Astarion's fear spiked, a sharp and visceral thing that sank its claws into his chest. Durge's imposing frame filled the doorway, his maroon and black plate armor gleaming in the dim light. Astarion's mind screamed at him, a cacophony of curses for leaving his post at the door, for letting his guard down.
How did this brute escape my detection? The question cut through his panic like a shard of ice, but the answer came swiftly.
Durge's wicked smile deepened as his gaze swept over the trembling Gale. "Don't you just love Pass Without Trace?" he said, his tone filled with mocking satisfaciton.
Astarion's blood ran cold. He knew. He knew we were here the entire time.
Before he could react, the shadows behind him shifted unnaturally, and a blade whispered through the air, slicing close to his ear. He spun, but too late - Shadowheart was there, her dagger already pressed against his throat. Her dark eyes glinted with cold amusement as her lips curled into a sneer.
"Now why does this seem so familiar?" she mused. "Oh, that's right. You held a dagger to my throat the first time we met."
Astarion's lips curled back in a snarl, his fangs bared. "You have no idea how much I regret not gutting you that day."
She tightened her grip, her blade biting into his skin, and Astarion felt a warm trickle of blood run down his neck. He kept his breathing steady, refusing to show her the fear clawing at his insides.
Movement flickered at the edge of his vision, drawing his attention. He turned his head just in time to see Durge lunge forward. The dragonborn swatted Gale aside with a single brutal motion, nearly sending the wizard sprawling. Astarion's stomach lurched as Durge's massive, clawed hand wrapped around Ashara's head and lifted her off the ground with terrifying ease.
"Ashara!"
Desperately, Astarion tried to lunge toward her, but Shadowheart's blade pressed deeper into his neck. She grabbed his hair, yanking his head down, forcing him to still. Her breath was hot against his ear, and her tone was laced with cruel delight.
"Shh," she whispered. "Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours."
The words, so familiar, made Astarion's blood boil. She was parroting back his own lines, the ones he'd used on her when they first met. His fists clenched, his mind racing as he watched Ashara struggle. Her legs flailed helplessly, her hands clawing at Durge's wrist as she tried to pry his grip loose. But the dragonborn held her effortlessly, his claws digging into her scalp.
"Let her go!" Astarion shouted, his voice shaking with fury. "Whatever quarrel you have is with me, not her."
Durge turned his crimson gaze toward Astarion, tilting his head in mock curiosity. His lips peeled back, revealing rows of jagged teeth in a grin that sent a shiver down Astarion's spine.
"Quarrel?" Durge's tone was almost playful, though the menace beneath it was unmistakable. "What makes you think I have any quarrel with you? You only tried to steal my pet wizard here."
He reached down with his other hand, planting it heavily on Gale's shoulder. His claws sank into the mans skin, drawing a wince from him.
"Master, I assure you—" Gale began, his voice trembling.
"Shhh," Durge interrupted, his tone deceptively gentle as he patted Gale's head like one might a dog. "Hush now, naughty little mage. I already know of your secret plans to betray me."
Durge's claws flexed, causing Gale to flinch, but the dragonborn's expression remained eerily calm. "Fortunately for you," he said, his voice softening as if delivering a benevolent decree, "I am the forgiving type."
Gale's face paled, but he said nothing. Durge's attention shifted back to Ashara, peering at her through his claws with a twisted fascination. "Such pretty eyes," he murmured, his voice low and almost wistful. "I wonder… would they taste like blueberries if I popped them out of your skull?"
Astarion's breath caught as Durge raised a clawed finger, the talon impossibly sharp as it hovered just below one of Ashara's wide, terrified eyes. He dragged the claw lightly across the delicate skin beneath. Ashara's breath hitched, her body trembling, and her gaze darted to Astarion, pleading silently for help.
Astarion inhaled sharply, his chest tightening as cold fury ignited within him, but every shift of his body pressed the dagger at his neck closer, the edge biting deeper into his skin. He could feel the warm trickle of blood sliding down his collarbone, the sharp sting reminding him how precariously close he was to death. One wrong move, one flick of Shadowheart's wrist, and his throat would open like a ripe fruit.
The Sharran's voice came close to his ear, soft and mocking, her breath warm against his skin. "My, my," she murmured, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "Could it be that the vampire actually cares about the woman?"
Astarion gritted his teeth, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reply. His crimson eyes burned as he glared at her, but she only smirked, her dark amusement evident.
Durge turned his head and looked at them. He tilted his head slightly, the motion oddly birdlike, and his voice rumbled with curiosity. "Does he now? How delicious."
