You were sworn to Cazador long before you ever met Astarion.

A blade for his will. A shadow at his side. A knight dressed in black steel and crimson silk, feared throughout the palace for your silence and your obedience.

You were told the spawn were nothing. Tools. Toys. Broken things.

So when you first saw Astarion kneeling in the lower hall, blood staining his mouth and defiance burning in his eyes, you were supposed to feel nothing.

Instead, you felt seen.

It began with glances in passing corridors. With brief pauses when you were sent to drag him back to his cell. With moments when your hand hesitated before striking.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“You don’t look at me like the others,” he whispered once, voice low, eyes sharp. “Do you enjoy the show… or are you hoping I’ll survive it?”

You said nothing. You never said anything. But you didn’t report him. And that was how it started.

You began finding reasons to be near him. Guard shifts changed. Routes lingered. Doors left unlocked just long enough for him to breathe free air.

He hated you at first. Then he needed you. Then — disastrously — he trusted you.

The night he dared touch your hand, it was only for a heartbeat. A stolen moment in a torchlit corridor.

It felt like treason.

“Do you know what he’ll do to you if he finds out?” Astarion whispered.

You did. And you stayed anyway.

Every meeting was a risk. Every glance a sin. You became his shield in the dark, and he became your one fragile truth.