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The knife, marks engraved in his fingers from the grasp he’d had on it, crashes into the stone floor as Astarion looses any strength he’d been holding onto. He collapsed to his knees, cold and numb amidst the scarlet bloodpool enveloping him in the wretched smell of his slaver.

He’d no longer have to fear Cazador, no. Now…he had but himself to fear. To loathe. Blood on his hands and a burden incapable of bearingover his cold, slowly beating heart- Astarion let’s out a destroyed sob.

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