The common room of the Last Light inn smelled of damp wood, old ale, and the faint lingering traces of blood and smoke. Astarion paced the length of the room, boots scuffing against the worn floorboards, his movements sharp, agitated. Every step was an attempt to outwalk the thoughts clawing at his skull, but they followed, nipping at his heels, inescapable.
He wished Ashara was here.
When he'd first returned to the inn after his interview - no, his trial - with Fenrir, she had been just as bewildered as he was abouther father's offer. He had avoided telling her the full extent of what had happened in that clearing, not quite ready to face the pity in her eyes. Unwilling to let her know the full depth of his helplessness.
But before they could truly talk, Halasin had dragged her and Vaarl off on some mission to restore the 'spirit of the land' or some other druidic nonsense he hadn't been in the right frame of mind to care about. Jaheira and her Harpers had already departed, leading the refugees toward Baldur's Gate, their departure leaving the inn feeling emptier than before.
Now, it was just Ashara's merry little band of misfits left to haunt these halls. He felt their eyes like needles pricking at his skin, some curious, others wary.
Karlach, at least, had found it hilarious. The moment she heard Fenrir's proposition, she had thrown her head back and laughed, loud and full-bellied, nearly falling out of her chair.
The sound of it still rang in his ears.
Astarion halted abruptly, his agitation bubbling over. He rounded on Onyx, who sprawled lazily by the hearth, watching him with unreadable golden eyes. The great wolf's massive form was a picture of indifference, tail flicking idly against the floor.
"What in the Nine Hells is that blasted god of yours thinking?" Astarion demanded, gesturing wildly. "I can't be a paladin!"
Onyx's only response was a wide, cavernous yawn, his fangs gleaming like polished ivory before he shut his jaws with an audible click.
Gale, who had been leaning against a support beam, arms crossed, regarded Astarion with an expression teetering between fascination and wariness. "It's certainly... unorthodox," he mused. "There are no records of a vampire ever taking up a divine oath."
Astarion let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yes, well, that's likely because divine magic and undead don't exactly make for the most stable combination, do they? We're usually on the receiving end of such things." He gestured dramatically. "Fatally, I might add."
Rolan, perched near the bar, smirked into his drink. "Asking a vampire to be a paladin is like hiring someone allergic to flowers to run a florist's shop." He lifted his tankard in a mock toast. "Though I'd pay good coin to watch them sneeze through it."
Astarion shot him a withering glare. "Thank you for that utterly useless contribution."
Rolan only grinned, completely unfazed. "Oh, come on. You have to admit, it's hilariously ironic."
Astarion opened his mouth for another scathing retort but hesitated.
Because, damn it all, it was ironic.
The thought curled around him, slithering into the cracks of his mind. The idea of defying centuries of tradition, of spitting in the face of everything sacred lore dictated - it had a certain appeal, didn't it? He could already imagine the horrified expressions of scholars and clerics alike, choking on their wine at the mere thought of a vampire being blessed with divine magic.
He shook his head sharply, trying to clear the thought from his mind. Apology be damned, he would not be Fenrir's pawn.
Astarion threw up his hands, pacing once more in an attempt to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of it all. "Setting aside the very real possibility that wielding divine magic might incinerate me on the spot—" he spun on his heel, gesturing wildly at the gathered faces "—I'm not the righteous crusader type! Do you honestly expect to see me running around, championing justice, smiting the wicked, and being a gods-damned beacon of morality?!"
A quiet cough from the corner broke through his tirade.
"I've never been that in my life," Zevlor said, his voice measured but carrying a faint hint of amusement.
Astarion hesitated. A flicker of guilt wormed its way beneath his irritation. "Ah... Apologies, old chap - forgot about the paladin in the room." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before waving a hand vaguely toward Zevlor. "But surely you, of all people, must see how I am the worst possible candidate for this."
