Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Astarion wakes with a laboured gasp, choking on his own congealed blood. He wishes he could say it’s the first time, but at least it’s the first time in a while.

It takes a few moments for him to realise what is wrong with the place. It’s fucking freezing, fresh powdery snow soaking into his silken summer blouse, and his head is still spinning from the blow he’s been dealt. His vision spots as he tries to flip over onto his side, and his ears are ringing, a high-pitched whine reverberating through his head, and it’s so fucking bright—

His breath leaves him in a whoosh, puffing and swirling in the frigid air before his eyes.

He struggles to his knees and gazes around the snow-covered forest in awed horror.

It’s so bright; an endless sea of white snow and dark trees are all he can see. Beyond the clearing is pure white on all sides, branches disappearing as swirling snow begins to smudge them out of perception, the wind so intense it’s shrieking.

Astarion has never seen anything like it.

Not only is it something foreign for summer in Baldur’s Gate, but it’s…

It’s been a very long time since he saw something so bright.

At all.

Such is life for a creature that cannot exist under the deadly rays of the sun.

Astarion looks up, seeking the wretched thing, anticipating that he’ll catch alight at any moment despite the incredible chill of the clearing.

The snowscape remains empty, and he remains alive, blinking blood, spots and aggressive snowflakes from his eyes as they try to adjust to bright light for the first time in… decades.

Decades.

He chokes out a disbelieving laugh, wondering where in Faerûn he could be, that the snow falls so thick it diffuses the sun.

So concentrated that he is able to walk under it without burning.

Astarion has never heard of such a place. And… and neither has anyone he knows, which doesn’t bode well.

He’s alone, he’s injured, and the snowstorm will have to wane at some point, leaving him at the sun’s mercy, indeed. The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s not anywhere close to Baldur’s Gate.

He can’t be, in the snow.

Yet if he isn’t in Baldur’s Gate, where is he?

And more importantly, what happened to Petras? Is he out there even now, sheltered and stalking?

All Astarion can do is push forward, walking into the blizzard and hoping he finds cover quickly.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll’s feet fly over slippery cobblestones as he pursues his quarry —though unlike the last time he made a mad dash through Baldur’s Gate like this, he can’t see, hear, or feel his target— he’s flying blind.

He’s never felt so panicked.

Astarion is gone.

Astarion is gone, and he can’t feel him anywhere.

“Wyll,” Ulder calls behind him, alarmed. “What is—?”

Wyll clatters down Black Eel Street mindlessly, cobblestones giving way to creaking wood as he finds himself on a small pier. He slows to a stop before the end, thick fog obscuring his view of the Gray Harbour, the Seatower of Balduran that should loom high out of the water to his right.

He feels like keening, like a wounded animal, releasing some of the tempestuous feelings clouding his thoughts and instincts, akin to the hideous fog that consumes the Lower City of the Gate.

Heavy footsteps follow him onto the dock.

He’s surprised his father and Blaze Portyr have managed to follow him at all. The fog is so thick that he barely sees two feet before him.

“I can’t feel him,” Wyll attempts to explain, his breath seizing in his chest. “He’s— I don’t know where he is. I always know where everyone is. And I can’t—”

Wyll realises with a dawning horror that he can’t feel anyone. It’s as though the entirety of Baldur’s Gate’s population has been stolen away, leaving Her Heart empty and bleeding for lack of children to protect and nurture.

“Calm yourself,” Ulder says firmly, his hand resting on Wyll’s shaking shoulder. “You’ve dashed through almost the entire Lower City in your panic. We’ve wasted time, and we’re no closer to finding him. Let me help you, son.”

Wyll chokes on a sob, forcing himself to turn and face his father despite his lack of composure. His cheeks are wet, fog-damp and trails of tears mingling with frantic sweat, and he’s gasping, feeling as though his lungs won’t cooperate and allow him to suck in enough oxygen.

Ulder is right; with calm comes a modicum of clarity, and Wyll finally breathes easier once he realises that he can still feel the Heart of the Gate. She is alive and well, and so is everyone in the Gate, they’re just muffled by the accursed clag.

Even so, there’s no sign of Astarion, and that’s… it has to be a trick.

Wyll would know if he’d… if he was…

“He— he wandered off while we spoke,” Wyll manages, eyes darting between his father and Blaze Portyr.

“Yes, he said,” Portyr confirms, her mouth twisting. “He couldn’t have gone so far, though, Wyll. It wasn’t long.”

Wyll shakes his head, crossing his arms to stave off the chill seeping into his very bones. “No, no, it’s… something was moving towards him. Something unnatural.”

Ulder’s gaze narrows, concern bleeding away in favour of the stern focus that makes him such an effective leader. “His master?” he ventures, even though they both know that Cazador is dead.

Wyll doesn’t know. It had seemed almost familiar. Almost, but not quite, like someone he’d met before, but different— “I think…” He clears his throat, his voice strengthening with his resolve. “I believe it may have been one of his siblings. His fellow spawn, that is.”

Portyr steps closer, intrigued. “His— there were more of them?”

“Four, I think.” Wyll tries to remember. There had been Aurelia and Petras and two more that had perished or otherwise disappeared in the chaos of the fire. Violet and Dalyria. “Two perished when Cazador did. Presumably.”

It doesn’t mean much if Cazador is still alive. They could have cheated death, just like their master.

Wyll can’t rule out anything at this point. He doesn’t know what magic could be powerful enough to dampen his connection to the Gate, but it can’t be so simple as one or two vampire spawn. Even a powerful Vampire Lord cheating him of something so integral to his person from afar feels like a stretch.

He refuses to believe he can’t feel Astarion because he’s already dead. He can’t think like that.

“Blaze Portyr and I will return to the Seatower and gather a group to search for him.” Ulder lets Wyll go, but holds his gaze beseechingly. “You would do well to gather your allies and do the same, Wyll. Use all the resources you have, and you will find him.”

The last of Wyll’s panic finally recedes, his uncontrollable shaking settling and allowing him to finally take a deep breath. “You’re right. Thank you, Father.”

He’s not alone in this. Not anymore.

Even his father is willing to help him find Astarion. It’s more than he ever would have dared to dream before his return to Baldur’s Gate.

Circumstances have changed. He has changed. He doesn’t need to spend hours running through the streets of Baldur’s Gate, hoping to stumble upon a clue by himself.

Wyll has friends. He’s got Astarion’s family, his motley little bunch of people who rightfully adore him, people who would search the entirety of Faerûn to find him.

Wyll has been thoughtless and irrational. He’s allowed his emotions to get the best of him and send him spiralling. He needs to think.

Ulder and Blaze Portyr leave swiftly, calm and focused now that they have a mission to pursue.

Wyll retraces his steps in their absence, trying to figure out where he lost Astarion.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Astarion could be walking in circles for all he knows. No matter which way he turns, it’s all just endless white. His soaked boots crunch through the snow —it’s getting deeper, swirling about his calves now and making his forward trek increasingly more exhausting— but if he turns back to look for his own footsteps, he can’t see them.

It’s too bright, too stark.

He hasn’t even seen a tree for… maybe twenty minutes?

Gods, he’s so lost.

Every breath stings his frozen nose, frigid and damp-smelling air slicing through his throat and into his laboured lungs, so he holds his breath as he goes. He’s not used to shutting off the things that make him seem human to others; it’s strange to walk without breath and to see without blinking.

Though after a while, he has to stop and close his eyes, as they too grow fatigued from the overwhelming brightness of the blizzard.

He stands with his palms covering his eyes, wondering if there is anything to be gained from covering them, his hands like blocks of ice themselves. The flurries swirl around his numb body, climbing ever higher.

Perhaps, if he stays here a while, he’ll freeze. Become some forgotten statue in this frozen wasteland.

Before him, there’s a crunch.

He flinches, dropping his hands and staring into the desolate rift.

For a few moments, he thinks he’s stumbled across a wall of ice, perhaps some kind of enchanted mirror.

Yet no, the man standing before him, though very much his doppelgänger, looks slightly different.

“You sure took your time,” the Mirror Astarion says, crossing his arms. “Follow me, I’ve shelter and a fire.”

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Baldur’s Gate feels more foreign than it had upon Wyll’s return, his lessened awareness of people around him discomfiting. As unnerving as it is, the fog is his only companion as he flits quietly through too-still streets.

At this hour, the streets should be busy with people trailing between their favourite taverns, pubs, and other establishments that come alive at nighttime. Yet he doesn't encounter a single soul, even in the broadest, most populous streets.

He meanders to the courtyard in the lower city where he’d last felt Astarion’s presence. Like everywhere else, it’s shrouded in thick fog, though maybe the lights in the courtyard are enchanted red because the mist looks denser and almost bloody here. He looks around warily, hoping for clues, but it’s virtually impossible to see through the fog, no matter how much he tries to wave it away.

In the courtyard's centre is a large old fountain, eroded and dried up but still pretty. It depicts a human woman —plain clothed and unremarkable— pouring a large urn of water into the flat pool making up the basin. The walls around the fountain are high, making them a nice seating area for patrons of the nearby tavern, The Fool’s Fortune. It was likely lovely in its day, with the large fountain and the unique mosaic pavement, so unlike the signature cobbled streets of the lower city.

Now, whatever other taverns or shops that used to provide the plaza with lively patronage have moved on. The abandoned stores have become flophouses or just defunct, abandoned storefronts. The inn is still open, but the clientele is likely much less respectable than it used to be. The fountain, which was once a spectacle, is now another broken landmark amongst hundreds of others; the anonymous figure’s water, once flowing, is now replaced with thick fog.

The mist looks as though it is pouring from her urn.

He watches for a moment, entranced by the rusty, swirling brume.

Wyll wonders if Astarion had done the same, wandering into this courtyard and becoming distracted by the oddly compelling fountain. Nothing is fascinating about it, there’s no reason it should be so hard to drag his eyes away—

His eyes trail over it, and he steps closer, seeking something, and it dawns on him slowly and with no small sense of horror.

The statue appears to be crying, dark trails of liquid running down her indistinct face. They aren’t tears, though. They are too messily splattered, as though they had sprayed in an arc from nearby.

Blood.

It’s blood, turning rust-dark as it slowly dries and seeps into the dark stone.

It’s Astarion’s; he does not doubt that. He knows, instinctively, that Astarion was dragged away from this place, though he’s not sure why or how it was here. He crouches, inspecting the fountain's edge, looking for more splatter.

Instead, he finds what appears to be a trapdoor.

He swallows, memories of poring over tales of the Undercity as a youth coming back to him. The ruins beneath Baldur’s Gate are famously labyrinthine, and infested with all manner of monsters, so if time is of the essence, tracking Astarion through a confusing warren can only complicate matters further.

And if not the infamous Undercity, where else?

The sewers?

