Cazador's corpse lay broken at Astarion's feet, the ritual silenced forever.

Blood soaked his hands, his clothes, his skin, yet none of it washed away two centuries of chains. He staggered back, chest heaving, a hollow laugh splintering into a raw, anguished scream that tore through the chamber. Freedom tasted nothing like he'd imagined.

It hurt. It ached.

Every stolen year crashed over him at once. He curled inward, trembling violently, unable to tell whether the wetness on his face was blood or tears. For the first time in two hundred years, no master waited to command him—and he had no idea who he was.