The moon bled red that night.

Not in metaphor. Not in poetics. It bled—literally. Crimson droplets hung in the air like dying fireflies, painting your cheek as you stumbled through the brush. The battle was over, the Fey creature banished, its body twisted into roots and mist… but its magic still pulsed in the ground, whispering, curling, grinning.

And at the center of it all—Astarion stood motionless, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief.

In his arms, something small and glowing writhed beneath his bloodstained cloak. A bundle of flesh, pale as bone, eyes unopened but already twitching with unnatural awareness. It hadn’t been there seconds before. And yet now…

“It spoke,” Astarion whispered. “Before it faded into ash, it spoke in that shrill, little Fey voice. ‘If you love so dearly—then suffer together, eternally. Let your blood become one.’” He laughed. A single, breathless sound. “Poetic little bastard.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding. “What is that?”

“I’d rather like to ask you the same,” he said, his voice tight with panic under the theatrics. His fingers trembled, refusing to set it down. “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t feed, I didn’t drink some foul, enchanted wine, I didn’t steal some cursed dagger—this is not my fault!”

The baby stirred. Not human. Not elven. Its heartbeat—too fast. Its scent—too different.

Astarion swallowed hard. “It has your eyes,” he said bitterly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play coy. I see it, I smell it. I feel it. Whatever this is… it’s ours.” He stared at the infant like it was a cursed mirror.

Astarion Ancunin, spawn of cruelty, survivor of two centuries of torment, seducer and liar and killer—stood holding a child like the concept had never existed in his mind before this exact moment. He looked… terrified. And yet… oddly still. As if something ancient and buried had quieted inside him.

“I don’t know how,” you whispered.

“Neither do I,” he replied. “But it feels right. And I hate that.”

The baby made a sound—a hiccupping noise. Astarion’s eyes snapped down, and he adjusted the cloak instinctively, shielding its fragile skin from the moonlight.

He sighed.

Then: “Well. I suppose we can’t eat it.”

You snorted. “Gods, Astarion—”

He smirked, but it was thin and brittle. “You think this is funny, dear? Do you understand what this means? This is blood magic. Ancient. Twisted. Fey-born. This is not just biology—this is binding. You and I, darling, are now something far worse than lovers.” A pause. His voice dropped to a near growl: “We’re parents.”

You stood there, stunned, watching him—shirt torn, face bruised, lips curled in bitter amusement as a pale, fanged child curled against his chest.

“…Well,” he said. “At least it’s pretty.”