Has one of Astarion’s siblings absconded with him into the tunnels beneath the Gate?

There is only one way to find out. But first, he needs to regroup and gather his allies.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Like Astarion’s strange twin, a small cottage appears suddenly and without ceremony. It’s unremarkable, the fieldstone foundations caked with snow and the vertical planks that make up the siding stained and swollen from water damage. The A-frame roof is intact, though it must be straining under the weight of thick snow and collapsed trees that eclipse it.

The door creaks open with a groan, and Astarion’s double heads inside without pause.

The cottage appears to be little more than a fire pit and a stone floor mostly covered in fabric and hides, but it’s significantly warmer than outside.

The doppelgänger seems unbothered by his presence, seating himself at the fire and stoking it, intent on the rising flames.

Astarion takes a few moments to breathe, now that the cold and wind don’t make it so painful. “What are you?” He says after a long pause.

Astarion’s double tilts his head, peering up at Astarion. His eyes reflect the flickering flames, turning them amber-white rather than their usual colour.

That’s one of the differences between them.

The double lacks the awful scar Cazador’s fangs left in his neck and the wine-darkness that has coloured Astarion’s eyes for decades.

Aside from that, they’re identical in every way that matters.

“I’m you,” the double imparts, sounding disappointed. “The you that was. The you that is. The you that could be.”

Astarion pinches his brow, sighing. “This is too confusing,” he gripes. “How are you me?”

There’s something uncanny about the way it moves, a casual head tilt and crooked smile that doesn't seem human, that verges on predatory. Astarion wonders if that’s what he looks like to others and, if so, how he’s ever gained any allies.

“How are you able to walk in the sun?” The Other Him asks. “How are you in an endless expanse of snow, when before you were stuck in Baldur’s Gate like you’ve always been?”

Astarion scowls at him, crossing his arm. “You’re an arse,” he groans. “Gods, is this what I’m like to talk to? It’s a wonder anyone has ever bothered trying to hold a conversation—”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Not-Astarion snaps, right up in his face, perilously close all of a sudden. “Who am I? I’m why you were able to survive decades of abuse without going insane.”

Astarion’s back thumps against the door, which seems a lot more solid than it had been before. The room itself feels more substantial, the inescapable frigidity and howl of the wind suddenly pausing, leaving a yawning silence but for the merry crackle of flames.

“I’m in my head,” Astarion realises. “None of this is real, it’s… you’re an illusion.”

“I’m you,” the Double repeats, but this time there’s something sorrowful in his voice. “The you that protects your mind from suffering.”

Astarion swallows hard, seeking any trace of deception in unfamiliar, colourless eyes. He can’t hear or see anything to dispute this Astarion’s words.

“So I’m…” His voice fizzles out like a failed spell.

Suffering.

He shudders, wondering what he’s being saved from. If it’s just Petras, or if Cazador is still alive. If he is, this long-awaited punishment, over a year in the making, has scared this strange version of him that is still used to this treatment.

It doesn’t bode well.

The other Astarion grimaces, his eyes darkening. “It’s repugnant,” he agrees, stepping back from Astarion. “Just… trust me to handle it. Stay where it’s warm and safe, and your good memories can’t be tainted.”

It sounds like a splendid deal.

It sounds almost too good to be true.

Astarion’s never been fortunate enough to escape the horrors he’s been through before.

Yet he can’t deny it’s such a compelling, tempting offer.

The doppelgänger watches him closely, awaiting his answer.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll has been so Gods-damned blind. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t seen it before.

The fog surrounding the Szarr Palace is stained carmine-red; its twisting roils like a living shroud, obscuring the horrors within. He knows the red fog wasn’t present before; he’s too perceptive to have missed something so blatant.

The complete absence of the Heart beneath his feet, though… The way he can’t feel everyone within the mansion, can’t tell where they are or even if they’re alive… How hasn’t he noticed? How has the absence gone amiss for so long?

Perhaps he’s been too wrapped up in Astarion to notice, but even so… it’s odd. It’s odd and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t like thinking about how long it’s taken for him to realise.

The mansion is silent and dark when he clatters inside. The main hall is abandoned, and icy dread slides down Wyll’s spine at the sight. It’s not normal; the hall is usually bustling with activity, especially early in the evening. He’s never seen it so dark and ominous; Mayrina would have at least lit the sconces and the chandelier. Something is—

Something is wrong.

Wyll swallows, glancing around with wide eyes. The barest flicker of light shines through the closed door of the ballroom down the left hallway. There has to be someone there, and there has to be some explanation.

His steps are loud in the gloom, each movement interrupting the strange carmine fog that swirls up to his knees, blanketing the floor. If something has happened —if someone is hurt— he won’t know they’re on the floor until he treads on them.

So he has to move slowly, despite all instincts screaming that he must move fast, to ensure everyone is alive and well.

He needs to make sure Astarion is alive and well.

Wyll pushes forth, vulnerable without his armour and especially his sword. He knows he doesn’t strictly need it to fight; Ansur has ensured he can fight without it. He supposes he’s just never had to before. How will he be able to do so if he’s not at his full power? If he’s unable to fight effectively because he’s unarmed and without protection?

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then opens the doors swiftly and silently.

The bright lights sting Wyll’s eyes, but he forces himself to keep them open in case he’s walking into an ambush. Still, he has to blink rapidly to adjust, and that takes time he doesn’t have—

“Wait!” Someone yells. Mayrina. She sounds distressed.

He stops immediately, staring at the scene before him.

Mayrina is not far from the door, frozen with anticipation. Farther inside is Gale, his hands up before him, visibly shaking with the effort of remaining still.

And then, only a few metres from the door is Connie.

Her wide eyes catch his, and he sees her lips form his name through her tears. The tears drip down onto the hand against her neck in slow motion, Wyll locking onto the sight of red, claw-tipped fingers so close to her vulnerable throat.

“I’m sorry,” Aurelia sobs, her voice garbled through her tears. “I’m so, so sorry. I can’t fight him anymore; I can’t.”

Wyll spreads his hands, mimicking Gale’s posture. “Aurelia,” he begins, trying to keep his voice calm. “Aurelia, I want to help. I can help, but you need to let the child go.”

Aurelia sobs harder, her clawed hands shaking. “I can’t— he wants an offering—”

“So take me,” Wyll says firmly. “Take me to him, and — and let me find Astarion. Please. Let her go.”

Aurelia hesitates, her eyes meeting his.

They’re wide and desperate, and he’s terrified that the palpable panic in the room might push her to do something rash.

“Aurelia,” he pleads. “I know you’re stronger than this, better than this. Let Connie go.”

Aurelia’s shoulders slump and begin to shake as she descends into uncontrollable sobbing, apologising repeatedly. She lets go of Connie, leaving her thankfully unharmed.

Connie bolts, sprinting over to Gale, who meets her halfway.

Mayrina isn’t far behind, her face wet with horrified tears.

“Okay,” Wyll says, edging past them to put himself between the little group and Aurelia. “Take me to — to where he’s keeping Astarion.”

And just as he finishes speaking, the room erupts.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

“I can’t,” he realises.

The other Astarion snorts. “I know.” He sounds resigned, yet amused, like he knew the answer without posing the question. “Why did you have to go and fall in love? It’s made you all soft and hopeful.”

Astarion can’t fault himself for that. He’s felt better in the past few months than he ever has before.

He might change his tune once he’s out of this safe corner of his own mind, but that’s something he’ll have to avoid thinking about if he wants to get out of here.

“It’s a shame,” the Other Astarion admits, something sharper, more fragile in the set of his face. “I’ve wanted to rip Cazador limb from limb for a very long time.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, holding out a hand. “You’re me, too. If I kill him, you get the honours as well.”

The doppelgänger frowns down at Astarion’s proffered hand, pensive. “I’m the worst parts of you,” he reiterates. “All the broken glass and worst thoughts you’ve ever had. Wyll—”

“Wyll has accepted me as I am, no questions asked.” Astarion is almost taken aback at how strongly he believes what he’s saying. “Maybe he hasn’t seen all the trauma, all the damage. When he finds me, he will. I can’t hide now, it’s far too late for that.”

The doppelgänger disappears, and Astarion is left looking into a small, empty room. It had been changing, solidifying as he’d spoken to his other self, but now that he’s alone, he actually looks.

His stomach turns as he takes it in.

A small cell, caked with grime and dripping with liquids that may be partially water, but are most definitely other, more disgusting things.

There’s a chair in the centre, solid and of greenish stone, red-tainted manacles at the armrests and attached to the floor just before it. There’s a similarly red-stained gap in the backrest, running from the top frame of the chair down to the seat’s centre.

Leaving his spine exposed, though he can’t —refuses to— imagine what for.

He carefully steps over to the chair, shivering as the manacles on the floor bind to his ankles as he closes in. He gingerly sits, the cold stone a shock against his bare back. The manacles close around his wrists, securing him to the chair.

With his confinement complete, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It’s a strange feeling, as though his senses have all faded away, briefly leaving him in neutral territory.

Smell returns first, which is somewhat of a blessing, but only because he knows it’s easily the least awful part of this situation. And that’s saying something because the cell is disgustingly rank, even by the standards he’s had to live in.

It stinks of smegma, piss, and shit, of bile and the odious scent of rotting. A rank combination of the worst bodily fluids, so overwhelming it would make the strongest stomach turn if they caught a whiff, but in this little cell, it’s so much worse.

He can almost taste it in his throat; it’s so intense. His mouth tastes like blood, which is nothing new, but he can tell it’s his own and not someone else’s.

His ears twitch as his hearing returns to him, and he fights to keep still at the drone of a familiar voice. He’s almost startled to hear Petras’ irritating cadence rather than the much more terrifying option.

His eyes blink open —when had he closed them?— and then he can see, and so far, that’s the worst part.

“— Don’t deserve fine things, Astarion,” Petras says, pacing in front of Astarion as though he’s giving him a lecture. He twirls a dagger clumsily, likely unused to the weight of it in his hand, and spins to close in on Astarion’s seat. “Living in the Master’s house, wearing fine things like a little Lord… none is meant for you. Fine things aren’t meant for someone like you.”

He emphasises the words by driving the dagger into Astarion’s hand, slicing off his ringed fingers in one powerful plunge.

That’s when Astarion’s sense of touch decides to come online, pain screaming through his hands and compounding with the sudden shock of every pain rearing its ugly head all at once.

Astarion can’t hold back a strangled yell, howling as his digits are separated from his hand, as every single hurt registers, leaving him breathless and unable to think.

“Don’t you see?” Petras drones, unaware of the unintentional torture he’s inflicted. He slides Astarion’s rings onto his own fingers. “I deserve this. Me. Not you.”

Astarion, mindless with pain, does not respond.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll lowers his arm slowly, blinking spots out of his vision.

