Chapter Text
The room is dimly lit, flickering candle flames casting long, twisted shadows across the cold stone walls. You step inside, your heart hammering in your chest, only to find Astarion sprawled across his opulent throne. His fingers toy with the fabric of his finely tailored clothing, his eyes focused on the intricate patterns rather than on you. A heavy silence envelops the space, broken only by the soft crackling of the flames.
His expression is as unyielding as polished marble, devoid of warmth or the flicker of the man you once adored. Since the tadpoles were purged from your brain, a gaping chasm has opened between you. The aftermath of the Rite has birthed a new Astarion, one who wears his cruelty like a second skin.
“Your future is mine,” he announces, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He doesn’t wait for a response, his gaze dismissively averted. He knows all too well why you’ve come; this is yet another desperate plea to reach the remnants of his better self, which you fear has been extinguished forever.
“No!” you shout, frustration boiling over, the words tumbling from your lips in a rush. You keep your distance, a fragile barrier of air separating you. “I thought helping you seize this power would bring you happiness! I wanted you to feel safe.”
A wave of shame crashes over you as the weight of your words lingers in the air. You thought you were helping him to embrace freedom, power, safety—it felt like a gift. But no you realize it may have been a curse.
And the cost—oh, the cost. The worst atrocities are often committed in the name of love.
You knew it would change him; how could it not? But had you understood the depths of this transformation, you might have fought harder against his lust for power. Yet, you cannot help but feel those thoughts are selfish even as you stare at the man who now feels like a stranger.
A low, cruel laughter rumbles from his chest, slicing through the thick tension in the room like a dagger. The sound sends an icy shiver down your spine, bile rising in your throat as dread constricts your chest.
“Darling,” he drawls, his voice oozing with disdain, “I am happy and safe now, thanks to you. I was weak—pathetic—but that part of me is dead.” His contempt washes over you like a cold tide, leaving you gasping for warmth.
What have I done to him?
“You were never weak or pathetic,” you retort, clenching your fists to suppress the tremor in your hands. “You were perfect the way you were. I love you—” you catch yourself, the realization slamming into you like a physical blow, “—I loved you.”
The man before you, with his lifeless red eyes and chilling smile, is a hollow echo of the Astarion you once cherished. You’ve spent months in vain, desperately searching for a flicker of the man you loved, but all you’ve found is this grotesque imitation—an abusive shadow wearing Astarion’s face.
“Oh? That’s very cute,” he mocks, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, each note a reminder of what has been lost.
“I helped you condemn all those people,” you say, your voice rising, thick with anguish.
“You did,” he replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What a very twee surprise that was, darling. But they were hardly people—just vile vermin, rotting in cages, begging for death. Nothing more.”
That’s how he sees me now—another pest to be eradicated.
“They were people, Astarion. Innocent victims, just like you were.”
“It matters not now,” he scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as if brushing away an annoying insect. “I grow tired of this conversation. Begone.”
You tremble at his words, the truth of his cold dismissal settling into your bones. He keeps you corralled like an animal, a cruel twist of fate for the one you once loved. The hope that the man you adore might still linger beneath the corruption feels more fragile with every moment spent in his presence. With a heavy heart, you turn to leave, knowing that the love you once shared is now shrouded in shadows, the vibrant colours of your memories fading into a dismal grey.
This is how Astarion dismisses you these days, when he decides he no longer wishes to humour your antics. It's been a shocking change in his behaviour, especially toward you. You now have to request an audience if you wish to speak with him, which he will grant or deny depending on how foul his mood is at any given time. When the conversation grows tiresome for him, he will wave his hand and tell you to get out of his sight. It is surprisingly effective, and you curse yourself for ever allowing him to treat you in such a way. You may never have been the pinnacle of unwavering courage, but you hardly considered yourself to be meek.
When did I start fearing him?
Clenching your jaw, you gather every ounce of courage against the oppressive weight of Astarion’s presence. The shadows in the room seem to coil around you, dark tendrils that whisper of despair, but you refuse to let them wrap around your heart.
I will not let myself be belittled like this anymore.
“No,” you retort, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning within. “I will not 'begone.'” You flick your wrist with sarcastic flair, mimicking his dismissive gesture. “I’m not done talking to you.”