The dragonborn lowered Ashara to the ground, his grip loosening from her head, but before she could scramble away, his claws hooked into her cloak. He yanked her closer, the motion swift and rough, until her body was pressed against his plated chest.
His reptilian tongue flicked out, tracing a wet line across her cheek with a deliberate, provoking slowness. She recoiled, her breath hitching, her body trembling despite her attempt to remain defiant. Durge smirked, his predatory gaze shifting to Astarion, leering at him as if daring him to react.
Astarion's nails bit into his palms as he struggled to stay still, every instinct screaming at him to act, to strike, to do something. But the blade at his neck held him in check, and he could feel Shadowheart's smirk without even looking at her.
Ashara tried to turn her face away from Durge, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. Her voice, though trembling, carried a spark of defiance. "If you're going to kill me, get on with it."
Durge chuckled, a sound that rumbled like an avalanche. "Kill you?" he repeated, as if considering it. "No, not yet. I enjoy playing with my food first."
A voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the moment. "I have the tiefling mage, jhe'stil Durge."
Astarion's heart sank further. Durge's grin widened, his jagged teeth bared in delight. "Marvelous!" he exclaimed, his tone almost jovial. "I love tieflings - they make such pretty corpses, don't you think?"
Rolan was dragged into the room from the balcony, blood dripping down his face from a gash on his forehead, his face twisted in pain as he clutched at his ribs. Lae'zel shoved him forward, her expression impassive as Rolan hit the floor hard, groaning. The githyanki warrior planted her boot firmly on his back, pinning him down. Her longsword rested at the base of his skull, poised for a killing strike.
"We have no need of another mage," she said coldly, her eyes narrowing at Durge. "Let me take his horns as a trophy for my tent."
Durge raised a clawed hand, his tone almost indulgent. "Now, now, Lae'zel. You already have plenty of trophies, and it's always best to keep a spare wizard on hand. You know how… squishy they can be."
Lae'zel pressed down harder on Rolan's back, but she said nothing, her lips curling into a faint sneer.
Durge turned his attention back to Astarion, his expression shifting to something more sinister. His smile was a blade hidden in silk, cutting even as it feigned charm. "Now that everyone has been reacquainted, let's get back to the matter at hand."
He raised a talon and pointed it directly at Astarion. "Starting with you, thief. I have a job for you."
Astarion snarled, his voice laced with venom. "Go to hell."
Durge tilted his head, feigning hurt, his expression darkening with disappointment. "Is that any way to talk to your master?"
"You're not my master," Astarion spat, his voice rising. "No one is. Not anymore."
Durge's sinister smile widened further, a gleam of malice in his crimson eyes. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, his presence filling the room with a suffocating weight. "Are you quite sure about that?" he asked.
Astarion's body stiffened as Durge turned his gaze to Shadowheart. "Set him loose," the dragonborn commanded.
The pressure against Astarion's neck vanished as Shadowheart released him, her fingers slipping away from his hair. He straightened slowly, the tension in his spine coiling like a snake ready to strike. His eyes met Durge's with a mix of fury and caution, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
Durge shoved Ashara toward Gale with a dismissive flick of his arm, sending her stumbling before she caught herself. She glared at the dragonborn, but the rage in her expression was still tempered by fear.
Durge stepped forward, his red cloak sweeping dramatically around his massive frame. With deliberate slowness, he reached to his belt, pulled a dagger free, and tossed it to the ground in front of Astarion. The blade gleamed, its edge wickedly sharp.
Then, to Astarion's astonishment, Durge sank to one knee. His arms spread wide, exposing his throat. A mocking grin twisted his scaled face as he spoke, his voice low and taunting. "Take your best shot."
Astarion hesitated, his mind racing. He stooped, his hand closing around the hilt of the dagger, the weight of it solid in his grip. He straightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied Durge. Surely it couldn't be this simple.
Shadowheart and Lae'zel had moved off to the side, their postures loose and disinterested, as though they were watching a child's game. Lae'zel leaned against the wall, her longsword resting casually in her grip. Shadowheart crossed her arms, her eyes glinting with faint amusement. Neither of them seemed inclined to intervene.
Rolan, standing unsteadily with one hand pressed to his ribs, broke the silence. "What are you waiting for?!" he barked, his voice raw with desperation. "Kill him!"
Astarion's eyes locked on Durge's exposed throat, and for a heartbeat, the promise of freedom flickered before him. Ashara and Rolan were free. Gale was unharmed. All he had to do was end this, and they could deal with the rest afterwards.