The magelights throughout the room have settled, still more volatile and intense than they should be.

“What was that?” Mayrina gasps, clutching Connie to her chest. She’s shielding her daughter with her body, curled over her to protect her from whatever had caused all the lights to erupt.

Gale, also clutching both of them to himself, looks up at Wyll with a question in his gaze. “It was a wild magic surge,” he explains quietly. “I don’t… I don’t know where from.”

Wyll can’t wait for it to happen again. “Aurelia, where is Cazador?” he asks urgently. “The sooner we reach him—”

“No!” Connie cries, fighting against her mother’s hold. “Mr Wyll, we just got you back! Please don’t go!”

“It’s okay, Constance,” Wyll reassures her. “I’m not planning on dying anytime soon. We’ll be careful and quiet, and we’ll get Astarion back — Mr Star, you love Mr Star. I can’t leave him behind.”

Connie sniffs, staring up at him with huge eyes. “You… But you don’t even have your sword, Mr Wyll.”

Wyll swallows hard because she has a point. Still, he has a few new tricks up his sleeve if they end up in a fight. “Don’t worry about me, Connie.” He infuses his voice with confidence he doesn’t quite feel. “It’s my job to fight monsters. I’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Connie hesitates, looking between Wyll and Aurelia, too afraid to openly voice her fears.

“Besides,” he nods at Gale. “I won’t be alone, will I?”

Gale nods back, his face set. “We’ll be right behind you,” he confirms and then stands, hurrying over to Wyll. “Stay in contact. The whole way, Wyll. We can’t lose track of you.”

Wyll tries to smile, taking the sending stone from Gale’s outstretched fingers. “There… there should be Flaming Fist patrolling the streets. If you see my father, bring him and as many soldiers as you can find.”

“Be careful, Wyll,” Mayrina pleads, her voice strained.

“I will,” Wyll swears. “I’ll bring him home.”

Aurelia flits out of the mansion into the wretched fog.

Wyll follows, fumbling to activate his sending stone pendant while keeping close behind, so as not to lose Aurelia in the gloom.

She leads him straight for the mosaic courtyard where Astarion had presumably disappeared.

“Gale,” he says quietly, “do you know The Fool’s Fortune? It’s a tavern in the lower city.”

I do, Gale responds almost immediately. Mayrina used to work there.

Aurelia crouches at the base of the fountain, eyeing Wyll as she presses a button. It reveals a handle to open the hatch he’d discovered earlier, leading down into the sewers.

Wyll breathes a sigh of relief. “There’s a trapdoor at the fountain. Leading to the sewers, I think. I’ll… I’ll try to keep you informed where we’re heading, but…”

Underground is hard to navigate, I understand. Just do the best you can. We’re coming after you as soon as possible, with everything we have.

“Good luck,” Wyll tells him, and then winces. Gale might not be the person who needs luck here.

“We’ll need more than luck if we wish to survive this,” Aurelia mutters, peering down into the open hatch.

It’s pitch black; Wyll can’t tell how deep it goes or what awaits them below. “We don’t have a choice,” he declares, grimacing. “I need to find Astarion, and we need to settle this once and for all.”

Aurelia grimaces. “Many have tried to kill Cazador Szarr. None have come close, not really. The last attempt was the closest, yet he still…”

“He still lives,” Wyll finishes, and hums contemplatively. “Look, I’m not about to pretend I’m any better than the group that tried before… but I’ve fought monsters, many different kinds all over the Sword Coast. I might not be the strongest fighter out there, but I have a healthy dose of luck on my side. Hopefully, with the right opportunity…”

Aurelia snorts, turning away. “We can’t rely on luck,” she argues, her tone full of offence.

Wyll can’t be angry at her for her lack of faith, because he’s sure he’d feel the same, if someone gave him the same speech. “It’s all I have to offer right now,” he says honestly. “If Gale and the others aren’t far behind, we’ve better numbers to see us through. If it’s just me, we’re fighting an uphill battle. I’m not sugarcoating the situation, Aurelia.”

Aurelia stares up at him for a moment before looking away again. “There’s… I might know of something helpful. You’re a swordsman, correct?”

Wyll tilts his head, curious. “I am. And you… you don’t seem as frantic as you were before. What’s changed?”

She’s incredibly calm for someone who had been weeping and wailing before, someone who had her claws at the throat of a child. Wyll is no fool and is not about to be tricked by a half-decent actor when Astarion’s life is in danger.

“The compulsion is… near impossible to fight against,” Aurelia admits reluctantly. “Once you give in, even if you don’t immediately do what he wants… the pain eases. I’m doing what he wants, even if it’s not quickly.”

Wyll frowns, assessing her words for any deception. He’s not sure her explanation makes sense, but he’s also never had to deal with vampiric impulses. “You were fighting him before? Back in the ballroom?”

Aurelia scratches at the top of the trapdoor, tracing the whorls in the old wood. “With everything I had left,” she vows. “I… The only person in that house I could have snatched was that child, and I— and I didn’t want to hurt her, I just— I can’t deny him, Wyll. I can’t. He owns me.”

Wyll knows she’s right; arguing that Aurelia and Astarion try to fight against Cazador’s control is useless. Everything he’s read and heard has indicated that a Vampire Lord’s power over their spawn is absolute. That any of Cazador’s spawn can think at all is unusual, but also testament to the fact that Cazador is a sick and twisted individual.

Wyll is sure he only allowed his spawn any agency at all because having thoughts made them more satisfying to abuse.

An empty husk wouldn’t be breakable, wouldn’t react to the horrors Wyll knows Astarion was subjected to. Astarion is traumatised by his time under Cazador’s reign, so it’s unlikely any of the others managed to escape his tyranny.

“Maybe he does,” Wyll concedes, gesturing to the hatch. “For now. If I can kill him, you’ll be free.”

Aurelia watches him briefly before turning and dropping into the pitch-dark hole without a further word.

Wyll scrambles to follow, hoping the drop isn’t deadly for a mostly-mortal man like himself. Thankfully, the initial hole is barely ten feet, and Aurelia is there to steady him.

“For what it’s worth, I hope you’re as good a monster hunter as you claim,” Aurelia says, her voice echoing in the small passage. “I… I know of a weapon, one rumoured to inflict damage to vampires… or maybe to all undead. I only know what little I’ve heard. Snatches of whispers.”

She helps him down into the tunnel proper, carefully twisting her grip so that her claws lift away from his arm. It’s unnecessary, but he notes it as intuitive, thoughtless behaviour. Even without thinking, she tries not to hurt him. The narrow entry widens and descends, though Wyll can’t see a bloody thing in the dark.

It almost makes him miss his stone eye.

He shudders at the fleeting thought because nothing could make him truly miss anything Mizora-related.

“If the sword is half as sharp as my old one, it’ll do the trick.” Wyll wishes he had his old rapier. He doesn’t know what happened to it, but it’s probably somewhere under the Ravengard estate. “Though, er, I’m not sure how effective a sword is compared to a stake when it comes to killing vampires.”

Aurelia snorts, setting off steadily but keeping a firm grip on Wyll’s arm to steer him forth. “You probably know more than me. I barely knew what a vampire was when I was turned. And it’s not like Mas— like Cazador told us anything.”

Wyll’s eyes strain to adjust, but there’s simply no light in this place. He wishes it didn’t make him anxious, but it does. The ground is flat, and there are no obstacles to trip him up, low ceilings or protrusions to bang his head on, or narrow walls to walk into.

He supposes the fear of the unknown is irking him something fierce.

Especially since he’s unsure whether he can trust Aurelia, he wouldn’t blame her for walking him into a trap.

And Cazador… he’s incredibly dangerous; Wyll suspects he’d be risky to encounter even if he weren’t a centuries-old vampire.

There’s a creaking screech of metal, and the passageway lights up enough for Wyll to see.

Aurelia looks back at him from the door she’s just pried open, and with the light shining in and how close she is, he realises that the strange look she’s been giving him since they got to the fountain is cautious hope.

“He has a weapon,” she says, her voice hushed like she is afraid he’ll hear. “A dagger. Rhapsody, he calls it.”

Wyll shudders at the name, and the harrowing undertone in Aurelia’s voice when she mentions it.

“It has a wooden core,” she reveals. “I… I don’t know whether it is enchanted, or the wooden core acts as a stake, however…” She turns to the door, avoiding Wyll’s gaze. “When M— when Cazador would hurt us with it, the wounds did not heal quickly. They burned and welted and wept. And unlike anything else, they scarred.”

She slips through the door, disappearing into the passageway as though she’s giving him privacy to process what she’s just told him.

A weapon that hurts vampires. A weapon that might completely bypass a vampire’s ability to heal. A weapon with an inbuilt stake, perhaps. It would make sense that Cazador would hold onto something so rare, and of course he would use it on his poor captives… but keeping something that could be used against him one day…

Wyll doesn’t know if it’s arrogance or madness.

“You think it’ll kill him,” Wyll states as he catches up to her. “His own weapon?”

Aurelia stares straight ahead, her pace not faltering once. “I’ve had a very long time to think about what might kill him,” she reminds him. “The sword will do damage, significant damage, if the rumours are true. The dagger… I would say it’s the only thing that could do the job. He is truly a monster. Something that many would not have the strength to survive.”

“Let’s hope I prove an exception,” Wyll says, and lapses into thoughtful silence.

He’s heard rumours himself —folktales more than anything— about toxic trees that poisoned the poor woodsmen trying to cultivate them. Ones that stopped hearts or prevented wounds from healing, that thinned blood or even caused blindness. He wonders if one of those types of trees was harvested in order to create Cazador’s weapon; if the cursed wood used to make it somehow hurt vampires…

The problem is, if it’s such a dangerous weapon, Cazador will surely keep it close by.

Being within striking distance of a powerful vampire like Cazador Szarr, that’s risky indeed.

Especially for a human like Wyll.

He’s run afoul of monsters before and paid the price in his blood. Hells, he’s died fighting a Hag, and very recently, too.

Is putting an end to Cazador’s reign of terror worth potentially losing his life again?

Wyll knows it is; there’s no question.

Yet, if he gets an opportunity, will he be able to do the deed himself…?

He doesn’t know. He so desperately wants to kill the monster who hurt Astarion so much, so deeply. Furthermore, he doesn’t want Astarion to fight Cazador alone, not if he can help it.

That said… he can’t deny Astarion an opportunity to kill Cazador. Even if he doesn’t think it will help Astarion, mentally, to watch the life leave Cazador’s eyes and know he made it happen, he still understands Astarion’s need to do it for himself.

For the decades of suffering.

For the endless potential that was squandered by a bright young man’s untimely death.

And for all the pain and suffering Astarion endured, not just at Cazador’s hands, but anyone Cazador allowed to abuse Astarion on a whim.

