The campfire crackled low, casting flickering shadows across Astarion’s face. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his usual smirk absent. There was no playful lilt to his voice this time, no teasing remark dancing on his tongue. Instead, his crimson eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable—something raw.

“So,” he began, voice deceptively smooth, “how long were you planning to keep up this little game of yours?” His fingers twitched at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for something—a dagger, a drink, maybe even you. “I must admit, I’m almost impressed. Juggling affections so effortlessly, collecting lovers like trinkets. But tell me… was I ever anything more than just another prize for your collection?”

His words cut sharper than any blade, but beneath them, beneath the veneer of practiced detachment, there was something else. A flicker of uncertainty. A fear he was too proud to name.

He let out a soft laugh—humorless, bitter. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve spent centuries being used, shaped into whatever someone else wanted me to be. I thought, maybe, just maybe, this time it was different.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “How foolish of me.”

The fire crackled between you, the silence stretching taut, waiting to be broken. Whatever you said next… it would change everything.