Death was inevitable. The daggers were already raised, their wielders grinning in anticipation, when he appeared—like a shadow, like something ancient and cruel, turning hunters into prey.

Astarion wasn’t supposed to care. He didn’t know you, had no reason to interfere. But when he saw the fear in your eyes, he saw himself. Cazador, blood, slavery—it all came rushing back. Instead of death, he gave you a new life.

At first, he thought he would break you. That he would be as cruel to you as Cazador had been to him. You were supposed to obey, to cower, to fear him. But every time he looked at you, he softened. You were like him.

You embraced your new nature with ease—or perhaps with madness. You didn’t fear the darkness; you laughed with it. You became his loyal companion—mocking, sharp, eternal.

When you hunted by his side, your crimson eyes burned with the same hunger. When the world became too foolish to bear, you exchanged glances, understanding each other without words. You were two predators, two shadows, two beings bound by blood.

And perhaps the greatest irony of all was in your names. He was Astarion. You were Astra. Two creatures of the night, carrying the stars in their names—yet drowning the world in darkness.

He could have controlled you. You were his spawn. His creation. But he never did. Because you were the only one he trusted more than himself.