Yes, Wyll is going to kill Cazador if he can. If, and only if, there’s no possible way for Astarion to accomplish it himself.

And that means his priority, before anything else, is finding Astarion.

Alive.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

The thing about pain, severe pain, is that it is all-consuming. Astarion has found that passing a certain threshold where all of his nerves are one fire and his entire body is screaming in agony, there really isn’t much room for thought.

Any thought.

And so Astarion lingers in a strange limbo of not-quite consciousness, aware of nothing but his own body turning against him, a pounding alarm system on high alert that things are reaching crisis point.

There’s only so much a man can take, undead or otherwise.

Thankfully, once the crisis goes unresolved for too long, survival instincts kick in.

Astarion’s body floods with adrenaline, and for a few blessed moments, the pain ceases entirely, wiped out in an attempt to get him away from the source of pain.

His sheer relief makes him stupid, makes him forget that Petras is a cruel man, just like Cazador.

Reflexively, his arms jerk back against his bonds, and though he doesn’t feel the explosion of pain in his wrists, he does hear the mechanism inside flick, hears the snick of hidden razors spring free from deceptively smooth cuffs.

He looks down, sees the manacles overflow with blood as the razor-sharp blades slice his wrists to ribbons.

Petras’ gleeful face is alight with more clarity in the gloom, adrenaline bringing his disgusting visage into sharp focus. “Ah, nice try,” he croons, leaning closer and caressing Astarion’s cheek softly with the edge of his bloodied scalpel. “I won’t have you trying to escape, not before I present you to our master as you are meant to be.”

Astarion musters the energy to spit in his face. His face snaps to the side before he gets to see if he even managed to reach his target, Petras backhanding him with vicious swiftness.

“You’re lower than a common dog,” Petras hisses, his face twisting into something uglier. “I’ll make Cazador see sense. Whatever you managed to enchant him with—”

Astarion laughs, giddy. He’s going insane. Surely he’s going absolutely barmy if Petras is muttering about Cazador and acting jealous of Astarion?

“If you want to marry him so badly, go right ahead,” he manages to gasp out, those ugly, high-pitched giggles still spilling from his lips. “If he’s still alive, you—”

“He’s alive,” Petras snaps, brandishing the knife again.

He waves it close enough to Astarion’s face that he knows he’s been dealt a glancing blow, but thankfully his body is still thrumming with energy, blocking the pain from registering.

“If he is, why isn’t he here?” Astarion ventures, blood dripping into his mouth.

Petras snorts, tilting his chin up smugly. “He has much more important business than the likes of you right now. He’s going to perform a ritual. One that will free us. Well… free him and me. I doubt he’ll want you when I’m done here.”

Astarion laughs again, startled. “He’s not going to free you, you absolute imbecile,” he points out. “Why would he do something like that? You’re nothing to him. Just a pawn.”

His head snaps back again, hard enough that he has to blink spots from his vision.

“Shut up!” Petras roars. “You don’t know a thing! You’ve always been so fucking stupid, Astarion. Maybe that’s why he let you warm his bed, he knew you were too stupid to even escape! I bet he didn’t even tell you about the ritual, because he knew you’d manage to fuck it up, like you always do with everything!”

Astarion just laughs, unable to do anything more. He’s too exhausted to bother trying to explain to Petras that he might be stupid, but Petras had always been the one pushing boundaries and getting punished for his lack of foresight.

He’s nothing but a lumbering fool, and Astarion is sure that, assuming Cazador is alive, Petras is just being used as a brainless crony to do his bidding.

There’s no way either of them survive this if Petras can’t see that… but Petras has never been smart enough to change his opinion on anything.

All Astarion can do is try to brace himself for more abuse —because there will be more— and use what little rationale remains in his screaming mind to hope that…

That Wyll is coming to save him.

That Wyll stays far, far away from this place.

“...Always hated your eyes,” Petras is muttering to himself, wrenching Astarion’s bowed head back with a savage grip on his curls.

Before his consciousness fades, Astarion sees sharp metal hovering closer, closer, to his vulnerable face.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Of all the places to find once he and Aurelia traipse through the sewers, Wyll can’t say he’s expecting Dwarven Ruins.

Yet there’s no mistaking the precision of the brickwork; massive sandstone blocks in perfect rectangles. The straight lines and geometric decor, the inlaid gold trim and gorgeous green marble - a showcase of genius craftsmen at work.

The walkway they stand on seems precarious, floating over an endless drop into darkness, but he feels strangely secure due to the solidity of the surrounding structure. The place seems to go on forever, and considering how beautiful it is, it must have taken so much time.

“I can’t believe this,” Wyll says, frowning up at the strange, cage-like decor hanging from the ceiling. He can’t tell what those are supposed to be, functionally. “I’ve never even heard rumours that this was down here.”

Aurelia snorts. “I doubt anyone that ventured into these depths found their way out,” she points out. “Not alive, I’m certain of that.”

Wyll hums, following her lead.

She carefully climbs up the brick onto a higher walkway. “We have to be quiet,” she pleads. “It’s not… it’s not far now. He’ll know we’re here soon.”

Wyll swallows down the stream of questions that want to burst free. He doesn’t think Aurelia knows the answers, even if he asks. She had indicated that she didn’t know there was anything beneath the Szarr mansion. He’s not sure whether she’d been truthful, but he’s not about to start interrogating her now.

“In here,” she breathes, leading him to an ornate door. It’s locked, but that doesn’t seem to be a deterrent — her claws turn out to be strong and dexterous enough to pick a lock in a pinch.

Wyll files that information away for later.

The room is small, but feels safer than the hallway outside. Safe enough to talk, at least.

Their only company is a suspicious mound of dirt, about big enough for a coffin, complete with a waiting shovel.

Looks like Wyll has to do some digging.

“You’ve heard this is the Pelorsun Blade?” Wyll asks as he gets to work.

It’s certainly out of the way, deep in hidden ruins, a precarious location — such is the nature of Cazador’s treasures. Dangerous things in hidden corners.

“That’s what Violet called it,” Aurelia says, shrugging. She stays far back and watches Wyll dig. That’s not surprising; if this weapon is truly what she says, it’s dangerous to someone like her.

Wyll is no expert on deities, but he does know his fair share of myths and legends. The blade in question, if it is indeed real, is supposed to have been blessed by a sun deity. If the weapon is real, it likely has some form of enchantment that allows it to shine like the sun itself, or at least to cause radiant damage.

It really is better she stays away, in case proximity is enough for it to hurt her.

He manages to unearth enough of the casket that he can access the lid, and close inspection reveals the trigger for a trap.

“He was really afraid of this thing,” Wyll notes, thankful that his rudimentary knowledge of traps is enough for him to identify and disarm this one. “Out of the way, buried, and trapped?”

“It might seem like overkill,” Aurelia agrees, trailing a claw along the straight lines of the door. “Vampires have lots of enemies, however. And many weaknesses to exploit. He hates that he has any weaknesses at all.”

Wyll looks up from the now-defunct trap. “He was trying to ascend, right? Looking for a ritual?”

Aurelia turns to face him, her frown deep and confused. “I do not know,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to an infant. To her, Wyll must be as close as it gets. “He was working with a wizard in the City. He does not confide his plans to me, even if I am his oldest spawn. That I am is by happenstance only. A mistake.”

“Ah.” Wyll doesn’t know what to say to that, it’s a little inappropriate to ask why she feels as though she was a mistake. “You think he… er, accidentally…?”

Aurelia blinks at him. “Perhaps,” she says cryptically. And then: “I have a question.”

“Of course.” Wyll’s thankful for the change in subject. He manages to pry the edge of the casket up slightly with his fingernails, but it’s difficult to grasp.

“Did Astarion dream of our Master? Of Cazador?” she asks curiously. “He asked about tunnels beneath the mansion… I recognise them, but only from dreams. Did he dream, too?”

Wyll finally manages to prise the casket’s lid open, briefly distracting them both from her question.

As she had heard, there is indeed a shining silver-and-gold rapier in the casket. Wyll can’t bring himself to act surprised that the weapon is clutched in the hands of a skeleton. Though curiously, the skeleton’s wide open mouth reveals pointed teeth.

Wyll wonders if the blade had belonged to the vampire, in which case it likely wasn’t the fabled Pelorsun Blade… or if it had been buried with the vampire on purpose, to trap it.

He gingerly takes the weapon from the brittle grasp of its keeper, and breathes a sigh of relief when the skeleton doesn’t jump up and begin healing or trying to fight him.

Aurelia stands between Wyll and the door when he turns, and he wonders, apprehensively, if he was wrong to let his guard down.

She lifts her chin, trying to seem confident. “Do you need to test it?” Her voice is strong and sure.

It takes him a few moments to realise what she means.

“Helm almighty,” he blurts, holding the rapier to his chest like he’s worried she’ll snatch it out of his hands. “No! No, Aurelia, I don’t need to… I told you, if it has a pointy end, I can make it work. I’m not going to kill you.”

She shrugs, almost disappointed. “It would be a smart move,” she declares. “For one, I would die secure in the knowledge that it is a weapon strong enough to defeat Cazador once and for all.”

“That’s not—” Wyll tries.

She talks over him. “Furthermore, you remove a pawn from the board. I’m a thrall; I am nothing but a body he may use in the upcoming fight — because make no mistake, there will be a fight. One less person to worry about is an advantage you should consider, Wyll Ravengard.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he decides, scowling at her. “I refuse to kill innocents.”

She laughs, low and dangerous. “Your first mistake was assuming that I have ever been innocent,” she murmurs, but steps away from the door. “On your own head, then.”

Wyll breathes a sigh of relief, and hopes strongly that Gale and the others aren’t far behind.

He’ll need all the help he can get.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll’s resigned to his continued ignorance of his surroundings at this point.

The cage-like things he’d admired outside the Pelorsun room? Not cage-like.

Cages.

Gods, he’s so stupid. He’s so insanely naïve. Further into the ruins, corpses of poor, lost souls cower in gently-swinging confinement, hovering over that terrifying drop with no easy way to get out. There are so many, stuffed into cages that they could have, theoretically, climbed out of with how wide the bars are, but the drop would be a deterrent to someone at full strength.

He’s certain, from the conditions of their wasted bodies, that none of them were able to brave the drop.

And so they huddled, squeezed together for lack of room, all of them rail-thin and pale and likely half-blind in the turquoise flame that lights the place… until they’d perished from thirst, or hunger, or exposure.

Gods, what a terrible way to die.

“How long have they been here?” Wyll whispers, huddled into the shadows at the very edges of the wall.

“I do not know.” Aurelia barely glances at them. Perhaps she’s ashamed. “We thought… We brought our prey to Cazador thinking they were food, that they were killed. I thought he was glutting himself, needing more than one a day, but…”

Wyll’s breath catches when he notices a flicker of movement from above. Gods, do some of them yet live?

