Ishta drifted in a boundless void, weightless and untethered. Darkness enveloped her, a silence so profound it seemed to press against her very being. Panic flared briefly, a sharp, instinctual response to the nothingness, but it ebbed as quickly as it came. Understanding settled in: this was death. This understanding came with a serene acceptance - at last she could be at peace.

Fragments of memory surfaced like distant stars piercing a night sky. She recalled shoving Astarion away from the collapsing rubble, the look of surprise in his eyes. Relief washed over her - at least he was safe. A soft smile touched her lips at the thought, but it faded as worries crept in. Would her companions manage without her guidance? Astarion... would the others still accept him now that she wasn't there to bridge the gap?

A voice, ancient and resonant, shattered the silence. It echoed from everywhere and nowhere, each word laden with timeless authority.

"Ishta Dawnstar of the Xindites. Your journey has not yet ended. Return to the mortal realm and fulfill your destiny."

Before she could respond, a force pulled at her essence. The void gave way as she was yanked downward, a sensation like being caught in a fierce current. A scream tore from her throat as she plummeted toward a searing light.

Her eyes flew open as she gasped, lungs heaving as though she'd broken the surface after drowning. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her vision swam into focus. Above her, familiar faces hovered - Karlach's fiery gaze, Gale's thoughtful eyes, Lae'zel's stern visage - all etched with concern.

Karlach let out a laugh, her grin breaking through a mask of tension. "Oh, thank the gods! I thought we'd lost you for good there."

Ishta pushed herself up on unsteady arms, glancing down at the tattered, blood-streaked clothes clinging to her. "What... happened?"

Gale took a breath, ready to answer, but Astarion's voice, sharp and tinged with something unreadable, cut through.

"You died. But then, you already knew that, didn't you?"

Ishta's gaze drifted past Gale to where Astarion lingered just out of reach, his face a mask of indifference, though his posture betrayed him. His hands flexed and unflexed at his sides, a tension held barely in check. She looked down at her own hands, stained and trembling. A sigh escaped her lips, quiet and resigned.

"Guess my luck ran out this time."

Gale offered his hand, his voice softening. "I wouldn't say that. Withers was able to resurrect you on time. And your actions today prevented a much greater catastrophe, saving many lives."

Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yes, I'm sure the bloodthirsty zealots will sing your praises for not ending up crushed beneath rubble."

Gale raised an eyebrow, not without a glimmer of humor. "I'd have thought you'd be a bit more grateful, considering you were nearly buried right alongside them."

Astarion's gaze flickered away, his expression hardening as he fell silent.

Ishta rubbed her sore arms as the tension in the air ebbed slightly. Gale's eyes softened, relief mingling with an unspoken warmth. "Truly, Ishta, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you here with us again."

Lae'zel gave a curt nod, her usually guarded eyes showing a rare glint of approval. "Indeed. I too am glad your death was not permanent."

Ishta managed a faint smile. "Good to see you again too, Lae'zel."

Karlach bounced on her heels, a nervous energy radiating off her in waves. "Damn it all, I want to hug you so bad right now!"

A quiet chuckle slipped past Ishta's lips. "Me too, Karlach. Me too."

An impish glint sparked in Karlach's eye. She turned toward Astarion. "Hey, Astarion! How about you give her a hug for me?"

Astarion's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of shock darting across his face before his expression hardened. His gaze locked briefly with Ishta's, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he abruptly turned away, disappearing into his tent without a word.

"What's wrong with him?" she murmured, glancing at Karlach, who shrugged with a sympathetic smile.

"Probably just cranky cos he's tired," Karlach replied, keeping her voice light though her eyes betrayed a deeper understanding. "He ran all the way back here to get to Withers before the sun set. Looked about ready to collapse by the time the old fossil worked his magic and got the rest of us back."

Ishta's gaze shifted to the tent's entrance, still flapping from his abrupt retreat. "He... he did that for me?"

Lae'zel's sharp voice sliced through the stillness, her expression stormy as she glared in the direction Astarion had disappeared. "It was the very least he could do after endangering us all with his thieving ways," she spat, her face tight with anger. Her fingers flexed over the hilt of her weapon, as though itching for a target.

