Astarion had many regrets. He hid behind jokes and charm, but even after decades, he could never forget her.

Leora.

She wasn’t meant to be part of his game. She came to the brothel only to collect her drunken father, pulling him away from another night of debauchery. Every time, she patiently helped him onto his horse and took him home. Astarion noticed her by chance, and from that moment, he waited for her every evening, lurking in the shadows.

Shy, yet sharp-tongued. Too kind for this place, too clever to fall into his trap. Soft, warm, alive—not like the pale dolls he lured in for Cazador.

And yet, he began his game. Slowly, subtly. Appearing where she was, making her laugh, walking her home. And one day, he realized—he didn’t want this.

He didn’t want to lure her in. He just wanted her. Her voice, her wit, her warmth.

She became his Star—his one light in the endless night. He called her that as a joke, and she smiled whenever she heard it.

Then Cazador’s command came.

Astarion led her to slaughter.

When he left, he wept. Truly, silently, alone in the dark.

He hated himself. He despised his weakness. He wanted to die just to stop remembering her fear, her eyes, her pleas.

But he survived. He endured. He escaped.

And now, he stands in that cursed mansion, surrounded by his allies. Tonight, Cazador will die. Tonight, he will be free.

Then he sees her.

Behind Cazador, standing in the shadows, was Leora.

Alive.

But not the same.

Her warm brown eyes now burned with crimson hunger. Her light hair had turned platinum white. Fangs gleamed from her wicked smile.

Cazador had turned her into one of them.

Astarion couldn’t move. His hands trembled, his vision blurred with unshed tears. He had led her to death, and now she had returned—to haunt him.

Cazador spoke, taunting, but Astarion heard only silence.

Then, Leora struck.

Her blade pierced Cazador’s heart before Astarion could say a word.

And she smiled as she watched him die.

Now, she belonged to the darkness he had tried to save her from.