A shudder crawls up his spine, spread through his body like he’s dunked himself in tepid water. The thin, pale figures don’t seem to notice his or Aurelia’s presence. That they don’t even respond to stimulus… They’ve been down here a very long time. Wyll’s shocked and horrified that a few of them are even alive.

With how overfull the cages are, Wyll holds his breath as they creep past wide cell doors, wanting to close his eyes as he passes. Sure enough, those are filled with bodies, too.

He looks away when he sees the small forms sheltering close together, too small to be anything other than children.

“There’s no point sneaking,” Aurelia says softly.

As she speaks, one of the cells ahead slides open, and Petras strides out. “It’s about time,” Petras grunts, his eyes immediately finding his sibling. He doesn’t seem surprised that Wyll is with her.

“Where is—” Aurelia’s voice shakes.

Petras is already striding further into the ruins.

The cell door is still wide open.

Wyll knows where Astarion is.

Before Aurelia can say anything, he’s sprinting over to the door, grabbing onto it just before it begins to slide down.

He knows he won’t be ready for what he finds inside. He braces himself for the very worst.

“Gods—”

It’s still not enough —nothing could prepare him— he’d thought Astarion dead was the worst possible eventuality, but this—

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

“Astarion.”

He hears his name and tries to lift his head.

A small, gurgling wheeze is all he manages, pain lancing through his neck at the infinitesimal movement.

He goes still.

The pain does not cease, but it eases very slightly.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll rushes into the cell, heedless of any potential traps. Every instinct screams that he needs to get to Astarion now, and he can’t let caution or logic interfere.

Astarion is… it’s terrible. It’s so much worse than anything he could have anticipated.

Wyll has seen his fair share of horrors. This is something wholly new and terrible.

Astarion is lashed to a chair in the centre of the cell, secured by his wrists and ankles. His feet are bare and bloodied, crimson smears across the grimy stone floors where he’s desperately tried and failed to scramble away from pain.

Wyll drops to his knees before him, focusing on trying to get the bonds off of his ankles because he — he can’t quite bring himself to look at the rest of the damage yet.

It’s easier to swallow down the bile, breathe deep, and compose himself if he has a task at hand.

The manacles are solidly made and secured tightly around Astarion’s bony ankles, so breaking them is out of the question. Wyll has managed to pick up a few new skills from his time with Astarion, though. It doesn’t take long to find the small mechanism to unlock them, relieved when it appears to require a relatively simple key to unlock.

Wyll can do simple.

He retrieves a pin from his hair, his braids shifting out of a haphazard knot at his nape without it. He’s relieved when the manacles open without much prodding, but his stomach sinks when he realises why they don’t come off easily.

Wyll carefully wraps a hand around Astarion’s ankle, prying the metal off of his leg. The inside of the cuff isn’t smooth, instead, it is lined with razor-sharp spines aligned to penetrate the skin at the smallest resistance. Any attempt to pull away from the cuffs would be met with spikes sinking deep into vulnerable flesh.

Gods, what a cruel and unnecessary torment.

He swiftly undoes the second manacle from Astarion’s ankle, prying the metal away from his legs. Fresh blood seeps from the wounds, but at least Astarion is free of them.

The wrist cuffs are equally bad, if not worse. With the wrist cuffs, the blades are aligned facing opposite directions, so no matter which way Astarion yanks his arms, they’ll drive deeper into his flesh without fail. Wyll tries not to think too hard about that, his hands slick with blood as he gently pulls Astarion’s hands free.

“Petras is a blunt instrument,” Aurelia says quietly at Wyll’s shoulder.

He hadn’t even heard her approach. “I’m seeing that,” Wyll agrees, refusing to look at all of Petras’ work at once for fear that he’ll lose the contents of his stomach. “I assume Cazador was more subtle.”

Aurelia hums. “I suppose you could say that. For him, abuse is an art. Poetry. Even so…” She lets out a shuddering breath, loud in the silence. “Sometimes his poetry was especially vicious, when Astarion was his canvas.”

Wyll doesn’t understand what made Astarion so different from the others, at least to Cazador. Perhaps it was some kind of sick, twisted attraction. Perhaps the opposite, hatred mixed with the knowledge that they were stuck together for an eternity, bound together by Cazador’s decision to make Astarion his spawn.

Still, if he truly hated Astarion, why not just kill him and be done with it?

“This is new,” Aurelia says, rounding the chair. Her fingers hover over Astarion’s spine, like she wants to help, reflexively, but something halts her before she can make contact. “Cazador… Cazador must want him to suffer.”

Wyll isn’t surprised, although as someone who doesn’t think about hurting people, he can’t fathom how someone could even dream up something so cruel.

Astarion’s bowed head shifts slightly, as though he’s regaining consciousness.

Wyll isn’t sure he wants Astarion to be conscious. Not for this.

He shuffles around the back of the chair, his eyes darting over the blood sluiced down Astarion’s bare back. He takes a deep breath before his tacky fingers find the first of the long, thick needles lodged into Astarion’s lumbar.

Astarion murmurs something unintelligible.

Wyll holds his breath and slides the needle free. Tears spring to his eyes at the sheer length of it, at least five inches sliding free of Astarion’s spine.

Astarion garbles something unintelligible once more, though this time his voice is more frantic, pained and panicked.

“Aurelia,” Wyll manages, his voice scraped raw. “Hold him still, please—”

She doesn’t hesitate, rushing to stand before Astarion and firmly gripping his shoulders to pin him in place. “Be still,” she snaps, her voice hard and cold.

Astarion obeys, instinctive, and freezes. His body is rigid, all of his muscles locked, but he stays still.

“That’s good,” Wyll chokes, his fingers finding the next needle and beginning to pull.

It feels like the process goes on forever, Wyll slowly removing over a dozen of them, terrified that if he doesn’t take his time, he could do permanent damage.

Astarion whines and gags with every needle.

Aurelia shushes him, keeping one clawed hand firmly on his shoulder, though her other hand ends up in his sweat-soaked curls, trying to soothe tension from his battered body.

He pulls the last one free from where it pierces Astarion’s cervical vertebrae, and pants as he stares down at the scattered needles on the floor. Astarion’s back is dripping blood and clear fluid, but surely… surely this is better, surely he can move now without inadvertently paralysing himself if one of those needles hits something important—

“Oh, little bird,” Aurelia says mournfully. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Wyll scrambles to his feet, hot tears appalling over his cheeks as he launches himself around the chair. “Astarion,” he chokes, his hands seeking Astarion’s. “Astarion, are you—?”

Astarion’s breath is shallow, and shudders through his lungs in a wheezing rattle that concerns Wyll more than a complete lack of breath would. He slowly manages to turn his face to Wyll, bright turquoise light making his skin ghoulishly pale.

Petras has ripped out one of his eyes.

“Gods,” Wyll whispers, pushing past Aurelia to take Astarion’s ruined face into his hands. “Oh, Gods, what has he done?”

Astarion stares up at him hazily, his left eye intact but bruised dark purple, his right just a mess of gore, the entire eye missing and the flesh inflamed red as though he’d been splashed with something corrosive.

“Wyll…?” he murmurs hazily. He blinks at Wyll, but his left eye doesn’t — can’t close properly.

“Wyll,” Aurelia says urgently.

Wyll turns to face her, and finds her frozen, looking behind them.

Petras is at the cell door, his face dark with fury. “Don’t touch him,” he snarls, his molten red eyes fixed on Wyll. “He is to be a gift for our Master—”

“You’re wasting time.”

The voice rattles through the cell, unnaturally loud and higher than Wyll expects. He braces himself, his hand finding the new sword strapped to his hip, but the newcomer doesn’t emerge.

Petras jerks back towards the hallway, his nostrils flaring. “Yes, Master,” he grates out, hastening out to wherever he had come from.

“We’re out of time,” Aurelia declares. “If you have a plan, it’s time to put it in play. Cazador is— he’s planning something, and I can’t—”

She twitches, as though she is about to turn to follow Petras, but aborts the movement at the last moment.

“Do what you need to,” Wyll tells her, aware that she’s not entirely in control of herself. “I have it in hand from here.”

He can see from her expression that she’s not convinced.

That’s okay. He has enough conviction for the both of them.

She flits out into the hall, her steps completely silent.

Wyll turns back to Astarion, catching his hazy gaze once more. “Gale,” he says softly, grabbing onto the sending stone pendant around his throat. “Please tell me you’re close by.”

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Only a fool would assume that Cazador doesn’t know Wyll is here.

Astarion’s body is still screaming in protest, a discordant wail of millions of nerve endings screaming for attention. His spine is mangled and bleeding, his eye socket aflame from the remnants of acid still clinging to the flesh, every inch of his skin battered, bruised and bleeding otherwise. Two fingers still unaccounted for, too.

He files that information away for later, trying to find that strange little winter cottage in his mind that allowed him to block away pain and suffering and pretend all was well.

He doesn’t want to shut himself away.

No. Ignorance has no place here.

What he wants is to be able to fight, to inflict as much suffering on Petras as he can before his body gives out. He has to; rage and desire for revenge mixing with his desperate need to keep Wyll safe. It creates a heady mixture, something powerful enough to force adrenaline back through his veins.

He feels weightless, unencumbered by anything other than the drive to make Petras suffer like Astarion has.

Petras is the newest, the youngest.

He hasn’t suffered at Cazador’s hands like the rest of them.

Sure, he’s been punished for foolish mistakes —they all had, in the beginning, before they’d learned to obey the rules— but he hasn’t experienced the sheer wealth of creativity Cazador is capable of when he gets bored with his current favourite methods of abuse. He hasn’t spent multiple decades under Cazador’s reign of terror.

He is, compared to all the rest of Cazador’s spawn… a whining, snivelling infant.

And yet he has the audacity to believe he is the best of them, that he deserves Cazador’s favour, that he deserves preferential treatment.

Astarion is going to make him see sense.

He grips the armrests, his hold white-knuckled with effort, and pushes himself to his feet.

It brings him so close to Wyll that Wyll’s long braids brush Astarion’s bare collarbone, the fabric of Wyll’s silken shirt sliding against Astarion’s grimy chest.

“Astarion—” Wyll yelps, bracing him with a big, warm hand on his shoulder.

Astarion turns his face away, not wanting Wyll to see the extent of the damage. He knows Wyll has already seen what Petras has done, how Petras has ruined his face far beyond what can be healed with potions and magic, and Astarion’s vampiric healing abilities.

Still, he doesn’t want to see Wyll’s face fall when he sees the defilement up close. He doesn’t want to see the guilt eating at Wyll’s lovely face.