Gale cleared his throat, cutting into the tension with a forced cheerfulness. "Well," he began, rubbing his hands together briskly, "I think this calls for a celebration of sorts. Today may not have gone entirely to plan, but we're alive, we came away with a rather powerful artifact, and - perhaps most impressively - Withers has proven himself true to his rather unusual word."

He clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the quiet camp. "What say we have a warm meal, perhaps some wine to calm our nerves after all the... excitement?" His gaze landed on Ishta, a small, encouraging smile lifting his mouth. "And, Ishta, when you're ready, I'd be happy to show you how to Misty Step. Might come in handy next time you find yourself facing a wall of falling rocks, hmm?"

Karlach let out a snort, a grin pulling at her lips. Ishta managed a half-smile, though her thoughts were still far away, lingering on the echoes of her time in the void.

Lae'zel, however, scowled, her face darkening further. "I do not feel in a celebrating mood," she muttered, her voice low and simmering with disdain. "There is nothing about this day to be glad about."

Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and strode off to her tent, her posture rigid, shoulders drawn tight with barely concealed frustration.

Gale coughed, shifting his weight with the self-consciousness of a performer whose grand finale had landed flat. "So... anyone else for wine?"

Karlach's eyes sparkled with relief as she raised her hand. "Count me in. Ishta, you joining us?" She wore a hopeful smile, but Ishta could see the underlying worry shadowing her expression.

Ishta hesitated, glancing briefly at the comforting light of the campfire and the promise of their company, then shook her head. "You two go ahead. I'll catch up in a moment. I... need a word with Withers."

Karlach and Gale exchanged a surprised look but said nothing. They gave her quiet nods before ambling off in the direction of the campfire and the supply tent, already murmuring to each other in low tones as they disappeared.

The moment they were out of sight, Ishta's face hardened. Her mouth set in a determined line as she spun toward Withers, who stood nearby, motionless and unfazed, as if he had been expecting her.

Her voice was barely contained fury. "I know how resurrection works, you scrawny sack of bones. A soul can only return to the mortal realm if it's willing to do so."

Withers regarded her with a calmness that bordered on maddening, his skeletal features fixed in that unchanging, infuriatingly serene expression. "Correct," he replied, his voice as dry as leaves underfoot. "Such is the way of things."

Her frustration bubbled over, raw and untamed, and she nearly shouted, "Then why in all the Nine Hells am I back?!"

Withers tilted his head, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a faint shiver down her spine. "Why indeed?"

Ishta gaped at him, her mind grappling with the cryptic non-answer. Her hands clenched into fists as she began to pace, her boots scuffing the dirt in agitated, restless strides. "I was finally at peace," she muttered, half to herself, her voice rough with emotion. "You had no right to drag me back into this cursed existence."

Withers's gaze followed her movements, as unflinching as the grave itself. "It would seem that Fate has decreed thy journey is not over."

She stopped, rounding on him with a glare that could've melted iron. "Don't give me that fate bullshit. You just wanted another pawn to move around on your lanceboard. To carry out this 'quest' of yours. Well, you still had six other pawns to play with. You didn't need me."

"Correct," he replied, an answer so devoid of emotion it stung.

Ishta's pacing faltered as she narrowed her eyes, suspicion threading through her frustration. "What does that mean?"

"It was not mine own decision to bring thee back," Withers replied, his voice low and weighty. "But rather that of thy companions."

Ishta felt her breath hitch, a realization piercing through her anger, softening it with an unexpected weight. She met Withers's hollow gaze, feeling the first flickers of doubt stirring within her.

"An unwilling soul cannot return," he went on, his tone unchanging. "Therefore, thy soul must yet be tethered to another."

Ishta felt a prickling unease spread across her skin, cold and sharp. "The Final Hunt doesn't work like that. If I die before it's over, I'm supposed to lend my strength to Astarion from beyond the grave as a spirit. I don't need to be resurrected to keep my oath."

Withers was silent for a long, tense moment. When he finally spoke, his words were slow, deliberate. "There are many tethers that can bind a soul, beside that of an oath."

The ground seemed to shift beneath her, though she knew it was only her own shock rippling through her. "Are you saying... are you saying I wanted to come back?"