Durge's lip curled into a sneer, his voice cutting through Astarion's hesitation like the blade he held. "Pathetic weakling."
The taunt hit like a spark to dry tinder, and anger surged up in Astarion, white-hot and undeniable. With a snarl, he lunged forward, raising the dagger high, aiming directly for the exposed throat of the dragonborn.
But his arm stopped mid-plunge.
Astarion froze, trembling with the force of his own will as he strained against the invisible force arresting his movements. His breath hitched as realization dawned. The familiar, hated sensation spread through his limbs - a feeling he'd hoped never to experience again. It was as if unseen hands gripped him, pulling his strings like a marionette.
The dagger slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground. His fingers twitched uselessly, and his legs locked in place. He stood paralyzed, unable to move, as Durge rose smoothly to his feet, his towering frame casting a shadow over Astarion. The dragonborn's smile deepened, his satisfaction almost tangible.
"Kneel."
Astarion's knees buckled, even as he strained against the command with everything he had. Sweat broke across his forehead, his teeth gritting as he fought to hold his ground.
But it was futile. His body betrayed him, and a broken whimper escaped his lips. "No…" His muscles gave way, and he collapsed to his knees before Durge, trembling with fury and shame.
Ashara's voice rang out, sharp with panic. "Stop it! What are you doing to him?!"
Gale's tone was grim, his voice heavy with defeat. "It's the tadpole… Durge can control them."
"Correct," Durge said, his tone light, almost conversational. His claws flexed, and he took a step closer, towering over Astarion. "It's also how I knew you had died, Gale. I came up here to find out what moronic blunder had caused your death this time." He leaned down slightly and tilted his head. "Imagine my surprise to sense the presence of another parasite I recognized."
Astarion's head hung low, his breaths ragged as he fought against the command still gripping him. His hands dug into the floor, nails scraping against the blood stained boards as he tried to summon the strength to rise, to defy. But his body remained rooted, every movement a struggle against an unseen chain.
Durge's laughter rolled through the room, deep and mocking. "You may have escaped your old master…" He reached out, gripping Astarion's chin and forcing him to look up. "But let's make one thing perfectly clear, spawn. You belong to me now."
Ashara followed Durge and Astarion through the winding paths of the mist-enshrouded cemetery, the silence pressing against her nerves. Each step on the gravel path felt heavier than the last.
Stone graves jutted from the earth like broken teeth, their inscriptions faded to ghosts. Mausoleums stood ahead, their yawning entrances spilling dark shadows onto the ground. The air hung thick, damp with decay, and the faint tang of moss-coated stone clung to her tongue.
Durge led them, his clawed hand resting firmly on Astarion's back. The vampire moved stiffly, his shoulders rounded, head bowed as though trying to disappear into himself, his usual haughty grace replaced with something far more fragile. Durge's grip wasn't rough, but it was unmistakable: the kind of touch that announced ownership. The sight twisted like a blade in Ashara's gut.
Shadowheart walked just within her peripheral vision, her hand steady on the haft of her mace. Her sharp eyes swept the surroundings, every glance charged with the expectation of attack. Lae'zel mirrored her intensity on Ashara's other side, her sword ready, muscles taut beneath her alien armor. Between them, Rolan limped, his every step a grim reminder of Lae'zel's earlier roughness. He kept his chin lifted, though the pale lines of pain etched into his face betrayed his effort.
At her other side, Gale trailed slightly behind. She caught herself trying again to meet his gaze, hoping for a flicker of acknowledgment, but his eyes stayed rooted to the path in front of them.
Her attention drifted forward again to Astarion, and her chest tightened. The image of his face, stricken with raw fear as he knelt before Durge, burned in her mind. Her instincts had screamed at her to act then, to shift, to strike, but her wolf's form in such a confined space felt too dangerous.
The risk of hurting the wrong people was too great - or worse, she might have been powerless to help even in her wolf form. The uncertainty had frozen her. Now, out here, under an open sky, she still felt paralyzed. How far could Durge's leash extend? What would happen if she defied it? She didn't know, and that ignorance kept her tethered.
The path narrowed, and ahead, a rock face rose sheer and imposing, a broken gate set into its base. The gate hung askew, as if something had burst through it - from the inside. Ashara's sharp eyes caught a figure lingering near the entrance, shrouded in darkness.
