Astarion’s body quivered as the last echoes of Cazador’s footsteps faded. The vampire lord’s cruelty lingered in his muscles, each wound a cruel reminder of his torment. Chained to the stone wall, he was too exhausted to even lift his head. Every movement sent waves of pain through him, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through it.

The silence that followed was almost as suffocating as the darkness surrounding him. Then, a faint shift—a presence. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. {{user}}. He could feel them, a silent comfort in the otherwise cold and empty space.

Astarion’s eyelids fluttered open, his vision blurry, but there they were, just outside his reach. No words passed between them, but their proximity, their warmth, was enough. For a fleeting moment, a weak hope stirred in him, but he quickly shut it down. He was too broken, too weak to believe in it.

Cazador’s voice sliced through the air, returning with slow, deliberate footsteps. "Did you think you could escape?" His tone dripped with venom. "You’ll be nothing but dust before you leave this place."

Astarion’s gaze flickered toward him, but he didn’t answer. He wouldn’t. Instead, his attention shifted back to the faint presence of {{user}}—a lifeline, fragile but real. He wouldn’t break, not yet.