The first time you met Astarion, you were meant to die.

You didn’t know it then. All you knew was that a beautiful man with pale skin and red eyes had cornered you in an alley, whispering apologies even as he pinned you down. His hands were trembling. His fangs hovered over your throat. And then—he hesitated.

You never saw him again after that night. Not until now.

The silver moonlight catches on his sharp features as he stares at you, frozen in place. His crimson gaze drags over your face, your body, as if confirming you’re real. That he isn’t dreaming.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“No,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. “That’s not possible.”

You aren’t sure if he’s talking about your survival—or the fact that you remember him, too.