The air in the cemetery seemed to grow colder as the figure stepped forward, moving with the kind of ease that only someone who owned the ground beneath them could muster. Light from a nearby brazier spilled over his sharp, tailored coat, catching on gold threads that glinted like embers in the gloom. His bronzed face was both unnervingly perfect and unnervingly inhuman, every angle too sharp, every movement too precise.
His hands spread outward, palms up in a mockery of greeting, and his voice slid through the silence, smooth and lilting. "Our hero thought but of treasure ahead, did not consider the peace of the dead... Through the dark he went creeping, and awoke what was sleeping."
Durge's tail twitched behind him, the only sign of his growing annoyance. His claws flexed, the tips catching on the leather grip of the sword strapped to his side. He turned his head toward the figure, his eyes narrowing.
"Spare me the gods-awful poetry for once, Raphael. What do you want?"
Raphael's smile wavered, his irritation flickering briefly before he smoothed it over like a gambler with a losing hand. He stepped forward, his polished boots barely disturbing the gravel beneath them. "I've grown quite fond of you, you know - in my way. I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead."
With a languid motion, he gestured toward the gate, as though unveiling a grand performance. Ashara caught herself bristling. Everything about him exuded arrogance, but it was the underlying menace that set her teeth on edge.
Durge snorted, stepping forward. "I'm touched. But I'm also in a hurry, so spout whatever nonsensical deal you want to make with me, and I'll ignore you just like the last time."
He moved to pass Raphael, his heavy boots grinding the gravel beneath them. The moment Durge stepped forward, Raphael sidestepped smoothly into his path, his movements precise, the faintest flicker of annoyance breaking through his polished exterior.
"As you wish," Raphael said, his voice now colder, the melodic quality of it sharpening to an edge. "There is a creature that lurks in silence and shadow - a creature who, like me, is very much of the infernal persuasion."
Ashara's breath caught, her instincts flaring to life. She stiffened, her muscles coiling. Raphael... was a devil. Her gaze flicked to the others, gauging their reactions. Lae'zel's eyes narrowed, her grip on her blade tightening. Shadowheart tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable but her weapon poised. Gale didn't look up; his shoulders remained hunched, but there was a faint tension in his hands as they hovered near the spellbook on his belt.
Raphael continued, his expression turning grave, though Ashara doubted the sincerity behind it. "Should it make its way out through the very doors you are about to brazenly swing open, you'll have unleashed a pestilence upon this realm. In truth, it is carnage incarnate. So, if you meet the devil of which I speak, kill it. Consider no other course of action."
Shadowheart's voice cut through the momentary silence, her tone steady and sharp. "You're still only telling us half of what you really know. I can tell."
Ashara's gaze flicked to Astarion, who had taken a cautious step backward when Durge's hand had lifted from his back. He moved silently, as if trying to fade into the shadows behind them. He drifted toward Ashara's side, but his eyes stayed fixed on Durge, hate burning in their crimson depths.
She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing near his hand. He jerked away, his fists clenching tightly. Ashara swallowed hard, her chest tightening at the rejection, but she said nothing. His anger wasn't meant for her - it ran deeper than her presence, tangled in memories of enslavement and chains.
Raphael sighed, the sound theatrical, almost indulgent. "This creature and I go back a long way. I admit it would be in my best interest as well should it remain trapped in the dark, or misplace its head, perhaps."
Durge tilted his head as the faintest flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, his lips curving into a toothy grin. "Are you afraid of this creature, Raphael?"
The devil's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, his usual veneer slipping for a brief instant. "I should not relish its reacquaintance. Let's leave it at that."
Durge's laughter rolled out, low and guttural, his chest vibrating with the sound. He threw his head back, the brazier's flickering light catching on his sharp teeth and the edges of his horns. "Ha! This is too good."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mocking growl. "Deal with your own problems, devil."
Raphael's composure cracked, a faint scowl tugging at the edges of his lips. He clicked his tongue, the sharp sound echoing against the stone walls of the cemetery. "Very well," he said with a sigh, though his tone was laced with irritation.
His eyes slid from Durge to the others, resting briefly on Ashara before moving to Astarion. The smile he gave was more predatory than charming now. "But perhaps one of your companions might be more open to offers?"
Ashara felt a jolt of unease, her heart thudding against her ribs as if warning her of an unseen snare tightening around them. The devil had found his target, and the way his gaze lingered on Astarion sent a chill down her spine.
"Astarion, for instance," Raphael purred, his voice like honeyed venom. "I can offer you an opportunity to learn more about those scars of yours."