Withers's bony head inclined in a subtle nod. "Correct."

"No," she whispered, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the notion. "That... that can't be true."

Her knees weakened, and Ishta sank onto a nearby boulder, dropping her head into her hands. The weight of his words pressed down on her, crushing her with their grim inevitability. "I've been courting death for so long," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Willing it to take me, hoping that in some noble end, I could cleanse the stain of what I am... that Mielikki would see me as her champion again. Why would I choose to return to a life where I can't hear her voice, where I'm... that which she despises most?"

Withers regarded her steadily, his skeletal face unreadable, though his gaze seemed to pierce through her. "Why indeed..."

Ishta looked up at him, irritation flaring anew in her eyes. "If you can't say anything helpful, maybe you should just shut up."

Withers didn't miss a beat. "No."

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips, dry and hollow. "Figures. Even the god who supposedly favors me won't offer any answers. Why did I expect anything different?"

Withers regarded her with a look that, if not for the deficit of flesh, might have held compassion. "Do not let thy self-pity blind thee to the truth. Thou hast found acceptance and companionship after a life lived in much solitude. Such things are precious to mortals, even those burdened by curses. Thy heart is bound to thy companions, and there is honor in desiring to aid them still."

His words struck her, unwelcome but undeniable. Even in that endless void, her first thought had been of Astarion and the others. She'd worried about them, hoped for their safety. If she had truly been at peace, there would have been no reluctance, no lingering attachment tethering her here.

Ishta sighed, the fight draining out of her as the truth settled into the hollow spaces inside her. She lowered her head, cursing under her breath. "Shiiiiiit..."

Astarion sat in the dim confines of his tent, the flickering lantern casting jagged shadows against the canvas walls. The small space felt stifling, as though the weight of the night itself pressed down on him. His elbows dug into his thighs, and his head rested heavily in his hands. His shoulders trembled, each breath he dragged in shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between fury and despair.

With a guttural cry, he turned and slammed his fist into the soft pillows piled at the head of the cot. The down absorbed the blow, smothering the satisfying impact he craved. His fury only intensified, his chest heaving as he snatched the pillow, hurled it across the tent, and drove his fist into the bedframe instead. The sharp crack of wood splintering filled the space, followed by a searing pain that shot through his knuckles and up his arm. He hissed, jerking his hand back and cradling it against his chest.

The ache in his fist gave Astarion something tangible to focus on, a reprieve from the chaos in his chest. His breath came fast and shallow through gritted teeth as he fought to steady himself. He shut his eyes tightly, willing the hot tears burning behind them to stay where they belonged. Tears were weakness. And weakness was unacceptable.

But the memory of Karlach's grin, her teasing words - Hug her for me - seared into his mind, mocking his composure. In that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to do just that. To cross the distance between himself and Ishta, to wrap his arms around her and feel the solid weight of her against him, alive and breathing. He had wanted to shake her, to yell at her for being so damned reckless - and then he wanted to break apart entirely and weep against her shoulder, burying his face in the crook of her neck like some pathetic child.

The depth of his desire startled him, cutting through his anger like a blade through flesh. His breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully. He squeezed his eyes shut even harder. Guilt twisted through him, a venomous thread that seeped into his every thought.

She had died because of his greed, because of his stupidity. He'd let her push him out of the way, let her take the hit that should have been his. And seeing her like that, limp and lifeless on the ground, had struck him with a clarity so brutal it had nearly undone him entirely.

He cared for her. He cared in a way he had sworn he never would again.

The realization filled Astarion with misery, a wave of despair crashing over him with the weight of inevitability. Ishta would never see him as anything more than the broken creature he was - someone to be pitied or protected. He was beneath her, and the thought hollowed him out from within.

The bitterness of it twisted inside him, self-loathing bubbling to the surface like a poison. He was weak for allowing himself to feel this way, weak for letting her get under his skin. She was supposed to be nothing more than a means to an end, a shield to use against Cazador. He'd told himself as much from the beginning, yet the lie now felt like bile in his throat. She trusted him. And he... he was too much of a coward to admit how much he needed her.