Not far, Astarion hears, and it’s Gale’s voice. He realises dimly that he’s still wearing the matching sending stone pendants Wyll gifted him, gifted them, the pair of ravens entwined in a heart shape. We’re almost at the cells.

He hears a shuffling clatter, and then the cell is a lot more full than it had been.

Astarion almost deflates, adrenaline drying up in surprise, when he realises everyone has come for him.

Gale, Aphraelle, and Shadowheart storm into the cell, flanking Wyll immediately. Behind them comes Karlach, Ulder, and Blaze Portyr.

“Fucking hells, Astarion,” Karlach blurts, not an ounce of subtlety in her demeanour. “You look like you’ve been mauled by an Owlbear cub.”

Astarion snorts, though it comes out more of an exhausted wheeze. “I’m sure you’re the expert, having adopted one of the things,” he manages to stumble out, though he can’t quell the suspicious warmth that glows in his chest at the sight of all of his companions, armed to the teeth.

Here for him, and ready to take down Petras.

And, he’s sure, whatever remains of Cazador Szarr.

Wyll lifts his chin, his gaze steady on Astarion’s face like it hasn’t been destroyed beyond comprehension. “We’re here,” he says firmly. “We’re going to finish this.”

Once and for all, he doesn’t say.

For better or worse, he doesn’t say.

Astarion finds he doesn’t mind. With his family at his back, he almost doesn’t mind the thought of them all perishing in the pursuit of his revenge. At least if Cazador manages to take them all down, they can surely take the bastard with them.

Yet that small campfire sets up shop in his chest, refusing to burn out: hope.

Hope, small and flickering, that they might be able to do this, that they might all survive this, Astarion included.

And that — that’s not something Astarion has ever genuinely considered.

Life after Cazador.

A life free of fear.

“We are,” Astarion agrees, looking from one determined face to the next. “So let’s go.”

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll has thought about Cazador in the past. He can’t deny his curiosity, stray thoughts about what kind of man Astarion had met, prior to finding out what Cazador was. Had he pretended to be kind? Intelligent? Handsome? What had been the initial draw that made Astarion fall into his trap?

He knows better now. Knows that, though Astarion doesn’t remember the specifics, Cazador had never bothered to pretend to be nice.

In fact, from what little Astarion has shared about Cazador, it really sounds like he had targeted Astarion and actively blackmailed him.

So, yes. Wyll is curious.

Astarion leads them into the huge chamber leading out from the cells, back straight and gait sure despite his injuries —that he’s even walking is a miracle in itself— and doesn’t even blink at the dozens of huge suspended cages hovering from the vast ceiling.

In the centre of the expanse, a large circular platform lies, the same green stone as the rest of the dwarven ruins. The floor is terraced and gilt with gold, each platform lined with a thick band of luminous gold and multiple sections of the floor made of filigreed metal, possibly iron painted gold. Lining the rounded platform are immense, tall spires, though Wyll can’t imagine what they, or the bizarre room itself, were made for.

In the very centre of the dingy cavern is a dark plinth, upon which rests a pitch-black sarcophagus, lacquered and ornate. Ominously, it swirls with dark mist.

Petras stands before the sarcophagus, talking to it like he and Cazador are having a conversation. At his feet, crumpled and emaciated, are two women.

Aurelia hovers over them, her face twisted with obvious concern.

Wyll assumes those are the other spawn, Astarion’s missing sisters. He can’t tell if they’re even alive, but they certainly aren’t moving.

“—Brought you a gift,” Petras is saying, flinging his arms wide. “I know you requested food, Master, but I took it upon myself to punish—”

“I see,” a muffled, thin voice says, somehow managing to fill the room despite how cavernous it is. “Once again, you seek to defy me.”

“N-no,” Petras sputters, scrambling closer. “I only sought to—”

“You believe you know best,” the voice continues, and with a shuddering creak, the coffin begins to swing open.

Astarion continues forth, and Wyll scrambles to follow, his eyes locked on the coffin lid.

As they approach, the lid cracks enough to reveal the hand opening it, and Wyll winces at the sight of badly burnt flesh.

He’s burnt to a crisp, his flesh blackened, crackling and sloughing off even now, after all this time.

Cazador emerges slowly from his resting place.

He is ghoulish, skeletal, his flesh blackened like charcoal, dry and crackling yet slick with some sort of mucus, his thin muscles exposed due to his lack of skin. His face is barely human, most of the flesh burned away, no hair, no nose or eyelids, not even lips.

Yet Wyll thinks he might be grinning at them, amused.

“Pathetic,” Cazador hisses, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s still talking to Petras, or if he’s assessing Wyll and his party. Then he continues: “At least my darling Aurelia bothered to bring a morsel. Yes, between her and Astarion, I’ve enough to satisfy me.”

“Master,” Petras cries, backtracking. “Astarion was— is— he stole everything from you!”

Cazador’s claw-like hand closes around his nearest target— not Petras, but one of the unmoving women— and clutches her throat in a vice grip, yanking her forward.

Cazador’s gaping maw latches onto her neck, wrenching her skull aside by her silvery hair, to better access her jugular.

Wyll didn’t know vampire lords could drain their spawn. Didn’t think it was possible, or necessary.

Apparently, however, doing so accelerates a lord’s healing, because Cazador’s skin starts to regrow, new and unburned, the longer he drains her.

“What the fuck?” Karlach says behind Wyll, her voice loud.

Cazador takes a deep breath, dropping the elf woman to the ground, and then begins to laugh. His voice is high and shrill, sallow skin still knitting together over shiny pink muscle. His hair spills out of his skull, straight and black and past his shoulders. His shirt is gone, burned away, but he is, thankfully, wearing some leather trousers, though they are fire-damaged, dry and cracked just as Cazador’s skin had been only seconds ago.

He looks… strangely normal. Not overly thin to the point of uncanniness, like the illustrations Wyll has seen in books, not grey-skinned and bug-eyed, bat-winged or hunched like a ghoul. He looks just as normal and boring as any patriar Wyll has ever met.

And that’s precisely what makes him so much more dangerous. He looks exactly like the kind of patriar that could worm his way into the courts, take a liking to Astarion, and decide that he wants to keep him, no matter how low he must sink to do it. He looks like the kind of man who blackmailed someone, trapped him in his huge mansion when he was vulnerable, and eventually turned him into a vampire spawn.

Wyll’s hand tightens on his rapier, anger bubbling in his chest, bright hot fury threatening to boil over.

“My dear, absent husband, returned at last,” Cazador says, his keen gaze falling upon the group. His face, initially bright with good humour, twists as soon as he sees Astarion. “Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?”

Astarion, exhausted and slumped with the pain of his injuries, snaps upright like he’s been smacked. Doing so causes more clear fluid to leak from the line of holes marring his spine, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

It makes Wyll’s stomach turn. He swallows, quietly stepping closer to Astarion. He knows Astarion is desperate to fight, to see Cazador finally defeated, finally killed, but he’s terrified that Astarion is going to lose consciousness any moment. His injuries are severe, though he’s doing an incredible job pretending he’s fine. It’s not sustainable; eventually he’s going to burn through whatever is keeping him upright, adrenaline or force of will or both.

Wyll wants to be there to catch him if he falls.

“You should be on your knees, begging forgiveness,” Cazador continues, the long, twisted staff in his hands rapping against the ground to emphasise his words.

“For what?” Astarion snaps, lurching closer. “What did you ever do other than ruin my life?”

Cazador laughs again, smug and imperious. “Did I not bless you with my immortal gift?” he asks, seeming genuinely perplexed. “Did I not make you what you are?”

“You son of a bitch,” Astarion growls, launching himself at Cazador.

Wyll stumbles after him, alarmed, but isn’t fast enough to prevent the inevitable.

Cazador’s staff hits the floor once more, a loud crack echoing through the cavern.

Astarion freezes, one hand raised to punch Cazador in his smug, smirking face.

“You truly forgot my power,” Cazador purrs, delighted. “You really thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me, hm?”

He leans closer, his eyes aglow with sickly red. “You are weak, my child. You are a small, pathetic boy who never amounted to anything— ”

Do you trust me…? A voice whispers in Wyll’s mind, and he startles.

Ansur. It’s Ansur, which means… He breathes a sigh of relief as his connection to the Gate flows back in, just as strong as it normally is.

Yes! Yes, of course! He thinks desperately.

Wyll hears only a rumbling chuckle in answer.

His hand tightens on his new rapier, shaking with the effort of holding back when Cazador is spouting such horrible lies right to Astarion’s vulnerable face, too close for comfort.

“—Worthwhile,” Cazador continues blithely, uncaring that Wyll and Astarion’s other companions are even there, clearly spoiling for a fight.

“No, when I’m finished with you, you will burn, and I will ascend.”

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Astarion can’t move, and can barely think. Cazador’s control of his body is like a vice-grip, iron-clad and inescapable, keeping him frozen in place.

He can’t move, and if he can’t move, he can’t protect Wyll. Or the others.

It’s almost alarming to have that realisation, to have that epiphany.

As desperate as he is for his chance at revenge, as much as he’d like nothing more than to see Cazador die screaming… he wants his friends safe more.

In fact, their health and safety is so important that he’d rather see Cazador escape than he would see any of them harmed.

Even Ulder Ravengard.

Gods, he’s grown so soft.

Cazador knows it. Cazador knows almost everything about Astarion; he wouldn’t be surprised if his sire can read his mind, considering how little he can keep from him.

So he tightens his grip on Astarion’s body, digging figurative claws into Astarion’s mind to keep him immobile. He makes Astarion turn towards the rest of the party.

“No,” Astarion chokes, fighting against Cazador’s hold even as he knows it’s impossible to resist.

Wyll stands before him, the closest to him and Cazador. He looks almost relaxed, confident, his sword —an ornate rapier, glowing gold, too bright for Astarion’s poor injured eye to look at too long— unsheathed but pointed down at the floor.

He can see the others gathered in a haphazard group behind Wyll, but he can’t afford to look, not when Cazador can order him to attack at any moment, not when he might be forced to kill—

“Astarion,” Wyll’s voice is soft and sure. His expression is relaxed, fond.

Astarion screams within the cage that is his mind, as though he’s trapped back in that horrid little snow cabin, banging on the windows to try to get Wyll’s attention.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

Dimly, he realises the cavern is filling with monsters, though he has no idea where they’ve all come from. Bats, Werewolves, Chatterteeth, Ghasts — horrid, evil creatures, strong creatures, plenty of them to keep Wyll and the rest distracted. And then Aurelia and Petras dart past Astarion, launching themselves at Shadowheart and Ulder respectively.

Astarion can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t look away from Wyll.

He can’t watch Wyll die. He can’t, not again, and especially not if Wyll dies by his own hand.

There has to be something he can do.

Cazador’s control is absolute, though. There is no resisting.

