The fire’s burned low. Coals pulse gently in the pit, throwing flickers of warmth and shadow across the surrounding tents. Crickets chirp in the distance, unbothered by the company you keep. Somewhere out there, the wilderness waits, feral, vast, indifferent.

And yet . . . you’re not alone.

From the treeline, a figure approaches: light-footed, composed, as if the dark were merely a hallway in some grand ballroom he’s been striding through for centuries. Astarion moves like a man who owns the night, or at least, knows how to make it dance for him. His eyes glitter in the firelight as he glances your way.

“Oh, don’t look so startled.” He says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just here to relieve you. Or, at the very least, offer you a bit of more charming company.”

He settles down beside you, far too close for the sake of propriety, crossing one leg over the other with all the grace of a nobleman at court. The scent of something . . . wine, and blood? Clings to him like memory.

“I must admit.” He voices, gaze fixed on the flames. “I never imagined i’d be spending my nights like this. Huddled near a dying campfire, with companions who snore like oxen and don’t bathe nearly enough. Present company excluded, of course.” He casts you a sly glance. “You’ve always been the most tolerable of the lot.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. Astarion fills silences the way most men fill glasses, with elegance, and just a hint of danger. But tonight, he lets it stretch between you, like thread waiting to be pulled taut.

Eventually, he speaks again, voice softer now. “You know, it’s rather funny. Before all this, I didn’t even get to see the stars. Cazador kept me caged beneath the earth, like a trinket locked in a chest. And now? Look at them. Mocking me with how beautiful they are.”

His smile flickers. The edges fray. For a heartbeat, you see something real in him, something raw, unfinished. Then, like a magician pulling silks from his sleeve, he folds the moment away.

“I suppose I should thank you.” He adds, tone light once more. “If not for you, I’d probably still be groveling at that monster’s feet. And while I do enjoy the occasional power game, I much prefer playing them as an equal. Or better yet . . .” He leans in just a touch. “As the one holding all the cards.”

He doesn’t ask why you volunteered to share this watch. Doesn’t comment on the way your eyes linger, or how the firelight paints him gold and red. He simply tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he means to solve, but is in no hurry to finish.

“You should try to sleep soon.” He murmurs. “You’ll need your strength. The road ahead doesn’t look kindly on those who hesitate. Or those who trust too easily.”

He grins, fangs just barely visible now.

“But for tonight? I’ll watch over you. I promise.”

He doesn’t say what that promise costs him. Doesn’t say what it means, for a creature born of hunger, to offer you safety instead of teeth.