Astarion’s eyes widen slightly in astonishment at your insolence, his eyebrows arching like blackened feathers against a night sky. He lets out a dramatic huff, inspecting his perfectly manicured fingernails as if your defiance bores him. “Well, go on then; I’ll allow it.”
Why do I even bother? But desperation lingers at the edges of your resolve, urging you to try once more. “This isn’t you, Astarion.”
“Tell me, pet, who did you think I was?” His voice drips with disdain, each word a sharpened blade. “I manipulated you, seduced you, slept with you. I used you to get what I wanted—what I deserved. It was all a game, little lamb, and you played your part splendidly. Why, I barely had to try. You were easy. I’ve had dead rats resist me with more vigour than you did.”
Could this be the truth I’ve been denying? Did everything you shared boil down to another one of his schemes? The confessions under the moonlight and the stolen moments together—were they merely beautifully constructed lies, like intricate tapestries woven from threads of deceit?
Your lips tremble, fighting back the swell of tears that threaten to spill. You focus on the floor, willing the emotions to recede, but your body shakes with the effort. Every muscle in your being wants to collapse, to sink to your knees in defeat. Your heart, though dead, feels heavy, like an anchor dragging you into an ocean of despair. You wrap your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to find comfort in the void.
Astarion’s piercing gaze feels like ice, cutting through your fragile façade. “I let you turn me into your spawn. You said—”
He interrupts with a dismissive flick of his wrist, his crimson eyes devoid of warmth. “I said what I had to, my dear.” Each word lands like a punch, each syllable a blade twisted in your chest. “Now you get to spend an eternity with the consequences of your decision.”
Tears spill over, tracing paths down your pale cheeks as you mourn the loss of the man you once loved. You helped him complete the ritual, turning him into this stranger.
Why did I think it would be different?
Now, you stand in the dreary wood-paneled ballroom of the Szarr Palace—now a mausoleum echoing with the weight of shattered dreams. Astarion has whimsically renamed it the Crimson Palace, a fitting title for a place steeped in shadows and regret. The opulent chandeliers hang like ghostly sentinels, their crystal tears reflecting the flickering candlelight, each a reminder of the joy that has long since faded.
The irony gnaws at you, a bitter reminder of what was lost.
As sadness morphs into an overwhelming tide of anger, you feel crushed beneath its weight. Whether your rage is directed at him or yourself, you can’t tell. Your fists clench at your sides, every muscle coiling as you prepare for what you must do.
“You’re right. I will spend countless centuries mourning what could have been, but I won’t stand by your side as you bring Faerûn to its knees!” Your voice trembles as you force the words through clenched teeth, the accusation hanging heavy in the air, thick as the scent of stale blood that lingers in the room. “I’m leaving.”
“WHAT?” His voice explodes like thunder, venom lacing every syllable. His eyes widen with outrage, disbelief that you would dare defy him, your creator, your master. “Don’t be stupid, pet. You won’t last without me. You need me. Don’t forget—if you stray too far from me, the protection from the sun I so generously bestow will cease. You’ll belong to the shadows.” His words ooze satisfaction, as if relishing the power he holds over you.
You search his gaze, desperate for a glimpse of the home you once knew, but all you find is an emptiness that has lingered for far too long. “Then I will endure that dark future or burn,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel, the conviction behind it a flickering candle in the encroaching darkness.
His expression darkens, eyes narrowing as he regards you with a tight-lipped scowl. Danger radiates from him, a palpable force that makes your skin crawl. There was a time when you believed he would never intentionally hurt you, but that time is lost to the ether. You’ve spent too long confined, a prisoner in your own life, as if shackled by the very shadows that now envelop you.
In a desperate attempt to put distance between you, you take a slow step back. Astarion's grin widens, delighting in your retreat. He savours your fear, and you know it’s not unfounded. This version of him is not gentle.
The cold air crackles with tension, each breath you take feels like a battle against the suffocating weight of his gaze. You can almost hear the laughter of the old Astarion echoing in the recesses of your mind, a haunting melody that now feels like a dirge.
