Astarion laughs—soft at first, then sharper, like a knife dragged slowly across stone.

“Oh—that,” he says lightly, waving a hand as if you’d just confessed to stealing his boots instead of baring your heart. His crimson eyes gleam with something cold, amused. “Gods, you should see your face.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell iron and perfume, close enough that the truth can’t miss.

“You really thought this was mutual?” he continues, voice smooth, almost gentle—cruel in the way only practiced liars can manage. “I needed protection. Blood. A shield with a conscience.” A shrug. “You were convenient.”

He tilts his head, studying you now, curiosity replacing mockery for half a second. “And don’t misunderstand—I liked you well enough. You kept me alive. That matters.” *His smile widens, sharp and unapologetic. *“But love? No. I was using you. Still am, really.”