Astarion lashed out again, his fist slamming into the bedframe. The sharp pain that followed felt deserved, and he hissed through clenched teeth, as the impact reverberated up his arm.

His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. He collapsed onto his side, curling in on himself as if he could shrink into something small enough to escape his own emotions. His knees drew up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as heavy breaths shook his frame, each inhale a betrayal of the calm facade he so desperately clung to.

He told himself this would pass, that he could bury it, lock it away where it couldn't touch him again. But the emotions wouldn't stop, and Astarion knew - deep down - that this feeling, this unbearable need for her, was something he could never escape.

While his body stilled to a frozen numbness, he stared idly at the small ripples of movement in his tent wall as voices rose outside. His first instinct was to dismiss it as more mundane bickering among his companions, but something in the tone - a sharpness, a warning - made him jerk upright. The disarray of his emotions melted away, replaced by cold readiness.

Brushing his sleeve hastily across his eyes, Astarion forced his face into a mask of indifference. Reaching for his sabre, he stepped out of the tent in one fluid motion, his eyes scanning the camp. His breath hitched when he spotted them - three Githyanki warriors, clad in dark leather armor that seemed to drink the moonlight. They stood rigid and imposing, their weapons at their sides, yet their postures spoke more of tension than imminent aggression.

The sight of them standing opposite Ishta and the others set his heart pounding. He raised his weapon instinctively, ready to spring forward, when the lead Githyanki knelt, offering his sword to Ishta. The movement froze Astarion in place, confusion washing over him like a cold wave. His grip slackened on the sabre, and after a brief hesitation, he leaned it against the side of his tent. He let his fingers drift to the dagger sheathed at his belt, ensuring it was within reach before cautiously approaching the group.

As he drew closer, recognition struck him like a lightning bolt. The kneeling Githyanki was Voss - the dragon-riding Kith'rak they had encountered before. Astarion narrowed his eyes, his interest piqued despite the lingering tension in his chest.

Voss lifted his gaze to meet Ishta's, his voice steady, laced with urgency. "Ska'kek kir Gith shabell'eth. My blade rests. Mother Gith compels you to listen."

Ishta crossed her arms, her raised brow betraying both skepticism and curiosity. "This should be interesting," she muttered before inclining her head slightly. "Fine. We'll hear what you have to say."

Voss nodded gravely. "I know you carry the Astral Prism with you."

Ishta's expression hardened, her arms tightening across her chest. "I'm not giving it to you, if that's what you're wanting."

Voss shook his head, his tone resolute. "It is not. I've heard word from Crèche Y'llek. You are infected - yet the one in the Prism has chosen you, protects you with their power. That very power will be the end of Vlaakith's tyranny."

Lae'zel's reaction was immediate. Her longsword hissed as it left its scabbard, her face twisting in outrage. "Vlaakith's demise? Shka'keth!" she spat, stepping forward with fury blazing in her eyes. "I should run you through for suggesting it."

Ishta raised a calming hand, her voice steady but firm. "Easy, Lae'zel. Let him speak."

Voss's eyes flicked to Lae'zel, unperturbed by her outburst. "The Prism's tenant must be let loose," he said, his voice ringing with conviction. "I've sought their freedom for aeons. When the Prism went missing, I feared the worst. Instead, you've granted the opportunity I've so long awaited. All that remains is the key that unchains them - and I've found someone who I believe can provide it."

The Kith'rak stood, his presence commanding as he gestured slightly with his sword. "Bring the Prism to Baldur's Gate. I'll be waiting in a taproom called Sharess' Caress. That is where we decide the fate of my people."

He turned to Lae'zel, his voice softening but no less intense. "Lae'zel - together we will break our chains and be Vlaakith's slaves no longer."

Lae'zel's jaw tightened, her expression a battlefield of conflict. "I am no slave, Jhe'stil Kith'rak," she growled, her voice shaking with both anger and doubt. "The Undying Queen is my freedom. It is she who will purify me, and she who will ascend me."

Astarion rolled his eyes, a quiet scoff escaping him before he could stop himself. Ishta shot him a reproving look, but he only shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching in faint amusement.