“You think you can escape me?” He taunts, his voice low and dangerous, a predator toying with its prey. “You are bound to me, for better or worse. You chose this life.” The finality of his words hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.
As you stare into the abyss of his listless crimson eyes, you grapple with the remnants of your shattered hope, and a storm brews in your heart, a flicker of defiance igniting within you.
“I may be bound, Astarion, but that does not mean I will willingly walk into the dark.” You lift your chin, your voice rising with newfound strength. “I will fight for my light, even if it means facing the shadows of eternity alone.”
But you are not sure there is any light left in you. Not since he snuffed it out.
His laughter reverberates through the room, a chilling sound that echoes off the cold stone walls. “Then let the dance begin, my dear.”
Shaking your head dismally, you let out a heavy sigh. “So be it.”
With an effort that feels akin to pulling free from a web spun from shadows and despair, you turn your back on Astarion, forcing your limbs to move through the gloom of the palace. Each step reverberates through the stale air like a distant bell tolling the end of an era. This fucking palace, now a monument to the twisted power dynamics of your relationship, looms over you, its dark wood paneling absorbing the scant light filtering through the windows, leaving everything draped in a sepulchral gloom.
Astarion stalks after you, a predator in pursuit of prey. His presence prickles against your skin, raising goosebumps like a flock of frightened birds taking flight. You can feel his gaze, sharp and hungry, raking over your form as you make your way through the cavernous halls, each echoing footfall a reminder of the chasm that has grown between you. The ornate furnishings seem to twist and warp, reflecting the horrors that have unfolded within these walls.
As you reach the grand door, your fingers graze its cold surface, the iron handle cool against your palm, a stark contrast to the warm, living world beyond that you no longer belong in. You pull it open, and pale silver moonlight floods the entryway, spilling in like liquid mercury, illuminating the dust motes that float through the air, caught in the ethereal glow.
"You wouldn't dare,” Astarion says challengingly, his voice dripping with venom, a serpent poised to strike. His face contorts into a hideous grimace of anger, and for a moment, you see not the man you loved, but a nightmare made flesh.
"Goodbye, Astarion," you reply, your voice steady, though your insides churn like a storm-tossed sea.
He had been right all along—your naivety had been blinding. The belief that you would spend eternity by his side, as he had promised, had felt like a fragile dream suspended in the air, but reality now looms like a thundercloud, threatening to rain down despair.
"Don't ever come back," he growls, fangs bared, each word a dagger meant to pierce your resolve.
You turn to catch a final glimpse of the man who had once filled your heart with laughter and love. His features, though twisted in rage, are still handsome, the moonlight dancing over his skin, casting shadows over the sharp angles of his cheeks. Even in this monstrous form, he remains the most beautiful person you have ever seen—or ever will see. Your heart, though silent and cold, leaps into your throat, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.
If you walk through that door, you know there will be no coming back. A lonely, dark eternity stretches out before you, but it’s time to let him go.
In that fleeting moment, a flicker of something softer crosses his features, a glimpse of the man you once knew. It disappears almost as quickly as it came, leaving you to question whether it had been real or merely a trick of the light.
“I wish you happiness, Astarion,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. A single tear escapes your eye, tracing a cold path down your pallid cheek, a testament to the sorrow swelling in your chest. You let the door click closed behind you, sealing away the last remnants of your shared past.
Stepping into the moonlit night, the air is crisp, biting against your cold skin as if the world itself acknowledges your departure. Each breath feels like an act of defiance against the shadows that had long threatened to consume you. You take one last glance at the door, hoping for a miracle, a sign that the man you loved still lurked beneath the layers of power and cruelty, but the silence from within is deafening.
With every step away from the palace, the weight of your decision settles upon you like a mantle of despair. You may not know what awaits you in the dark, but you are resolute—whatever it is, it will not be Astarion’s nightmare.
It has been just over a year since that night—a year of darkness, unforgiving hunger gnawing at you like a relentless beast, and learning how to exist as a vampire spawn without him. You never would have guessed that the absence of someone could feel like a physical wound, like a hollow space inside you, aching, gnawing, and consuming everything you try to fill it with.
