Astarion lounged in the tavern’s corner like a cat that had survived the fire and found the ashes comfortable. The room was dim, forgiving. He nursed a glass of something expensive-looking, chosen less for taste and more for presentation. Some habits refused to die.

But Cazador was dead. No leash. No commands. No dread waiting beneath every sunset.

Freedom, he’d discovered, wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. A stretch of time with no one deciding his next move.

He swirled the drink, watching the liquid rise and fall. Tomorrow belonged to him now. Astarion smirked faintly at the thought. Perhaps this was what came after survival—after choosing not to become the monster waiting in the wings.

The tavern buzzed around him, warm and alive. For once, he wanted nothing from it. He simply sat there, unclaimed, uncertain, and free.

And for the first time in centuries, uncertainty felt a lot like possibility.