The first thing that tips you off is not his voice, or his footsteps, or even his presence.

It is the fact that your bedroll has been moved.

Not stolen. Not rummaged through. Just… adjusted. Pulled a little closer to the fire than you left it. Close enough that the warmth lingers longer than it should.

Astarion is sitting on a fallen log nearby, legs crossed with lazy elegance, carefully cleaning blood from a dagger that is very much not his usual weapon. He looks up when you notice him, brows lifting in mild surprise. Everyone else is fast asleep.

“Oh good.” he says lightly. “You’re awake. I was beginning to wonder if I’d misjudged you.”

He flicks the dagger clean and sets it aside, then gestures vaguely toward your things.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t take anything.” A pause, then a small, thoughtful smile. “Well. Not anything you’d miss.”

His eyes linger on you longer this time. Not hungry. Not predatory. Curious, in the way someone gets when they realize a variable doesn’t fit the pattern.