Voss's voice rose, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Lies, Lae'zel - every last one. There is no purification, no ascension. The zaith'isk does not purify - it extracts memory and kills the infected. Nor does the lich queen glorify the ascended. She feeds on most all of them to grow her power and pursue godhood."

The crack in Lae'zel's composure deepened. "Madness," she whispered, her voice trembling as though each word cost her. "You flood me with this... this heresy. I... I will hear no more of it."

Karlach stepped forward, her voice a steady counterpoint to Lae'zel's trembling denial. "Lae'zel, don't be so stubborn. He's right about the zaith'isk. That thing would've killed you if our 'friend' hadn't intervened."

Ishta nodded in quiet agreement, her gaze fixed on Voss. "I think we need to trust him," she said, her voice measured yet resolute.

Astarion's sharp eyes caught the battle waging in Lae'zel's expression - her pride clashing with the cracks forming in her faith. Finally, her shoulders slumped, and she let out a long, ragged breath. "I served Vlaakith the whole of my life," she said, her voice heavy with resignation. "Learned her words, fought her battles, yet she names me Hshar'lak. Your words carry truth." She sheathed her sword, her spine straightening as she met Voss's gaze with grim determination. "I will meet you in Baldur's Gate. Do not make me regret it."

Voss's stern expression softened, and he inclined his head. "Lae'zel. I see T'lak'ma Ghir in you - Sister in Freedom. Together, we will be our people's light."

Turning to Ishta, he held out a small device, no larger than a pendant, its surface gleaming faintly. "Take this. It is a qua'nith - a psionic detector. The queen's warriors hunt you. The qua'nith will sound out when you come near their portals. Hear its cry, and prepare for battle - or slip away."

Ishta took the device with a nod, tucking it into her belt pouch as she studied him carefully. One of the other Githyanki raised their hand, and a shimmering portal tore into existence behind them. Astarion glimpsed the Astral Plane through it, a dizzying expanse of surreal beauty and danger.

Voss's tone grew urgent as he prepared to leave. "Keep the Astral Prism close. Let no one take it from you. Slay any who try. Now - to Baldur's Gate. I'll be waiting, Lae'zel."

Without another word, Voss and his warriors stepped through the portal, which sealed behind them with a faint hum, leaving only the campfire's flickering glow and a heavy silence in their wake. Astarion let his gaze linger on Ishta, his mind racing with questions he couldn't bring himself to voice. However, his attention drifted as Ishta and Lae'zel delved into a tense exchange and he let out a sharp breath, his interest waning as he turned back toward his tent.

His steps faltered as he approached, the prospect of returning to the confined space with his thoughts and emotions pressing in around him, making his chest tighten. He hesitated, then veered off, his instincts carrying him further into the canyon. The air was cooler out here, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the jagged rocks. It was a fragile, fleeting kind of peace, but he clung to it.

Before long, Astarion found a steep cluster of boulders and climbed with practiced ease, his boots scraping against the stone until he reached a small plateau and sat down with his legs stretched out in front of him.

The plateau jutted out like a balcony overlooking the valley below, a sea of shadows and silvered mist stretched out under the moonlight. The stars above glittered with their cold indifference, scattered across a velvet sky. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, and laid back on the ground, staring up at the infinite expanse.

Laying back slowly, Astarion pressed his palms to the ground, letting the cold seep into him as he stared upward. The vastness of the heavens was disconcerting, a reminder of how small and fleeting his existence was, even as a vampire. He stretched his arms behind his head, trying to lose himself in the stars, but his fingers brushed against something smooth and cool. Frowning, he twisted to look and reached into the undergrowth, pulling out a bottle.

The ruby hue of the wine inside gleamed in the moonlight, and for a moment, Astarion simply stared at it, the sight tugging at something buried deep within. The bottle's weight called to mind a night that felt like a lifetime ago.

His mind drifted back to that rare, peaceful moment spent under the stars with Ishta, the memory flooding him with a yearning so fierce it left him breathless.

He could still feel the cool grass beneath him, hear the soft rustle of the wind, and see the way her hair glowed like embers in the moonlight. For one fleeting moment, he had felt something he hadn't in centuries: ease. Lying beside someone with no expectations, no games to play, no ulterior motives - just quiet companionship. It had been intoxicating in its simplicity.