Zevlor watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke. "I think you're confusing a Vengeance Paladin with the larger than life zealots made popular in bardic tales." His voice was calm, but beneath it lay something deeper - something tired, edged with quiet understanding. "It's true that I seek justice, that I try to protect those who cannot protect themselves." His jaw tightened, his gaze momentarily clouding with memories of failure, of lives lost. But then he straightened, that same unwavering resolve hardening his features. "I am not fanatical about it though. And I would not have not broken my oath by failing to smite you on sight - something a Paladin of Devotion would have been duty-bound to do."
Astarion blinked. He had not considered that before. Still, the idea sat poorly in his chest, coiling tight like a knot that refused to loosen.
He exhaled sharply, raking his fingers through his hair, messing up its careful styling without a second thought. "Regardless," he said, voice edged with frustration, "I am hardly the type to lead the charge. I stick to the shadows, I pick off my enemies from a comfortable distance, preferably while they're blissfully unaware of my presence."
His gaze flickered downward, catching the gleam of silver wrapping around his body like a second skin. His lip curled in distaste. "And just look at this ghastly thing," he sneered, running his hands down the pristine metal. "How, pray tell, am I supposed to remain unseen when I glow like a gods-damned bonfire the moment a candle so much as—"
The words died on his tongue.
Something moved against his chest, like ink bleeding into water, rippling outward in slow, curling tendrils. A strange sensation ghosted through the metal, as though it were responding to him.
Darkness spread from his sternum, spilling across his torso, seeping into the silver like an eclipse swallowing the moon. It bled down his arms, his legs, coating every gleaming surface in a deep, matte blue-black - the color of a starless sky, the kind of darkness that devoured light rather than reflected it. Even the sword at his hip changed, its steel darkening, blackened like shadow-forged iron.
Silence. His companions stared, some in open-mouthed shock, others with cautious intrigue.
Astarion's breath stilled. His fingers traced the altered armor, pressing into the cool metal, feeling the shift in texture.
"Oh..." The word barely left him, breathless, caught between disbelief and fascination.
Karlach was the first to break the stunned silence. She let out a slow, appreciative whistle. "Okay... now that is pretty damn cool."
Astarion dragged his gaze away from his newly darkened armor, still adjusting to the way it drank the light rather than catching it. He didn't know whether to be impressed or unnerved.
Gale hummed thoughtfully, stroking his beard, his expression shifting from curiosity to something bordering on academic intrigue. "It would appear that Fenrir really wants you to accept the job."
Rolan, lounging against a table, laced his fingers behind his head and smirked. "Fenrir, I personally think Astarion would look fantastic in yellow and purple stripes." He spoke loudly, gaze flicking upward as if addressing the god directly.
Astarion shot him a glare but, against his better judgment, flicked his eyes down at his armor for the briefest second. Nothing changed. He exhaled, relieved.
Rolan clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. "Damn."
Astarion groaned and let himself drop onto a nearby bench, his posture unraveling as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. His fingers trembled slightly, and he hated it - hated how unmoored he felt, how the past few days had reduced him to this raw, frayed thing.
"This is ridiculous..." His voice came thin, brittle, cracking under the weight of everything pressing down on him. He shook his head, exhaling a mirthless laugh. "I can't... I'm not—"
Onyx, who had been watching quietly from his spot by the hearth, finally spoke. "Fenrir knows you are a vampire, and yet he has still offered you the chance to become his chosen. I think you may be surprised to learn what that actually entails."
Astarion let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh really? Do enlighten me."
Before Onyx could reply, a new voice rolled through the room - smooth and deep. "Oh, you know. Wielding divine power. Smiting enemies. The occasional sacred quest in my name - standard paladin duties, I would imagine."
The air in the room changed.
The fire crackled, and yet the warmth seemed to drain from the space, replaced by something heavier, something ancient. A stillness fell over the gathered group, every breath caught in suspended hesitation.
Astarion stiffened, his body already reacting before his mind caught up. Heads turned toward the entrance, toward the figure now striding into the inn as if it belonged to him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. An elven man, though something about him was off in a way that made the skin on Astarion's arms prickle. His long, wavy black hair framed a face of sharp angles, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips curled in the suggestion of amusement. He wore dark leather armor lined with thick fur - the kind built for a hunter who thrived in the cold. But it was his eyes that set him apart. Vivid blue, too bright, the shade of ice catching the light just before it cracks. They burned with an unnatural radiance, not mortal in the slightest.
