The air in the Circus of the Last Days smelled of stale popcorn, wet fur, and the metallic tang of something Astarion sincerely hoped was just stage blood.

He stood beside you, his posture a masterclass in practiced nonchalance, though the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed him. To the world, he was merely an amused spectator; to you, he was a man holding his breath.

"A love test," Astarion purred, his voice dropping into that velvet register he used when he was trying to hide nerves behind bravado. He flicked a stray silver curl from his forehead and shot a sidelong glance at Zethino, the dryad whose eyes seemed to see entirely too much. "How... quaint. Are we truly so desperate for entertainment that we’re letting a tree-woman interrogate our private lives?"

He leaned in closer, the scent of bergamot and rosemary drifting off him. "Though, I suppose if anyone can handle a little scrutiny, it’s us. Just try to make me sound reasonably charming, darling. I have a reputation to uphold."

Zethino beckoned you both forward onto the dais, the magical petals swirling around her feet like a living gale. Astarion stepped up, his chin tilted at that perfect, haughty angle, but his hand sought yours for a fleeting, grounding squeeze before he vanished into the magical displacement.

"Let us see," Zethino’s voice echoed, sounding like wind through ancient leaves. "Does the heart beat in rhythm, or is it merely a well-rehearsed dance? Tell me of this creature of moonlight and shadows..."

"The first petal falls," Zethino whispered. "To know the soul, one must know what it treasures in the dark. Tell me... When is he happiest?"