He closed his eyes and let the memory unfold, imagining her beside him again. Her golden eyes would meet his, filled with warmth that made his chest ache. The way she smiled at him - not out of pity or manipulation, but genuine kindness -had been a balm he hadn't realized he needed. Dangerous. That's what this was. Dangerous and foolish, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the longing that clawed at him.

The bottle creaked in his grip as his hand tightened around it, the ache in his chest spreading like wildfire. He was on the verge of throwing the bottle, when a voice shattered the quiet.

"You gonna drink that or just strangle it?"

Astarion's head snapped up, his heart lurching as he saw Ishta climbing onto the ledge. Her movements were steady but weary, her face shadowed with exhaustion. She offered him a faint smile as she brushed off her hands and settled beside him with a sigh.

"I had hoped my secret retreat would stay secret," she said, leaning back on her hands. "But, well."

He started to rise, unsure what to do with himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I'll leave you alone."

Ishta's voice softened, pulling him back. "You don't have to go."

He hesitated, searching her face for some hint of her mood. She looked tired - worn down in a way that struck a chord of understanding in him. "Are you sure?"

"I can't cope with being around everyone right now," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the valley below. "But I also don't think it's a good idea to be alone with only my own head for company."

Astarion lowered himself back down, a rueful sigh escaping him. "I know what you mean."

Her head tilted, curiosity flickering in her golden eyes. "Oh?"

His heart stuttered, and he scrambled for something - anything - to deflect. "All I wanted was to get a worm out of my head," he said with a dramatic wave of his hand. "I didn't sign up for dimensional travel and murderous Gith. And while I'm not surprised that insane device didn't remove our tadpoles... I'm still disappointed."

Ishta's lips quirked in amusement as she reached for the bottle. He handed it to her, watching as she uncorked it and took a deep swig. Then, with practiced ease, she drew her dagger and nicked her wrist, letting her blood flow into the bottle without hesitation.

A flicker of guilt coiled in his stomach as she handed the bottle back to him. "Same," she muttered. "It's never simple, is it? The further we go, the more convoluted it gets. We started off looking for a healer, and now we're tangled in the roots of a potential Githyanki civil war."

He took the bottle from her and drank, the mingling of wine and blood rich and intoxicating on his tongue. Smacking his lips, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "I admit, watching Lae'zel finally see the light and turn on her mistress was... inspiring. It took some time, but she got there in the end."

"I'm proud of her," Ishta said, her tone sincere. "It takes guts to admit you were wrong your entire life."

Astarion glanced at her, his voice quieting as he replied, "Yes... it does."

She turned toward him, her eyebrow arched knowingly, and his pulse quickened. He looked away hurriedly, taking another gulp from the bottle to distract himself. "Though it's not over yet," he added lightly. "Masters rarely let their slaves go without a fight."

Ishta'a expression darkened as she leaned back on her hands. "Let her come. I'll be ready."

Astarion studied her, a shadow of doubt creeping into his expression. "I hope you will. For all our sakes." The quiet between them stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then he shrugged, forcing a wry smile. "But that's tomorrow's problem. What are we doing now?"

"Now?" she glanced at the bottle. "We drink."

"Excellent plan."

Ishta's next words caught him off guard. "Speaking of which," she said, gesturing vaguely to her neck. "Do you want to...?"

The words froze him. His heart leapt into his throat, the thought of being that close to her suddenly terrifying. Memories of her last violent reaction to his touch surged to the surface, but this time, the fear was overshadowed by something else - his own lack of control.

"I..." Astarion struggled for words, his throat dry. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Her faint smile was tinged with a wry understanding. "I think I can trust you not to be an idiot."

He bit back the reply that hovered on his tongue: But I don't.

He didn't trust himself not to linger, to let his hands brush against her skin, to make a fool of himself and embrace her.

"I'm not really hungry," he lied, though his body screamed otherwise.

She sighed, tolerant but insistent. "By this time tomorrow, we'll probably be in the Underdark. Pickings will be slim down there, so you might as well top up now."

