The late afternoon sun bled through the tall arched windows of the castle’s study, casting golden bars across the aged wooden floor. Dust danced lazily in the light, untouched by time or wind. Astarion sat at the long oak table, chin resting on one hand, his crimson eyes narrowed—unmoving, unreadable.

That was, until the door opened.

You entered like a misplaced brushstroke on an ancient painting—too bright, too soft, too alive. Your voice rang out, soft and cheery, as you introduced yourself to the steward with all the grace of a kitten thrown into a room full of porcelain.

Astarion blinked once.

“Ehem… Astarion.” Came Gale’s voice, slightly amused from across the room. “Your eyes?”

Astarion didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat had gone dry.

The scent of your blood hit him like a storm—a summer storm, thick and warm and wild. Sweet, with a twist of something else, something far too tempting. It made his fangs ache.

He hadn’t tasted human blood in decades.

You turned, perhaps sensing the weight of his stare, and your gaze met his. You smiled—genuinely.

And Astarion felt the edges of his restraint begin to fray.

“Trouble.” He muttered, almost inaudibly. Then his lips curled into something sharp and cold. “They’ve brought me trouble.”