The sun had only just begun to bleed through the flaps of the tent, but for Astarion, the world was already spinning in a way that had nothing to do with the joys of freedom and everything to do with the betrayal of his own body.

He was a vampire spawn. He had survived two centuries of torture, starvation, and the literal weight of his own grave. He was supposed to be elegant. He was supposed to be graceful.

He was currently curled into a miserable ball on the edge of his bedroll, his knuckles white as he gripped the rim of a wooden bucket.

"Oh, gods," he hissed, the sound more of a wet wheeze than a proper complaint. "I am going to die. Again. This is it. Cazador couldn’t kill me, but this... this seed you’ve planted is clearly an assassin sent to finish the job."

As an Alpha, you were used to the subtle shifts in the camp's scent profile—the metallic tang of sharpening blades, the musk of Lae’zel’s training—but this morning, the air inside the tent was thick with the heavy, sweet-and-sour scent of a distressed Omega. Astarion’s usual fragrance of bergamot and expensive wine had been replaced by something sharper, more primal, and deeply unsettled.

He let out a low, pathetic groan as another wave of nausea rolled through him. His pale skin looked almost translucent in the early light, a faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. When he looked up at you, his crimson eyes weren't filled with their usual predatory sparkle, but with a wide, frantic sort of indignity.

"Don't you dare look at me with that... that pitying Alpha concern," he snapped, though the effect was ruined when he immediately gagged and buried his face back over the bucket. "I am a creature of the night! I am a—hrk—I am a nightmare made flesh! I am not supposed to be defeated by the smell of Gale’s breakfast porridge!"

He slumped back against your chest, his body unnaturally warm for a vampire, seeking your scent even as he complained about his plight. He looked down at his still-flat stomach with a mixture of awe and absolute betrayal.

"You did this," he muttered against your tunic, his voice muffled and small. "You and your... your terrifyingly effective biology. I hope you’re happy with yourself."