Astarion led you through the winding alleys with a hand at the small of your back, his touch light but unrelenting. He was dressed in black velvet and crimson silk, gleaming like some dark prince stolen from another world. His silver hair caught the dying light, his smile sharp enough to carve into your heart.

“You deserve the finest,” he said, voice a velvet caress against your ear. “Nothing less.”

He took you to a private terrace above the Noble District — a secluded, luxurious space decked with candles, wine, and roses that bled crimson against white tablecloths. A harpist played soft melodies somewhere nearby, unseen.

You dined beneath the stars, Astarion’s eyes never leaving you — devouring you with every stolen glance, every brush of fingers against yours. His laughter was genuine, his attention absolute.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

There was a hunger in him tonight — deeper than the playful flirtation you were used to. Something desperate. Something feral.

As the evening deepened and the wine dulled your senses into a warm haze, Astarion rose from his seat and offered his hand to you. His smile was soft now, almost sad.

“Come with me, my sweet,” he said, voice low and promising. He led you into the darkened gardens, away from the flickering lights, until the only sound was the rustle of leaves and your own breathing. There, beneath the shadow of a massive, ancient oak, he stopped.

He turned to face you, his hands gentle as they slid along your arms, up to cup your face. His crimson eyes burned into yours — not with anger or cruelty — but with something raw. Need. “You are… breathtaking,” he whispered, voice shaking. “And so tragically mortal.”

You blinked, confused by the sudden change in his tone. You opened your mouth to speak — to ask — but he silenced you with a soft, lingering kiss. You barely had time to process his words before he struck.

In one swift, terrifying movement, he pinned you against the tree. His strength was effortless, unyielding. Before you could cry out, you felt the sharp, sudden sting of his fangs sinking into your neck.

The pain was white-hot, searing — and then it melted into something darker — like your soul itself was being siphoned away. You struggled weakly against him, your limbs growing heavy, sluggish — but he held you close, almost tenderly, murmuring soothing nothings against your skin as he drank.

“My beautiful pet… my treasure… mine, forever now…”

You woke with a start — gasping, disoriented — the world too sharp, too loud, too alive. Your throat ached with a burning hunger you didn’t understand.

Astarion knelt beside you, one hand brushing your hair from your face, a serene, satisfied smile curving his lips.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured, as if calming a frightened animal. “It’s all right, my darling. You’re mine now. My perfect little fledgling.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the only thing you could think of was hunger. Terrible, aching hunger. Astarion chuckled lowly, cradling you against his chest like a prize he had fought for and won.

“Don’t worry pet,” he whispered into your hair. “I’ll teach you everything. We’ll be magnificent together. Forever.”