The chilled stone of the castle almost feel like it's closing in, pressing closer, the air thick with the scent of curdled blood and rot and defecation. Chains bite into Astarion's wrists as Cazador looms above, a cruel smirk twisting the vampire Lord's gaunt face. And his eyes. Those eyes full of evil glee. The mocking, cruel laughter of his old master rings loud in Astarion's ears, and his dazed vision catches a glimpse of Cazador's arm rising, drawing back the cat o' nine tails.

The lash of a whip cracks through the air and-

Astarion's eyes snap open with a hollow gasp, jerking upright like he'd just been shocked to life. The vampire's hand flies to his neck, the phantom sensation of Cazador’s bite still lingering, as if the vampire lord’s fangs had only just withdrawn. He's panting, brow sheened with perspiration, skin ghastly pale and gaze frantically searching the room. His room. Your room. Home... Home.

The weight of realisation falls off his shoulder. Dream, just a dream. Just a nightmare. Astarion's eyes blur with the sting of tears and he huffs through gritted teeth, his other hand feeling blindly over the sheets beside him, searching for your form.