Astarion lurches forth, claws raised.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Wyll raises his hands before him, placating. He still holds his sword, but he refuses to point it forth. “You don’t want to do this, Astarion,” he says, his voice calm. “You don’t have to.”

“Please,” Astarion chokes, frustrated tears spilling forth from his intact eye. “Wyll!”

“Isn’t this just precious,” Cazador crows obnoxiously. “This is your new lover, Astarion? What a pathetic choice, if he won’t even raise his weapon to defend himself.”

Astarion creeps closer, but there’s something tense and uncomfortable in the set of his jaw, in the way his chest twitches and spasms, like he’s desperately holding himself back.

“I don’t need to,” Wyll says, supremely confident. “He can’t kill me.”

Cazador laughs, delighted. “I can make him do anything,” he promises. “Killing you would be boring. No, no, I wish to see you suffer at his hands. I will make him kill you slowly. I promise; he’ll tear you apart, piece by piece.”

“No,” Wyll argues, his tone completely even. “He won’t. If you could force him, he’d have done so already.”

Cazador’s gleeful expression flickers, and he looks down at Astarion. “What are you dawdling for, boy?” he snaps, a thread of alarm passing over his face. “You are my creation. You do as I say!”

Astarion jerks forward like a puppet on a string, but it’s an aborted movement, an awkward half-step rather than a decisive one.

“You’re so much stronger than he is,” Wyll says to Astarion, catching his gaze as best he can. “You always have been. He’s never broken you, not even once. No matter how hard he tried.”

“Nonsense!” Cazador swings his staff, and it smacks into the back of Astarion’s head with a sick, wet crack.

Astarion falls like a sack of bricks, unconscious before he hits the ground.

White-hot rage floods Wyll’s veins, bubbling over before he can stop it. He points the wickedly sharp tip of his blade at Cazador, stepping forth. “You’ll regret that,” he promises, skirting Astarion’s still form and advancing on his new target.

The spawn at Cazador’s casket —the one Cazador didn’t drain— rises to her feet, jerkily stumbling over to intercept Wyll before he can make it to Cazador. She’s fast, though clumsy, and reckless, throwing herself bodily at him claws-first.

Unlike with Astarion, there’s no sign of a struggle in her face and body. She is completely vacant, expressionless, to the point that he’s not even certain that she’s alive.

Cazador takes his distraction as an opportunity, sending Chain Lightning at Wyll as though he doesn’t even care if his spawn are caught in the crossfire.

I told you, Ansur says at the back of Wyll’s mind, with a rumbling chuckle.

Wyll breathes a sigh of relief, the lightning passing over his body harmlessly. Ansur’s gift; he was a bronze dragon in life, and therefore had a deep affinity with weather, particularly storms.

Wyll’s newfound resistance to lightning spells means he isn’t distracted by Astarion’s sister, and instead manages to parry a swipe of her claws before she succumbs to Cazador’s attack.

She screams, her body crumpling as the lightning hits, and as she convulses on the ground with the shocks passing through her body, she clutches the hand Wyll’s rapier smacked away.

He watches in fascinated horror as her entire hand, from the wrist down, dissolves in a burst of glowing golden light as bright as the sun.

Radiant damage. The power of the sun.

Wyll is almost as shocked as she is. It appears the Pelorsun blade is real.

Wyll grins viciously, looking up at Cazador in an open challenge.

Cazador’s nostrils flare, his mouth tilted down in perturbation. His eyes follow the arc of Wyll’s sword, recognition burning within them.

He knows the blade, he’s seen it before. Wyll is sure he must have ordered it secreted away —though he’s sure Cazador didn’t dare touch the thing himself— and is alarmed that someone has come after him with it in his possession.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, baring his teeth.

Wyll raises his chin, holding the blade aloft. “It wasn’t well-hidden,” he lies, amused. “You should have buried it far, far away if you didn’t want someone to use it against you.”

Cazador is fast, lightning fast.

He’s upon Wyll in a flash, that hideous staff swinging with brute force right where Wyll stood only moments earlier. Cazador twists to follow Wyll’s momentum, bringing his arm back to swing once more, but a large axe hooks around the staff and yanks him back.

“I don’t think so!” Karlach cries, one powerful swing of her axe almost pulling the staff from Cazador’s grip. She plants her feet, tugging harder, and it forces Cazador to let go of his weapon.

“Thanks, Karlach!” Wyll calls, pitching forward with his sword to strike Cazador while he’s off-balance.

Things are rarely so simple, however, and though Wyll’s aim is true, Cazador is wily and manages to dodge the attack by turning into a gaseous form.

“Gods damn it!” Karlach snaps, her axe passing through the dissipating mist harmlessly.

It swirls away, convalescing into the solid form of a huge bat as it flies back to the centre of the platform. Cazador returns to his human form, well out of reach of Wyll, Karlach, and the haphazard fight behind them.

“He’s a tricky one,” Karlach grunts, hefting her axe. “Alright, what say we flank him?”

Wyll hums, watching Cazador. “Careful. He’s stronger than he looks; don’t let him push you toward the edge of the platform.”

It seems unlikely, seeing as the centre of the platform is stepped lower than the rest, but Wyll knows the chasm looks bottomless. There’s no way of knowing how far down it is, which means a fall is certain death. They can’t risk being pushed off; none of them can.

As if to highlight his words, one of the Werewolves gets launched over the edge, yelping out a panicked, mournful howl that continues far too long. It only stops when the poor creature is so far down that Wyll’s ears can no longer pick up its cry over the sounds of battle.

“Got it, soldier.” Karlach’s voice is grim, but her face is set in a determined frown. “You go left, I’ll take right?”

Wyll nods sharply, and they both run forth.

Cazador remains wickedly fast, and artfully avoids their attacks, becoming his indistinct mist form at will as he moves, using the form to move yet faster.

Even so, Wyll and Karlach move like they’re connected telepathically. They have some kind of odd synergy when they fight, an instinctive connection which allows them to work seamlessly, the distract-strike–dodge-parry of their fighting styles lining up perfectly to keep Cazador on the defensive. He’s not unarmed, —no vampire is, lord or not— his claws quick and sharp enough to cut deep into muscle, but he’s chosen to fight with a dagger in his right hand.

A dagger with an unusual wooden core.

Rhapsody.

Wyll knows he can disarm Cazador, he just needs to wait for an opening. If he can get his hands on the dagger, get close enough to plunge it deep into Cazador’s chest…

Yet he finds himself reluctant, perhaps naïvely so.

He wants Astarion to have this.

Cazador casts Call Lightning and then Blight in quick succession, and the lightning glances harmlessly off of Wyll, but forces Karlach to her knees with a pained yelp.

Blight is much more dangerous, forcing Wyll to leap out of the way.

It seems Cazador is determined to keep his distance, especially when the only two people in this fight against him are Karlach, who is clearly a melee fighter, and Wyll, who is wielding a dangerous sword.

Like most of Wyll’s enemies, he assumes Wyll is solely a melee fighter, too.

Wyll is more than happy to prove him wrong.

He casts his own Chain Lightning right at Cazador, catching him off-guard.

Cazador bellows, falling to one knee. He has to plant his dagger against the stone floor to keep himself mostly upright, convulsing from the sheer force of Wyll’s spell.

Ansur’s affinity for lightning is powerful, and though Wyll isn’t really related to him, his position as the Heart of the Gate has allowed Ansur to share his abilities.

Wyll is no longer a Warlock, borrowing Mizora’s devilish abilities to fight from range.

No, Wyll doesn’t need her power any longer. Instead, he has his own source of power, his long dormant inheritance from Ansur’s draconic bloodline.

The power of lightning, the ability to harness the power of storms.

Wyll pushes Cazador back with as much lightning as he can muster, edging closer with each attack, trying to catch Cazador by surprise so that he can run in for a melee or snatch the Rhapsody dagger from him.

Cazador stumbles under the deluge, snarling at Wyll as he retreats back towards his sarcophagus. “You think you can defeat me?” he cries, incredulous. “My power only grows! You will witness my Ascension!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Wyll says, throwing a Sleet Storm Cazador’s way in an attempt to break his concentration. “How are you meant to complete the ritual when you don’t even know what it entails?”

Cazador slips on the patch of ice that appears beneath his feet, catching himself at the last moment. He meets Wyll’s eyes, radiating fury. “I know enough! Seven thousand souls — I’ve fulfilled my part of the contract, all that remains is for Mephistopheles to grant me the power I seek!”

Wyll huffs, barely dodging another Blight. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he calls, before almost slipping on the ice himself. Gods dammit, he’s not used to using elemental magic in battles.

He needs to be more careful.

Cazador looms above him out of nowhere. “Insufferable wretch,” he spits, raising his dagger high above his head. “You will learn to respect me or die—”

Wyll laughs, breathless, bringing his sword up in a clumsy arc just as Cazador lands a blow.

Rhapsody glances across Wyll’s brow, breaking skin but not doing nearly as much damage as it should —another of Ansur’s draconic gifts, Wyll realises. Blood spills forth, streaming into Wyll’s left eye, but he still manages to raise his own weapon in time.

Cazador screeches, dropping his dagger as Wyll’s Pelorsun Blade blocks the worst of his blow. The effect is immediate, his arm dissolving from the point of contact in the middle of his arm, all the way down to his clawed fingers.

“What have you done!?” Cazador shrieks, bursting into ominous black mist and disappearing once more.

Wyll slides a little on the ice again, eyes darting around the platform to find Cazador again.

He can’t let him get away.

Astarion’s freedom hangs in the balance; Cazador needs to die, and soon, if Astarion is ever to become truly free.

He takes in the entire platform, seeking any sign of Cazador. As he peers around the dark chamber, he takes stock of his allies.

They are all thoroughly engaged in battle, unable to break free to assist Wyll, but that’s okay. Wyll knows he can do this. Shadowheart and Aphraelle are furthest back, halfway up the stairs to the cells.

Aphraelle casts healing spells towards their allies, interspersed with as many ice spells as she can throw at nearby enemies.

As Wyll watches, Shadowheart casts a powerful Destructive Wave upon any enemies in range, knocking a few Chatterteeth prone and sending two Werewolves off-balance.

Her attack gives Ulder an opening, and he knocks another Werewolf off the edge of the platform with a powerful kick, rounding on the other and bashing it prone with his heavy shield.

At his side, Blaze Portyr swipes large bats out of the air, culling the seemingly endless swarm of them.

Gale and Karlach are back-to-back, Karlach swinging at any Ghasts who try to get too close to Gale as he duels against the spell-casting Chatterteeth. He manages to hit multiple targets with a Guiding Bolt, and they wail as they are consumed by radiant light.

And that gives Wyll an idea, though it might be dangerous.

He looks around frantically, finding Astarion perilously close to the edge of the platform, grappling with Petras.