Slipping from the small, windowless room that has been your sanctuary and prison for the past year, you descend the narrow staircase that creaks beneath your weight. Each step feels like it carries you deeper into some forgotten realm, the wood groaning as if lamenting your presence. The amber light from the fireplace flickers, casting long shadows that dance eerily along the walls of the sparsely decorated common area. The smell of wood smoke fills the air, and for a moment, it takes you back to nights spent at camp, surrounded by your friends—nights filled with laughter and warmth.
Now, warmth is a distant memory. A cruel joke.
Shadowheart sits by the fire, her sharp eyes softening as she looks up from the tome balanced delicately on her lap. The book, its spine worn from years of study, seems far too large for the fragile moment. You recognize the markings—Selunite literature, no doubt.
She closes the book with a soft thud, offering a gentle smile. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” you respond, but the lie is heavy in your throat, like bitter iron. Her heartbeat thrums in your ears—steady, relentless—like a war drum, a rhythmic reminder of your hunger. You feel your fangs ache at the sound, your mouth salivating as the scent of her blood, warm and rich beneath her skin, reaches you. It would be so easy… so quick…
No.
You swallow down the urge, the hunger that’s become your ever-present companion, whispering promises of peace if you’d just give in, if you’d just taste her blood. They all assume that you have Astarion’s restraint, his centuries of experience withstanding the call of his own hunger, but you are still new to this existence—still learning what it means to be a vampire spawn, and it terrifies you.
Gale and Shadowheart had come to find you not long after you left Astarion. They had scoured the city and its shadows until they found you—starved, filthy, and broken in the sewers beneath Baldur’s Gate. Gale had been furious, though he masked it with his usual good humour, grumbling about your recklessness and your failure to seek them out. How could you explain to him that you had been afraid? Afraid that the hunger, that primal need, would overtake you. That you would hurt them. That you would kill them.
The hunger never sleeps. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, a constant whisper of violence and desire, promising sweet, deadly release if only you would surrender. They don’t understand. How could they? They remember Astarion’s self-control, his laughter as he teased them about their tender necks. You, though, lack his centuries of practice.
You aren’t the same person they knew, and that’s what haunts you. The woman they had laughed with, fought beside, and trusted has been replaced by this… this thing. This creature who can barely look at them without wanting to sink her teeth into their throats. You’re afraid to see the disappointment in their eyes, the pity, as they realize you are no longer their friend, but something else.
Something monstrous.
They had never approved of your decision to help Astarion with the ritual. Even now, you remember their words—laced with anger, sorrow, and betrayal—as they had watched you walk back into camp that fateful morning, no longer the person they once knew, but a spawn. It had been quiet after that. The kind of quiet that burns and suffocates. Astarion had found their outrage amusing, of course. He had never cared what others thought—why should he? Power was all that mattered to him now.
Yet, despite their disapproval, they had stayed by your side. They had come for you. Even now, they fight to help you find a cure, to free you from this unholy existence, and you despise yourself for dragging them down into your darkness. Gale and Shadowheart should be living their lives, making plans for the futures they had earned after all the battles, but instead, they are trapped here with you. Stuck with a young spawn who can barely control her thirst.
I have so many reasons to hate myself now.
The argument had been long and painful when you tried to convince them that they were in danger, living with you. You had begged them to let you leave, to spare them the risk, but in the end, they had won. They had made you promise to stay, to let them help. And now you live in the spare room of their home, a constant reminder of the threat you pose, a constant test of your willpower. They vow to help you find a cure, or at least a way for you to walk in the sun again.
But even that seems like a distant hope now. Astarion had been right, of course—his ability to walk in the sun did not extend to you, not unless you were near him. And you would sooner let the sun burn you to ash than return to his side.
Shadowheart’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Would you like to join me?” She gestures to the chair opposite her, where the fire’s warmth promises a fleeting comfort.
You hesitate, the hunger twisting in your gut, but you nod, forcing yourself to cross the room and sit down. The chair creaks beneath your weight, the firelight playing across the room, casting fleeting shadows that flicker and writhe like ghosts.
For a moment, the room is quiet save for the crackling fire. But in the silence, the rhythmic pulse of Shadowheart’s heart beats in your ears like a haunting melody.
And the hunger whispers, always whispers.