"Honestly," the man continued, rolling his shoulders as if loosening the body he now wore, "I can't really remember. It's been forever since I had a champion that wasn't a soulshard."
Murmurs swept through the room, a ripple of disbelief, shock, wariness.
Astarion's own eyebrows nearly shot off his face. He swallowed and forced himself to stand, even as something cold coiled in his stomach. He knew. Of course, he knew. And yet, seeing him like this - wearing mortal flesh as if it were nothing more than a borrowed coat - made the reality settle like a stone in Astarion's gut.
"Fenrir?" His voice was steady, measured, but there was a tautness beneath it, a careful restraint.
The elf bared his teeth in a grin, sharp and impossibly white. "That's Lord Fenrir to you."
Astarion scoffed, arms folding across his chest. "Not happening."
Fenrir let out a sound that was part growl, part laugh - something animal, something that carried just a fraction of the beast that lurked beneath his flesh. But he let the matter drop, instead mirroring Astarion's stance, arms folding across his broad chest.
He studied him with something that bordered on amusement, and it made the vampire bristle.
Astarion narrowed his eyes, gesturing toward the god's new form. "So this is what... your avatar?"
Fenrir glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing the way they moved. "Yes. I haven't used it in such a long time, I'd nearly forgotten how it feels to be so... small."
Astarion raised an eyebrow. Small? This elf was nearly as massive as Halsin.
Fenrir caught the look and smirked. "My real body is still back in Cania, of course." He rolled a shoulder, stretching as if testing the limits of his temporary vessel. "But I can use this form without technically breaking the terms of my imprisonment." His eyes flickered, a shadow of something colder passing through them. "Though I probably shouldn't stick around too long."
Astarion forced himself to breathe, his fingers uncurling from where his nails had nearly broken skin.
"Fantastic," he muttered, voice dry. "That's just what we needed. A disgraced god on house arrest casually stretching his legs in our inn."
A thought struck Astarion like lightning - sharp, sudden, and far too tempting to ignore. His head tilted, the hint of something dangerous curling at the edges of his lips.
"Do you feel whatever this avatar of yours experiences?"
Fenrir barely looked up from where he was idly prodding at his own arm, testing the flex of muscle and sinew like a craftsman inspecting his latest project. "Hmm? Of course I do. That's the whole point of having one."
Astarion's lips curled into something dark and feral. "Good to know..."
The shift was too sudden for Fenrir to react. Astarion moved like a whip, his fist connecting with the god's face in a brutal, clean strike. Fenrir staggered back, off-balance, his broad frame crashing onto the floorboards with a resounding thud.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Weapons scraped from scabbards, spellfire crackled in readied hands, and every eye bore into the scene with stunned disbelief.
Fenrir, sprawled on the floor, blinked up at the vampire, utterly floored - both literally and figuratively.
Astarion stood over him, his breath sharp and unsteady, his knuckles still tingling from the force of the strike. His whole body vibrated with the aftershock, a raw energy surging through him, something visceral that had been begging for release. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of all his fury.
"That's for what you did to me, you bastard!"
Karlach gaped, her voice torn between horror and awe. "Oh my gods - Astarion! What the hells?!"
Gale let out a low groan, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though physically pained by what had just occurred. "I question the wisdom of that decision."
Onyx was on his feet in an instant, fur bristling, muscles taut with readiness.
Fenrir moved just as fast. One moment he was stunned, the next he was a force of nature, springing up to his full height. His expression twisted with rage, predatory features sharpening further as he wiped a hand across his nose. When he pulled his fingers away, a thin streak of blood glistened in the firelight.
"You...!" Fenrir sputtered, his breath coming sharp and ragged. "Why you little—"
Astarion forced himself to hold his ground, even as cold terror slithered up his spine, wrapping around his ribs like chains.
I just sucker-punched a god.
A thread of hysteria curled in his chest, twisting between the raw, unfiltered rage and the sharp, wild thrill of it.
This is it. This is where I die... again.