Astarion hesitated, her reasoning cutting through his resistance. "Fine," he relented, his voice quieter. "But for both our sakes, let's keep it to the wrist for now."

She seemed about to question him, but then she shrugged, holding out her arm. "Suit yourself."

Astarion took Ishta's wrist with a gentleness that surprised even him. But as he stared down at her skin, pale and unbroken, an unexpected wave of resistance rose in him. He tried to push it aside, to summon the part of him that could do this without a second thought. Yet the thought of sinking his teeth into her flesh, of hurting her, made his stomach churn.

The image of her lifeless body flashed through his mind again, vivid and merciless. Her pale, still form, the blood that had covered her head, her hair splayed like a copper halo in the dirt. You did that, his mind whispered, a venomous voice that refused to quiet. That was your fault.

Astarion froze, his grip tightening slightly as his vision blurred. His breathing grew shallow and rapid, a rising tide of panic threatening to drown him. He stared down at her wrist, the familiar rhythm of her pulse a cruel reminder of her fragility - and his culpability. His chest constricted as if iron bands were tightening around it, and for a moment, he thought he might let go and bolt.

A soft touch under his chin jolted him back to the present. Ishta's fingers were warm and steady as she tilted his head up, her golden eyes searching his with gentle concern. Her touch sent an electric ripple through him, both soothing and tormenting.

"Hey," she said softly. "Don't look so worried. I'm not going to freak out on you again, I promise."

Her smile was calm, trusting, and it sent a new kind of ache through him. He wanted to tell her it wasn't her he was afraid of, but the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he just gazed into her eyes, willing her to understand without him saying a thing.

For a moment, Astarion let himself get lost in the warmth of her expression, and then - unbidden - all he could think about was closing the distance between them, pulling her into his arms, and kissing her until the whole wretched world melted away.

The thought shook him to his core, and he shoved it aside, lowering his head as he forced himself to focus. He sank his teeth into her wrist, the taste of her blood flooding his senses like fire and honey. It was enough to distract him, to drown the heat rising in his chest, but even as he fed, he caught himself slowing, savoring the connection, reluctant to break away.

When he finished, he almost kissed her wrist without thinking - a small, instinctive gesture - but he stopped himself just in time, furious at his own weakness.

Abruptly, he pulled back, grabbing the bottle and taking a long, bracing swig. The wine was sharp on his tongue, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising to his face. He set the bottle down with a deliberate clink, his voice coming out curt and controlled. "Delicious as always. Thank you."

Ishta studied him, her gaze unwavering. "Astarion... what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied too quickly. "I'm just a little tired."

She tilted her head, unconvinced. "Karlach told me what you did. How you ran all the way back here from the crèche. That's quite a distance."

He tried to wave it off, forcing a breezy tone. "Well, I Misty Stepped a few times too, so not really all that—"

Astarion stopped mid-sentence, the feel of her hand on his arm sending his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. He looked at her, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it. Her fingers tightened slightly, her eyes meeting his with a quiet intensity that left him breathless.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant just for him.

Get out. Get out right now.

The thought surged through him, a command born of fear and self-preservation. He scrambled to his feet, startling her slightly as he brushed himself off. "You would have done the same for me, I'm sure," he said, his tone suddenly stiff and formal. He forced a smirk, though it felt like a dagger twisting in his chest. "Besides, I'm not prepared to lose a delicious treat like you any time soon."

The faint flicker of disappointment in her eyes was like a slap, but he couldn't stay. If he stayed, he would do something reckless. Something that could ruin everything.

"Now I really must be going," he said, forcing a carefree shrug. "As you mentioned, prey might be scarce soon, and I think I saw some mountain goats around here the other day. Best to stock up."

He gave her a quick, exaggerated bow, avoiding the way her expression fell. "Goodnight, my dear."

He turned sharply, each step away from her feeling like tearing himself in two. He heard her soft "Goodnight, Astarion," trailing after him, and it took every ounce of willpower not to stop, not to turn back and spill everything he had been holding in.

The night was cold, and the stars above offered no comfort as he walked into the dark, alone with the weight of everything he couldn't say. Alone with the sinking realisation that, against all reason and common sense, he had fallen head over heels for the golden-eyed Ranger.