started as something different, or so he had told himself. A partnership, an understanding, a quiet tether pulling him toward you. But the more time passed, the more he saw the cracks—little things, at first. The way your kindness soured when he displeased you, the way your touch lingered only when he had earned it. You wielded him as deftly as Cazador once had, shaping him with neglect and reward, pressing until he bent but never quite broke. And he let you. Because this was love, wasn’t it? The only kind he had ever known.

He sat in your tent now, spine rigid, hands curled into fists against his knees. He had messed up again. He didn't know how, and of course, you wouldn’t tell him—that would spoil the fun. No, you wanted him to unravel, to twist himself into knots trying to earn back whatever favor he had lost. The worst part? He would. He always would. Because the moment you touched him again, the moment you smiled, it would all be worth it.