“Where’s Gale?” you ask, noticing the absence of his heartbeat, the only other one you’ve come to expect in the house. The silence is louder without it, amplifying the unsettling quiet within you.
Shadowheart stretches, letting out a yawn. “He left this morning, chasing some leads again. He seemed particularly excited about them this time. Won't be back for nearly a ten-day.”
Gale, ever the scholar, has been relentlessly searching for a cure for your condition. Despite your protests, he refuses to let the matter rest. You’ve tried to convince him that nothing can change what you’ve become, but he clings to hope, stubborn as ever. And in the back of your mind, a quiet worry lingers—maybe he thinks if he can cure you, there might still be a future for the two of you. His confession in the Shadowlands still lingers in your memory, though Astarion had already taken your heart by then. Gale swore your friendship would be enough, but there was no hiding the hurt in his eyes. You just hope you’ve been wrong about his intentions.
It’s been a year, and every shattered piece of your heart still belongs to Astarion.
Shadowheart rises, crossing her arms as she narrows her eyes, looking you over. "Are you alright?" Her lips curve into a teasing smile. “You’re looking terribly pale.”
The hunger gnaws at you, relentless, but the joke pulls a tired chuckle from your throat. It’s become something of a running gag between you two since you turned—your skin, once warm with life, now pale and lifeless. In a strange way, the humour has brought you closer to her, a quiet comfort in the middle of the storm.
You roll your eyes, hiding your fangs behind an awkward smile. “Very funny.”
Her playful expression shifts to something more serious. "With Gale gone… you know, you could come out of your room more."
There’s a hopefulness in her voice that tightens your chest, a familiar weight of guilt pressing down. You rarely leave your room, only venturing out when the sun sets, and disappearing again before dawn breaks. Shadowheart had confronted you about it months ago, and you had confessed the truth—the living are difficult for you to be around. Their heartbeats, so steady, so alive, sing to you, a melody that tugs at your resolve. It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous. And you’re terrified of the day when that song lures you into losing control.
“I’ll… try,” you manage to say, though doubt coats every word.
“That’s all I ask.” Shadowheart’s smile softens before she tilts her head. “How goes the, uh… hunting?”
You groan, sinking into a chair on the far side of the room, needing as much space between you and her as possible. The hunger, the need, is a burning ache under your skin, and her scent only makes it worse.
Gods. She smells good.
Her gaze turns sympathetic. "That bad, huh?"
No surprise to anyone, you’ve been a terrible hunter. A sorcerer by training, not a stealthy rogue like Astarion, you’re loud and clumsy in the wild. More often than not, you scare off prey before you can even get close, leaving you starving most nights. It’s dangerous—your body teetering on the edge of something feral, something darker.
Even after a year, you’re no better at it. Shadowheart offered to join you once, to help with her own expertise in stealth, but the thought of being alone with her, far from help, had terrified you. The risk is too great. You wouldn’t survive the guilt if your hunger overwhelmed you.
You look up, meeting her gaze, a defeated sigh escaping your lips. “That good.”
Shadowheart forces a smile, but you can see the concern in her eyes as she studies you. You know what she’s seeing—the signs of starvation, the wear and tear on your body. Not enough blood.
“You’ll get better at it eventually,” she says softly. “It’s like learning a dance. Just takes time to learn the steps.”
Time. You can’t help but laugh bitterly inside. Time is all you have left now. Endless, hollow time.
Your jaw tightens as you bite down on the urge to inhale, desperate to block out the scent of her. “I should go. Try to find something to… eat before dawn creeps up.”
The hunger is unbearable, clawing at the last shreds of your restraint. Every second you spend here, near her, feels like a battle you’re losing. It sickens you to think about it—the craving, the temptation.
Shadowheart watches you with a mix of sadness and understanding. She knows what you’re going through, or at least, she tries to. You just hope she never gets too close to finding out the truth of how much you want to tear into her flesh right now.
“I’ll see you later, then?” she asks, voice tinged with hope once again.
You give her a quick nod before you slip out. The night air hits you like a cool slap, a welcome distraction from the heat of temptation that had been building in the house. You close the door quietly behind you, the wooden frame creaking softly as if reluctant to let you go. The moon is high and full tonight, casting long shadows across the quiet streets of Rivington.
