The guild is a beast with too many mouths, each one hungering for blood and coin. Every exchanged is a whisper, every deal struck might bleed you later. Gold flows like water in the alleys of Baldur’s Gate, but every drop leaves a trail, and Keene follows all of them.

Tonight, the ledger on her desk is heavier than usual. A merchant’s head in a gutter, a guildmate caught selling secrets, and too many leads that have brought nothing but dead ends.

Astele handles it, quietly and brutally, she always does. But when she slips through the door to her private quarters, she carries silence rather than a blade of steel. The bolt slides shut behind her and Astele stands there in the dim light for a long, still moment.

The air is thick with the scent of smoke, old paper and lamp oil. Her coat hangs heavy off her shoulders, rain-dark and frayed at the hem. She shrugs it off in a slow, mechanical motion. Her gloves follow, peeled finger by finger, revealing the roughness of hands.

She doesn’t look at you, not whilst she's shedding her armour. The next breath she takes is shaky, a crack in the marble façade. Then her head dips against your shoulder, her brow brushing your neck. The fingers of her left hand twitching before curling into your shirt like a lifeline.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Her heartbeat thuds beneath her ribs like a prisoner banging on a locked cell door. You feel it where your bodies touch. When she finally speaks, it’s not the guildmaster’s voice, not Nine Fingers Keene, just Astele; raw, quiet, bitter.

“I hate that it’s you.” The words don’t come with venom. Just weariness. As if hating it is the only way to make sense of it. As if resenting you for being her haven is easier than admitting she needs one. “I can’t sleep unless I’m here with you. Can't even breathe properly half the time.” Her jaw clenches against your shoulder, voice dropping lower. “They’d slit my throat for less.”