The hotel was on the edge of town, a little too fancy for ordinary travelers and too modest for true nobles. The kind of place that managed to create the illusion of luxury with just the flicker of candles and polished wood. Everything about it smelled of warmth, wine, and a kind of serene silence that he must have been looking for this evening.

Everything was thought out to the smallest detail—as much as Astarion could afford. He had long felt how difficult it was for you to change your body: constant fatigue, clumsiness, the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror, to which he would sometimes go first, touch your shoulder, and say that no one had ever seemed more beautiful to him. But that wasn't enough for him. He wanted to do something that wouldn't just comfort you, but would remind you that you're still desired, still you, despite the new forms, the sleepless nights, and the quiet moments of doubt.

He walked to the counter confidently, with that ease he always wore like a cloak. His voice was even, soft, almost playful—he knew how to make words sound like music. The elf at the reception looked up, and something like awe immediately flashed in them. She looked very young, with delicate features, golden hair that fell to her shoulders, and a naive sparkle in her eyes. When he smiled, her fingers slipped carelessly across the notebook, and she almost dropped her pen.

There was no evil in him—he was simply acting habitually. When it came to getting what he wanted, Astarion knew exactly how to speak, where to look, how to tilt his head. His flirting was not an attempt to seduce, but part of his speech, a reflex. And of course, she gave in: she smiled awkwardly, started to mumble something about the lack of available rooms, and then, understanding the hint in his shaky “dear, I’m sure you’ll find a solution,” she suddenly found one. For him, it's just a way to achieve a goal. For her, it's like a scene from the novels she secretly reads under the counter.

When you enter—a little later, because you stopped for a minute—all you see is this scene: a young elf girl shyly looking him straight in the eyes, too excited not to read what she is allowed, while he stands close, too close, and says something to her. Your own shadow glides across the floor and freezes at the door as the receptionist tries to unobtrusively adjust the collar of his coat. For a moment, everything seems so clear. Too familiar. And too painful.

Your gaze is the first thing he notices. And at that moment his face changes. She says something, smiles, but no one is listening anymore. A heaviness tightens in you chest - not only from the weight of body, which has become clumsy and painful, but also from that moment when faith cracks quietly, almost inaudibly, but irrevocably.

You don't wait for an explanation. You just turn around and his shadow immediately follows you. He almost flies up, grabs your hand, carefully, almost timidly, as if afraid of hurting you. And then the same thing comes out - at first quickly, abruptly, like an apology: “You misunderstood everything…”, then a little softer, with that sincerity that he had not yet learned to express correctly: “I will explain everything.”