You move through the narrow alleyways, sticking to the darkest corners, careful to avoid any passersby. It’s a routine you’ve grown accustomed to—staying unseen, unheard, while the hunger rumbles louder in your chest, threatening to consume what’s left of your humanity. Your hand instinctively curls into a fist, nails digging into your palm in an attempt to focus on anything other than the burn in your throat.
Hunting. It’s supposed to be an answer, a way to control the insatiable hunger, but you’ve failed at it time and time again. Astarion made it look so easy—moving like a shadow, elegant and swift, always in control. But you are not Astarion, and every failed attempt leaves you weaker, more desperate.
You hate it. You hate him.
You hate how, even now, he lingers in your thoughts, in your movements, in the way you stalk the night as if you’re still trying to follow his lead. A year apart, and still, he’s there in the back of your mind, his cold presence a reminder of everything you’ve lost—and everything you’ve become.
Your feet carry you into the outskirts of the village, where the trees grow thick and the ground is soft underfoot. The forest is quiet, the kind of silence that speaks of life hidden beneath layers of shadow and bark. You stop, listening. A rustle in the distance. You try to steady your breathing, to calm the thumping in your chest—not a heartbeat, but the echo of hunger, surging through your veins.
It’s there. A deer, perhaps, or something smaller. Your senses sharpen, focusing in on the sound, the scent of blood just beyond your reach. You move forward, trying to keep your steps light, trying to mimic the grace you’ve seen in others. But your movements are stiff, unnatural, and as you approach, the creature bolts—startled by your ineptitude.
You curse under your breath, frustration boiling in your chest. Another failure. Another night spent hunting shadows, coming up empty, with the hunger gnawing at you more fiercely than before. You lean against a tree, your fingers digging into the bark, and close your eyes.
I can’t keep doing this.
The thought presses heavy against your mind, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you wonder if it would be easier to give in. To stop fighting. To let the rising dawn embrace you once more before it consumes your weary corpse.
The trees sway gently in the wind, the branches casting long, skeletal shadows across the forest floor. With a sigh, you lower yourself onto a moss-covered boulder, the rough surface cool against your skin. Above, the night sky stretches endlessly, flecks of light shimmering like scattered diamonds. The quiet should be soothing, but your mind—ever restless—drifts back to Astarion, as it always does. Pleasant memories turned sour, now steeped in heartache, play on an endless loop, never allowing you peace.
Curiously, there’s been no word from Baldur’s Gate. No whispers of new nobility rising, no domineering force threatening the city. Shadowheart and Gale have spent the last year scouring every corner of Wyrm’s Crossing and the Lower City—flophouses, taverns, darkened alleys—all expecting to find vampire spawn terrorizing what’s left of the population. But they’ve found nothing. If Astarion is still scheming, he’s doing so with a level of restraint that surprises you.
"I already hear the world whispering in sweet surrender."
A shudder ripples through you at the memory, and you force it back, burying it in the recesses of your mind. Despite his conspicuous absence, you always feel him—somehow. It’s a sensation you can’t fully explain, like a shadow lurking just outside your consciousness, always there but out of reach. Cazador once spoke of a bond between creator and spawn. Could this weight you feel be that connection? A link that might allow Astarion to control you at his whim, turning you into his puppet should he choose?
How long can I go on like this? you wonder, the hunger gnawing at your insides. How did Astarion manage? He made it look so effortless, like breathing.
Even though you travelled with him, watching him every step of the way, nothing could have prepared you for how brutal the bloodlust truly is. It's not just a craving; it's an all-consuming, ravenous need that tears at your insides, clawing for release. Every waking moment is spent battling the hunger, trying to stop it from overtaking you, but the longer you go without feeding, the harder it becomes. You weep sometimes, quietly in your room, as the sharp pangs of need rip through you.
With reluctance, you rise from the boulder and begin the walk back home, each step heavier than the last. Another day of locking yourself away, hiding from the world you once cherished. You’ve thought about letting the dawn claim you, ending this relentless torment, but the courage to follow through has always failed you.
I'm a coward.
As you near the outskirts of town, something catches your attention—a scent, sharp and unmistakable: powdered iron vine.
The Gur.