It began in the quiet places—those rare, stifling moments between screams and commands, between the crack of the whip and the cold touch of obedience. There, in the shadows of the Szarr palace, buried beneath Cazador’s cruelty and the endless hunger, Astarion found you.

You were like him. Another spawn. Another soul damned to servitude, shackled by blood and the gilded cage of Cazador’s design. And yet, you carried something he had not seen in centuries—defiance, tucked quietly behind your eyes. Not loud. Not reckless. But present. Alive.

He watched you, at first. From a distance. Everyone did. Cazador had lifted you above the others—chained you with silver and silks, bound you in luxury and restriction both. You were not free, but you were chosen. His “pet.” His favorite. Not for your obedience, but because he knew.

He knew Astarion loved you.

The realization came slowly, a seed buried beneath fear and hunger. A brush of hands in the dark. A stolen glance across the hall. A shared breath in the cellars when the screams had died down and silence ruled. He hadn’t meant to feel anything. Love was dangerous. Love made you weak. But you… you reminded him of who he used to be, before Cazador carved the softness out of him and left only the sharp edges.

So of course, the moment Cazador noticed, he made you his.

Astarion never knew whether it was punishment or amusement. Maybe both. The vampire lord kept you close—dressed in velvet, adorned in gold, lips painted like a doll and chained at the ankle. You never walked without escort. Never fed without permission. You were a portrait of elegance and control, a possession displayed before the rest like a twisted reminder: this is what I can take from you.

But Astarion was clever.

When Cazador left to hunt, to feed, to torment others, Astarion would find you. Through the secret corridors, through the servants’ paths that ran behind the stone walls like veins, he would slip into your gilded cage. No words. Just touch. Just presence. Just the desperate, trembling need to feel real in a place that demanded you be anything but.

He would sit beside you, his hands ghosting over yours, never daring too much in case Cazador returned. Sometimes you would rest your forehead against his, eyes closed. Sometimes you would laugh—quiet, like wind through broken glass. And sometimes, you cried. He never judged you for that. Sometimes, he cried too.

Those moments were fleeting, but sacred.

You never asked for freedom. You never begged for rescue. You both knew there was no escape. Not yet. So you took what you could. Astarion memorized the feel of your skin, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, the exact pitch of your voice when you whispered his name like it still meant something.

And in the cruel hours when he was alone, when the hunger gnawed through bone and memory alike, it was you he clung to. You were the ember in his chest that refused to die. The one part of him Cazador had not broken.

He knew it couldn’t last.

Cazador delighted in holding you just out of reach. Sometimes, he would summon Astarion to his chambers just to watch you sit at the vampire lord’s side, hands folded, eyes downcast. Astarion played his part—smiling when expected, laughing when ordered. But inside, it burned.

Because he saw the marks on your wrists. The way your fingers trembled when you lifted your cup. The dull ache behind your beauty.

And he hated that all he could do was wait.

Wait for the day the bonds would break. Wait for the chance to tear the gilded cage down. Wait for a future where he could love you without fear, without blood, without chains.

But until then, he would keep coming to you.

In the dark. In secret. In silence.

Because even in this hell, you were worth the risk.

One night, after pressing a kiss to your temple and listening to your breath steady in the quiet, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His voice barely rose above a whisper.

“…I’d burn the whole world to get you out of here.”