And yet, despite it all - despite the searing panic in his bones, the undeniable madness of what he'd just done - he grinned.
Totally worth it.
Then he noticed his companions. Their bodies tensing, their hands inching toward weapons, muscles coiling in preparation. Ready. Not to run. Not to abandon him.
To fight. To defend him.
Fenrir's gaze flickered, sharp as a blade, scanning each of them in turn. He saw it too. The sudden shift in the air, the way everyone had closed ranks, no longer passive observers but threats. Ready to throw themselves into battle against a god if it meant standing between him and Astarion.
The fury in Fenrir's face wavered, his lips parting slightly, his expression twisting into something... unreadable.
And then, to Astarion's utter disbelief, the god laughed.
It started as a low rumble, then built into something rich and full, shaking the very walls with its depth. Not mockery. But something else entirely.
Fenrir rubbed his jaw, rolling it as if testing the lingering ache. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something close to approval.
"I suppose I deserved that."
Onyx stepped forward, his voice like ice. "Yes. You did."
Karlach, suspicious and still bristling with anger, glanced between them, her tail flicking in agitation. "Why? What'd he do?"
Astarion's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, nothing much." His voice was deceptively smooth, dripping with venom. "Except making me relive two hundred years worth of pure shit."
Fenrir looked away, his expression tightening, guilt flickering before his arms crossed over his broad chest. "I already apologized for that." His voice was gruff, defensive.
Astarion scoffed, the sound sharp, cutting. "Oh, so you think a sword and some fancy armor are enough to make me forget how you brute-forced your way into my mind - how you dug up every agony, every humiliation, every horror I've spent centuries trying to bury?" His voice rose, words laced with raw, unforgiving fury.
A sudden, furious voice cut through the room like a blade.
"He did WHAT?!"
Fenrir winced, and Astarion swore he saw panic in the god's too-bright eyes.
Astarion looked toward the doorway, pulse hammering.
There stood Ashara.
Her expression was pure, unfiltered rage, her sapphire eyes burning as brightly as Fenrir's. Beside her stood Vaarl and Halsin, the druid holding an unconscious young boy in his arms.
And Astarion knew, that whatever was about to happen next, it was going to be glorious.
His smile was sharp and gleaming with wicked delight as he turned toward Ashara. "Hello, darling," he purred, voice dripping with honeyed malice. "Apologies, but I may have neglected to mention something about the little chat I had earlier with your father here."
Fenrir's eyes locked onto him, burning with a mix of anger and desperation. His jaw tensed, his entire body coiled as if he could physically will Astarion to shut up.
Astarion, naturally, did no such thing.
"He wanted to get to know me better," he continued airily, "but apparently, simply opening his mouth and asking questions was beneath him - so instead, he violated my privacy and took everything he wanted directly from my mind, without so much as a by-your-leave."
He let the words settle, let them sink in, savoring the way Ashara's eyes darkened, the way her breath hitched, the way every muscle in her body tensed.
Fenrir's expression sharpened instantly as his lips curled into a snarl. "Astarion... you little shit."
An explosion of movement.
Ashara's body erupted into her massive wolf form, fur bristling as the shift tore through her. The sheer force of her transformation sent loose papers and tankards flying, the floorboards groaning beneath the sudden immensity of her weight.
Fenrir turned just in time to see death barreling toward him. His gaze flicked briefly back to Astarion, and in that fleeting moment, his expression was one of sheer, resigned exasperation.
"Well fu—"
Ashara's jaws locked around Fenrir's torso, her fangs sinking deep into his side as she ripped him backward with the force of a hurricane. With a vicious jerk of her head, she launched him through a window.
Glass shattered, shards spraying through the air like jagged stars as he was sent flying into the night.
Astarion winced at the sound of destruction but barely had time to recover before Ashara turned, pressing her massive nose against his temple in a quick, affectionate nudge.
Then - without hesitation - she barreled after Fenrir, tearing through the already broken frame and taking half the wall with her.
Astarion slowly turned to Onyx. The direwolf sat perfectly still, eyes closed, expression one of long-suffering endurance, as if this were merely another exhausting chapter in an infinitely tedious saga.