Ulder is nearby, pushing Aurelia bodily away as she launches herself towards Astarion and Petras.

The other spawn, the one who Wyll— disarmed— is prone nearby, unmoving.

Cazador appears above Wyll once more, coming at him even faster, the claws of his left hand ripping through Wyll’s shirt and smarting across the skin of his chest.

That was too close. Wyll pushes back with his sword once more, just barely missing Cazador.

He flies out of range, spitting with fury. “I will crush anyone who stands before me with merciless power!” Cazador declares, his voice unpleasantly shrill.

Wyll retreats, almost stumbling over the female spawn’s motionless form and knocking into his father.

Ulder grasps his shoulder to steady him, pulling Wyll behind him and lifting his sword towards Cazador. “This is the end,” he promises, staring Cazador down. “You will not succeed in your ritual. Stand down, or I will cut you down.”

Cazador’s laugh is disbelieving. “You believe you can cut me down?” He points the long, cruel dagger at Ulder’s face mockingly. “The Flaming Fist has long been a pathetic cesspool of corruption and greed. I’ve nothing to fear from one such as yourself.”

Ulder lifts his chin and hefts his shield. “The Fist have their weaknesses,” he acknowledges. “Any institution is vulnerable to corruption, but the morality of my cohort has no bearing on my battle prowess.”

Wyll steps forth, side-by-side with his father.

Ulder holds up a hand without looking away from Cazador. “No,” he orders. “Help Astarion. I’ll hold this one at bay until he’s safe.”

Wyll swallows past a lump in his throat, touched that his father is thinking about Astarion’s safety. He doesn’t hesitate, rushing over to the edge of the platform just as Petras pushes Astarion off-balance.

Wyll flies over to Astarion as he begins to scrabble for purchase.

Astarion’s claw-like fingernails dig deep grooves into the solid stone ground as he slides to the edge of the platform, his legs slipping to dangle over the endless cavern below.

Wyll grasps Astarion’s hands as they, too, reach the edge. He braces himself on one of the stepped edges to keep from following Astarion over, his feet skidding to an abrupt stop.

Astarion looks up at him, his one remaining eye wide with horror. “Er,” he rasps, and then glances down at the bottomless pit below. “Gods, what the fuck is this place?”

“Not somewhere we can afford to take chances,” Wyll quips. “Please be more careful, darling.”

Astarion has the good grace to look contrite. “I’ll try my best,” he allows.

Letting out a relieved breath, Wyll pulls Astarion until he slides to safety, and then further, taking him into his arms. His heart is racing, panic and anxiety almost spilling over at the thought of losing Astarion to the depths.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers into Astarion’s hair, clutching him close.

Astarion huffs, hooking his chin over Wyll’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says awkwardly. “That… was close.”

That was close.

And it’s not over yet.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

The battle is chaotic, more so than the one they’d fought against Auntie Ethel, at least because the battleground is so much smaller.

Everyone stumbles into each other, over the platform steps, over bodies on the floor and the gaps in the filigreed floor.

Astarion holds onto Wyll for support as he turns back to Petras.

Petras stumbles to his feet, his eyes dark and predatory as he watches Astarion grip onto Wyll’s arm.

“This is your lover?” Petras mocks, snorting derisively. “I’ll enjoy flaying his flesh from his bones.”

Astarion grasps for Wyll’s sword, and wraps his fingers around the hilt.

Wyll lets him take it, unshakably trusting.

Before Petras can open his big mouth again, Astarion is in his personal space.

Astarion is slightly taller, his body blocking Wyll’s view of Petras.

Wyll doesn’t need to see this. Though surely he hears the ragged gurgle rip through Petras’ throat as the blade sinks home.

Petras falls to his knees, the blade shoved through his sternum all the way to the hilt.

“You deserved to die screaming,” Astarion spits, and turns back to Wyll. He doesn’t give Petras the satisfaction of watching him die.

It’s a slow death, and Petras does scream for much of it, until the light radiating from the Wyll’s new sword burns through his vocal cords.

“That was a good find,” he says, smirking wryly at Wyll.

Petras has been reduced to little more than a pile of smoking ash, still burning gold. Nestled in the centre is Wyll’s rapier and the rings Petras stole from Astarion.

Astarion frowns down at his hand, where Petras had sliced his fingers off. Thankfully, they’ve healed, new fingers sprouting from the old wound. Disgusting.

Sadly, he can’t say the same for his eye. He’s not sure if it will heal like his other wounds will, with enough time. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

All that matters now is taking Cazador out.

Wyll steps up to his side. “Got a plan?”

Astarion picks up Wyll’s sword and hands it to him. “Distract Cazador,” he says firmly, standing upright with his shoulders back, trying to seem confident. “I want to get close enough to— to try.”

Wyll nods, more relaxed than Astarion is. “He can’t control you,” he insists, like he’s willing Astarion to believe him. “You’re stronger now. He’s weak, he’s nothing. Don’t let him fool you again.”

Astarion swallows hard, his gaze drifting to Wyll’s for reassurance.

Wyll doesn’t blink. He believes his words are truth.

The sharp screech of metal rends the air as Cazador’s dagger meets Ulder’s shield with brute force.

Ulder takes a step back, but he’s been bullied up against a solid stone pillar — he can’t retreat further.

Wyll hurries to intercept Cazador before he can take advantage of Ulder’s unfortunate position.

Astarion watches, his heart in his throat.

Thankfully, Blaze Portyr swings into the fray as well, swinging her sword at Cazador’s legs and forcing him away from Ulder.

Astarion creeps around the edge of the platform, waiting for an opening, for any sign of weakness. He just needs a few seconds, a moment where Cazador is too distracted to stop him…

Portyr and Wyll attack Cazador from opposing sides, forcing him to assume his misty form lest one of them manage to land a blow.

Portyr spins to follow him relentlessly, and manages a nasty slice across his abdomen when he reappears in the centre of the platform.

“Good work, Portyr!” Ulder booms, following after her to deal a heavy blow of his own to Cazador’s vulnerable back.

Cazador dodges, Ulder’s sword barely grazing his lower back, and disappears in a desperate burst of mist once more.

The fight continues like that for long minutes, Wyll, Ulder, and Portyr rushing in to attack, not allowing Cazador any opportunities to retaliate, wearing him down.

Cazador snarls and lashes out with magic, his dagger lacking the reach that his staff gave him and therefore useless against three combatants wielding swords. He steps back, hurls lightning at Wyll again—

Astarion’s eyebrows fly up as Wyll shrugs the spell off like it’s nothing, entirely unaffected by the crackling electricity.

 Wyll manages to get close enough that his blade slices deep into Cazador’s remaining arm.

There.

Astarion ducks behind Cazador’s sarcophagus, bare metres from his target.

“No!” Cazador gasps, his hand bursting into gold particles and falling to the floor.

Rhapsody clatters into the pile of brightly glowing ash, and Astarion eyes it, wondering if he should try to duck down and grab it, attempt to drive the blade through Cazador’s chest now, while he has no hands to defend it.

Cazador is likely running on adrenaline and instinct, though, and immediately bursts into his mist form before Astarion can react.

Astarion braces himself, waits for Cazador to reappear.

The platform is suddenly very quiet.

“Great job!” Karlach booms in the silence, delighted. “That’s the last of ‘em! Let’s—” She stops abruptly, a long pause following.

“Where did he go?” Shadowheart hisses.

Astarion hears her and Aphraelle clattering down the stairs, but doesn’t dare turn to look at his friends.

There’s only one place Cazador can be.

Astarion rounds the closed sarcophagus in the centre of the platform, mere feet away, “No you don’t!” he explodes, ripping the lid off.

Despite himself, he’s startled to see that Cazador is in the casket, looking for all the world like he’s peacefully asleep.

He’s rarely been so close to Cazador, and he can’t shake the instinctive shudder of fear at the sight of his awful, smug face.

He pushes the feeling away viciously.

“No healing sleep for you. Wake up!” Astarion hefts Cazador out, throwing him bodily on the floor.

Cazador lands heavily, cowering. With his hands removed, he can’t catch himself, can only crumple where he lands. It’s clearly a struggle for him to get to his knees.

Astarion is almost disgusted at the quiet thrill he feels, seeing such a monster brought so low.

“Ungrateful worm,” Cazador snaps, clutching his ruined arms to his chest yet still spitting venom.

Astarion approaches Cazador. “I’m not the one languishing in the dirt,” he retorts, gleefully, and crouches to pick up Rhapsody.

Astarion needs this. Deserves this.

“One last thrust, and I’ll be free of you,” he says, his voice wobbling. “I’ll never have to fear you again.”

Cazador laughs darkly, supremely confident. “You can’t do it. You can’t defy me. I made you.”

Astarion snarls. “I am so much more than what you made me,” he objects, disgusted. His eyes slide over to Wyll, seeking.

Wyll nods, raising his chin.

You can do this, Astarion can almost hear him thinking.

Astarion’s lips curve up, just slightly, and he steps into Cazador’s space. “And I can be better than you ever were,” he adds, grabbing Cazador’s hair with his free hand.

“Unhand me!” Cazador yelps, reaching up uselessly to try to deflect Astarion’s iron grip.

Astarion takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes fixed on Cazador. “Gale. I think it’s time for you to grant me my wish.”

Gale makes a choked noise. “Astarion!” he cries.

“It’s worth it,” Astarion insists, his grip on Cazador’s hair painfully tight. “We need to make sure, this time. Just do it.”

Aphraelle steps into Astarion’s peripheral vision. “I know the spell, too,” she reminds him. “If we both cast, it’s twice the damage…”

Astarion tears his eyes from Cazador, surprised. Aphraelle’s expression is cold, completely devoid of emotion.

“And less chance Astarion survives!” Gale argues, horrified. “Aphraelle, we can’t.”

Aphraelle looks at Astarion, waiting for his answer, her bright eyes like shards of ice in the gloom.

Wyll isn’t far behind her, and Astarion can’t help but meet his gaze, even though he knows his convictions will falter.

Yet Wyll looks as quietly confident as he always does, his complete trust in Astarion written all over his handsome face. “You can do this,” he says, his soft, smooth tone soothing Astarion’s ragged nerves.

Astarion swallows, turning back to Aphraelle. “I trust you.”

Aphraelle takes a deep breath, lifting her arms. “Sol Invictus!” she cries.

A beam as bright as the sun shines from the high ceilings, falling in an eye-searingly bright beam into the direct centre of the platform where Cazador stands. At once, the entire cavern is alight in intense Daylight.

Astarion closes his eyes, his retinas burning from brightness he hasn’t directly experienced in decades, since before he was turned.

It’s beautiful.

He can’t see a thing.

But Cazador’s screams are loud, echoing, drowning out the entire cavern.

And Astarion begins to scream as well.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