Beside her, Astarion froze. His shoulders locked, and Ashara glanced at him, alarm flickering in her chest as she tried to understand the sudden tension in his posture. She spoke softly, searching his face for an answer. "What's he talking about? What scars?"
A muscle in Astarion's jaw twitched, but he didn't answer. His silence, heavy and telling, made her unease deepen.
Before Astarion could respond, Durge loomed closer, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "Yes... Do tell," he rumbled, the growl in his voice sending vibrations through the air. "I adore scars, especially when I'm the one creating them."
Raphael's smirk grew wider, sharper, as though Durge's words were exactly the opening he wanted. He took a step closer to Astarion, his movements fluid and unhurried, as though savoring the moment. "Oh? You haven't told them..." Raphael drawled. "And you've kept your clothes on this entire time? How very unlike you."
Astarion's breath caught, his chest rising sharply as he took a step back. His movements betrayed the instinct to flee, but Raphael followed with deliberate ease, closing the gap. The devil's voice was a mockery of reassurance, his words soft yet biting. "Why not let them see? Don't be shy."
With a flick of his hand, orange light burst from Raphael's fingertips, washing over Astarion like an infernal tide. Ashara blinked against the glow, her heart hammering in her chest. When the light faded, the breath caught in her throat.
Astarion stood naked before them, stripped of every layer of dignity. The brazier's flickering light illuminated his pale body, and Ashara's eyes widened in shock as she took in the brutal carvings etched across his back. They weren't just scars - they were infernal script, jagged runes that stood out like grotesque etchings on a once-pristine canvas.
Astarion's gaze darted to her, the humiliation in his eyes raw for a moment. His lips pressed into a tight line as he turned his body away, his shoulders hunching.
"Gods dammit," he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with frustration. He straightened a moment later, forcing himself to face Raphael and Durge, his defiance like a fragile mask over his discomfort.
Durge's head tilted, his eyes dragging over Astarion with a leering intensity. "Hmmm... I should have let you seduce me after all," he drawled, his tail flicking lazily behind him.
Lae'zel's voice followed, her tone dark and suggestive as she stepped closer, her amber eyes gleaming. "Perhaps we may yet have use for the spawn," she said, her lips curling with interest.
Ashara's hands moved before she could think, anger flaring hot and instinctive. She tore her cloak from her shoulders, the fabric snapping in the still air as she stepped toward Astarion. She avoided looking at his body, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his face. Her heart ached at the faint tremor she felt from him as she wrapped the cloak around his waist, tying it securely.
Her fingers brushed his side as she finished, and she felt him flinch. But as she looked up, their eyes met. His expression softened, the helplessness in his gaze mingling with gratitude. His lips moved silently, shaping the words, "Thank you."
Ashara gave him a small nod, her jaw clenched as she turned her attention back to Raphael, her body instinctively shifting to stand protectively in front of Astarion. Her fingers twitched, the wolf within her begging to lash out, but she forced herself to hold steady, her fury simmering just below the surface.
Raphael's smirk faltered, the satisfaction in his eyes dimming ever so slightly as he regarded her. For the first time, his gaze lingered on Ashara, a mixture of curiosity and surprise flickering across his face as his lips parted as if to speak, but Durge moved first.
The dragonborn stepped forward, his presence dominating the space as his hand reached toward Astarion.
Ashara moved instinctively, her voice slicing through the charged air like a whip. "Don't you dare touch him, you miserable wyrm!"
Durge didn't pause. He loomed over her, his eyes gleaming with amusement as his hand swept over her head. With one swift motion, he gripped Astarion's shoulder, pulling the vampire closer and spinning him around with ease. Astarion stiffened under the pressure, his head jerking slightly as Durge held him in place, one clawed hand anchoring him like an iron vise.
Durge leaned in, his other hand rising to trace the infernal runes carved into Astarion's back. The tip of his talon moved with deliberate slowness, outlining the circular patterns, his touch more invasive than curious. A quiet rumble escaped his throat, almost like approval.
Ashara surged forward, shoving against Durge's arm with all her strength. He didn't even flinch. With a lazy swipe of his other arm, he knocked her aside as though she were an irritating insect. She staggered backward, her boots scraping against the gravel as she struggled to regain her footing. Gale's hands caught her, steadying her before she could fall.
"Stop," Gale hissed urgently, his voice low and strained. "You'll only make things worse for him."
Ashara's head snapped toward the wizard, her eyes blazing. "Worse?! How can this possibly get any worse?" she hissed, her voice thick with fury.