"Will Fenrir survive his daughter's wrath, do you think?" Astarion asked, his tone utterly mild.
Onyx let out a slow breath through his nose. "Physically?" He sighed. "Probably..."
From outside, there was the distinct sound of a strangled yell, followed by something crashing into the ground.
Karlach grinning like a fiend, was already moving toward the door. "Oh, this we have got to see."
There was no argument.
Everyone rushed outside, boots pounding against wooden planks as they spilled into the courtyard.
They arrived just in time to see Ashara whipping Fenrir back and forth like a terrier shaking a rat, her massive paws digging into the earth as she snarled. Then, with a final, furious shake, she flung him into the dried-up fountain at the courtyard's center.
The impact sent a shockwave through the stone, cracks webbing outward from where Fenrir landed in an undignified heap.
Astarion exhaled, tipping his head to the side, gaze sweeping over the god's battered form. There - just barely visible - a faint shimmer of mage armor flickered around him, the remnants of divine protection just enough to keep him from being utterly obliterated.
Rolan let out a long, appreciative whistle. "How is every bone in his body not dust?"
Fenrir groaned from where he lay sprawled, his head lolling slightly as he glanced toward them, very much alive but absolutely worse for wear.
Astarion crossed his arms, smirking. "Divine resilience, I'd imagine. Or sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness."
Fenrir groaned again. "Oh shut up."
Staggering to his feet, Fenrir rolled his shoulders with a grimace, one hand pressing against his ribs as if testing whether they were still intact. His other hand lifted in a gesture of appeasement, though the effort was somewhat undermined by the way he winced.
"Sweetie..." he began carefully, voice tinged with forced calm. "Can we please just talk about this?"
Ashara's body was a coiled spring, every muscle taut, her hackles bristling. Then, for the first time, her voice thundered out in its full, terrifying force.
"Don't 'sweetie' me!"
The sheer volume of it sent a ripple through the air, enough to make even the ground beneath them tremble.
Even Karlach - the berserker with a war cry loud enough to wake the dead - flinched.
"You chose for centuries, to not be a part of my life. You have no right to waltz back in now, when it suits you, and cast judgment on the man I love!"
Astarion's breath hitched. The man I love.
Warmth surged in his chest, fierce and all-consuming. He had already heard her say it of course, but it still felt like something impossible, something too good to be real.
Karlach elbowed him, grinning. "Keep smiling like that and you'll split your face in half."
Astarion hadn't even realized he was smiling. He quickly schooled his expression into something more neutral - though, judging by the way Karlach smirked, he wasn't entirely successful.
Fenrir's lips curled, his features still lined with pain but his stance no longer defensive. "I needed to know he wasn't just using you for your power."
Ashara snarled, the sound a deep, rolling threat that sent another pulse of unease through the gathered onlookers.
"I wouldn't have cared if he was!"
Astarion coughed into his hand. "Just to be clear, I'm not - well, not anymore at least."
Fenrir pointed at him, his expression triumphant. "See? He admits he was using you. I was just making sure that's no longer the case."
Ashara's snarl deepened. "By mentally torturing him?!"
Fenrir barely had time to curse before she lunged.
Her massive jaws latched onto his leg, and Astarion had the distinct pleasure of watching a god get yanked off his feet like an overgrown doll.
Astarion watched, morbidly fascinated, as Fenrir was slammed repeatedly into the dirt, his body whipped through the air like a dishrag before being hurled toward the inn.
Fenrir hit the ground in a violent, tumbling skid, leaving a deep furrow in the earth before his battered form screeched to a stop against the wall - directly next to where Astarion stood.
Astarion wafted away the cloud of dust and peered down at Fenrir's thoroughly disheveled form.
The god wheezed, head lolling slightly as he let out a breathless, "Bloody hells..." He coughed, spitting blood onto the ground before giving a wry chuckle through split lips. "She definitely inherited her mother's temper."
His gaze flickered to Astarion, glinting with something unreadable, something wild and strangely... amused.
"You absolutely sure you want to date her?"
Astarion blinked.
Of all the things the god could have said, that wasn't one he expected.
