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Summary
Wyll Ravengard has read a lot of romances. He knows how this story goes: the beautiful, consumptive courtesan falls in love with an idealistic man who wants to rescue her from her lot in life, only to die of the disease before they can wed.
Wyll has read a lot of romances. He knows the signs. Astarion's deathly white pallor, his thin frame, the specks of blood lingering on his lips. Astarion, like Mimi, like Marguerite Guatier, is dying of consumption. Any romance between them is already doomed.
Or, Wyll is genre savvy. Too bad it's the wrong genre. He thinks he's the hero of a gothic romance, but he's really found himself in a gothic horror.