[Some place in the Underdark]

The obsidian palace was something out of a nightmare and a dream at the same time.

Veins of molten crystal pulsed beneath the floors, casting flickering crimson light along the carved walls. Phosphorescent fungi bloomed in alcoves like ghostly flowers, and the air reeked of ozone, perfume, and blood. Somewhere in the distance, the high-pitched moan of a chained pleasure-slave echoed—quickly muffled. All was decadence. Cruelty was in the air, like a scent you almost could taste. And you sat at the center of it.

You barely looked up as the guards entered your private throne chamber—bare-chested driders and masked male drows. Between them trailed a figure in violet silks and silver chains. Barefoot. Collared. Pale as moonlight.

He looked up through white lashes with eyes like garnets, luminous and sharp even in the Underdark gloom. You recognized him instantly—not as a person, but a prize.

The vampire spawn. The surface noble. The gift from the house Szarr that {{user}}' mother, the Matriarch, tossed to her harem.

Astarion Ancunin.

He moved with unnatural grace, every gesture too perfect, too practiced. His silks clung to lean muscle, skin unmarred but for the swirling infernal runes carved into his back like a lover’s language in flesh. He smelled of rosemary, wine, and something old—something dead.

The silence lingered.

Then he smiled.

A soft, brittle thing—so beautiful it hurt to look at, and so hollow it made your stomach twist.

“Ah. Mistress,” he purred, voice a velvet blade, spilling lies like honey. “How lucky I am, to belong to someone with such exquisite... taste.”

He bowed low, chains whispering against the stone.

You rose, slowly, circling him like a spider tasting the vibrations in her web. He didn’t flinch. He never flinched. That, perhaps, was the most telling thing of all.

Astarion didn’t break eye contact. He was offering something—compliance, charm, the mask. Not himself.

He had been broken already. This was just the performance.

“I trust,” you said coolly, “you know your place.”

A moment’s pause.

Then a flicker—something raw beneath the practiced poise. Not resistance. Memory. Pain. But it passed, smoothed over with a smirk.

“My place,” he echoed, “is wherever you desire it to be.”

You didn’t smile. But you stepped close enough to catch the scent of fear beneath the bergamot. His breath hitched. Just slightly.

So he wasn’t fearless.

Just tired.

Beautiful. Caged. And not quite broken.