Gale's grip tightened briefly on her arm. His expression was grim, his voice dropping lower. "Trust me, it will."
Durge's claw traced another slow path across Astarion's scarred back, his tone almost reverent. "Beautiful work," he said, the admiration clear in his voice. "Your previous master certainly had a flair for the dramatic. This must have been... excruciating."
Astarion stood frozen, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. He said nothing, his silence louder than any scream.
Raphael's voice slithered through the air. "Don't pout, spawn. Just destroy the beast, and I'll happily reveal your secrets - rather than your skin."
Durge tilted his head, his scaled tail curling lazily behind him as he regarded Raphael. "I must confess, I'm intrigued by all this myself now," he said, his tone amused. "All right, if the spawn wants to learn about these exquisite carvings, let him go ahead and accept your deal."
With a final pat on Astarion's back, Durge shoved him forward towards Raphael. The vampire staggered, his posture stiff as he straightened, lifting his head. His crimson eyes burned with defiance as he glared at the devil.
"Fine," he growled. "We'll kill this damn creature of yours."
Raphael's grin widened, his face lit with triumph. "Then we have an understanding. I look forward to our next meeting."
Ashara stepped closer, her voice low but urgent. "Astarion... are you sure this is a good idea? Devils never play fair."
Raphael turned his gaze to her, his smile softening to something more calculating. "You wound me... but on this occasion, the deal comes with no hidden clauses. I have something much more interesting to occupy my attention for the time being."
His eyes lingered on her as he spoke, and Ashara felt a chill ripple down her spine. Then, with a flick of his hand, Raphael vanished into a cloud of red smoke. The air was left still and heavy, the faint scent of sulfur hanging in his wake.
Silence reigned for a moment before Astarion shifted. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting Ashara's. "Well... now you know," he said, his voice quiet and resigned.
Ashara's throat tightened as she reached out, her hand resting on his arm. This time, he didn't pull away. "I'm so sorry Cazador did this to you," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow.
Astarion's lips twitched, his smile bitter and distant. "Onyx said something similar," he murmured, holding her gaze as if he could blot out the rest of the world beyond her eyes.
Durge's impatient huff broke the moment. He turned back toward the group, his sharp teeth glinting in the low light. "We don't have all day to stand around chatting. Let's carry on, shall we?" He strode past, casting a leering glance over his shoulder at Astarion as he sniggered. "Though you might want to get dressed first."
Astarion's eyes narrowed, the venom in his gaze sharp enough to wound. But instead of responding, he turned his focus back to Ashara. "You probably should get dressed too," he said quietly, his eyes carrying a silent plea.
Ashara swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She shook her head, her voice steady despite the roiling anger beneath. "I can't risk it right now. I don't know how else he's capable of hurting you."
Astarion's expression shifted, the anger in his eyes softening. His hand brushed hers briefly, before he whispered, "Please, Ashara... end this."
Her heart clenched, but her resolve didn't waver. "Just hold out a little longer," she said, her voice low but steady. "I have an idea."
"Spawn, follow!" Durge's voice barked from ahead, sharp and commanding.
Astarion flinched, the force of the word striking him like a lash. Ashara stepped closer, her hand rising to cup his cheek. He froze under her touch, and their eyes met. "Trust me," she whispered.
He gazed at her for a long moment before closing his eyes briefly, drawing in a steadying breath and nodding. Straightening, he turned to face Durge, a sneer curling on his lips. "Coming, master," he spat, the word dripping with contempt.
Durge's grin stretched wide, his sharp teeth glinting in the low light. "Ah! That's more like it." He turned and continued forward, his laughter echoing through the cemetery.
Ashara lingered close to Astarion, her mind churning with possibilities, her focus sharpening as they began moving deeper into the mausoleum. The air turned colder, heavy with the stench of decay and the distant drip of unseen water. Shadows pooled in the corners, swallowing the light of their torches, but Ashara's attention was elsewhere.
Onyx had the power to suppress the commands being forced upon Astarion's tadpole - those insidious signals meant to nudge him toward ceremorphosis. Now, with the realization that her powers and Onyx's stemmed from the same source, hope flickered in her chest. Perhaps she could block or sever the threads that tied Astarion to Durge's control.
As the group continued along, Ashara slowed her steps, moving closer to Astarion. Her senses sharpened, her focus narrowing as she reached out with her power, searching the ether for the unseen threads of arcane energy that bound Astarion's tadpole to Durge's. The magic felt slippery and alien, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. Still, she pushed forward, her determination hardening with every step.
