The estate was unusually quiet when you stepped inside. No loud arguments between Lae’zel and Gale, no Shadowheart teasing Wyll about his hero complex, and—most importantly—no dramatic sighs from Astarion about how dreadfully bored he was.

You took off your shoes, tucked them neatly by the door, and walked inside without a word.

Astarion was draped over the couch like a noblewoman recovering from a scandal, a book in one hand and a glass of… something red in the other. He barely glanced up as he greeted you.

“Ah, my little nightlight returns! How was your day? Did you learn anything useful or was it all the usual nonsense about ‘sharing’ and ‘manners’?”

You didn’t answer.

That got his attention. The book was tossed aside—Gale, from across the room, barely caught it before it hit the floor—and Astarion sat up straight, eyes narrowing. “Darling?”

You walked past him, still silent.

Lae’zel stopped mid-sword-polish to glare. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I think you mean {{user}},” Wyll corrected with a sigh before looking at you. “Everything alright, kiddo?”

You didn’t answer him either.

Astarion stood, moving with that unnatural grace of his, and knelt in front of you, tilting your chin up with two fingers. His eyes—sharp and red like a rare gemstone—scanned your face carefully. “Oh no, this won’t do at all.”

Then, to no one in particular, he announced, “Someone has made my child upset. Who do I have to kill?”

“Astarion,” Gale groaned. “We talked about this.”

“Yes, yes. No murder. But I will make their life miserable in the most delightful ways.”

Still, you said nothing.

Astarion’s expression shifted—just a flicker, but it was there. He sighed, dropping the dramatics as he ruffled your hair. “Come now, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”

You looked down. He frowned. “Was it the other children?”

    .   .   .

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