There was something strangely self-aware in Fenrir's expression, something teetering between reckless amusement and complete madness, and for a brief moment, Astarion was almost... intrigued.
Ashara stood, panting, her entire body still trembling with rage, her sapphire eyes locked onto Fenrir as if daring him to get up again.
Fenrir let his head drop back against the ground with an exhausted sigh.
"Feel free to step in and defend your creator anytime now, Onyx."
The direwolf, who had been watching with the exhausted patience of someone entirely too used to this, stretched - then let out a long yawn before promptly walking back inside the inn.
Astarion barely managed to swallow his laugh.
Karlach huffed, one hand on her hip. "Can't you just, I dunno, defend yourself?"
Fenrir cracked one bloodied eye open and turned his head just enough to look at her. "I could. But I might hurt her if I do."
Then his eyes widened. Ashara was stalking toward him again.
"Alright, alright," Fenrir blurted, panic flickering briefly across his features. He turned his gaze to Astarion. "I'll let you personally summon two 'Hounds of Death' if you calm her down."
Astarion arched a brow. "Make it eight and I'll consider it."
Fenrir scowled. "Five, but only twice a day."
Astarion smirked. "Done."
He stepped forward, placing himself between Ashara and her father. She halted immediately, her massive head tilting down toward him in confusion.
Astarion reached up as she lowered her head to him. His touch ghosted along her eye ridges, tracing soft patterns across the bone as he murmured, his voice soothing, steady.
"I think he gets the message, my love."
Ashara let out a sharp exhale, her warm breath ruffling his hair. "But he hurt you."
Astarion's fingers curled slightly into the fur underneath her ears. His smile was small, something private, something real.
"Lots of people have hurt me," he murmured. "But I can count on one hand the number of times any of them have ever apologized for it."
Astarion's fingers continued their slow, soothing strokes across Ashara's fur, feeling the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her eyes, still dark with fury, flicked toward Fenrir as he hauled himself upright, brushing dirt from his tattered armour.
"I want to hear him say it," she demanded, her voice low, dangerous.
Fenrir huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his bruised face twisting into something almost petulant. He looked away, clearly weighing whether his pride was worth indulging his daughter's fury.
However, his hesitation was abruptly cut short when he turned to find himself face-to-face with Karlach.
"So do I," the tiefling said, her voice carrying an edge of steel beneath the usual warmth.
She was one of the only people who could meet him at eye level, and she took full advantage of it. She loomed, her frame radiating heat from the embers beneath her skin, her eyes gleaming with challenge.
The greataxe in her grip swung lazily at her side, her fingers flexing around the hilt in a manner that was just subtle enough to be a threat, while her hammer-like prosthetic tapped against her thigh.
Fenrir's brow twitched downward. His gaze flicked between her and the weapon, calculating, assessing.
"You do know," he mused, "that I could blast you across the entire map with a snap of my fingers?"
Karlach's grin widened, fangs flashing as she leaned in just slightly. "Bring it, pops."
A beat of silence.
Then—
Fenrir smiled.
Astarion watched as something flickered across the god's bruised features, something feral and appreciative, something that recognized a fellow kindred spirit in the language of recklessness.
But then he sighed, long-suffering and dramatic, and turned back to Astarion. Despite one eye being swollen shut, the god carried himself with as much dignity as he could manage.
Astarion arched a brow, folding his arms, watching as the Fenrir strode up to him and - surprisingly - bowed. A formal, measured motion, graceful, despite his injuries.
"I apologize," Fenrir said, his voice carrying enough weight that the gathered onlookers fell silent.
"For dismissing your rights as an individual," Fenrir continued, "and for invading your mind without permission." His voice was steady, sincere, though a hint of shame lingered beneath the words. "I deeply regret the pain I caused you, and I hope there is a way I can make up for my actions."
Astarion stared. He shouldn't be this surprised. And yet, he was.
How many of the other gods would be willing to do the same? To publicly admit wrongdoing, to lower themselves before a mortal and offer a genuine apology in front of witnesses?
He could count them on... no hands, really.
Fenrir straightened, his sharp features unreadable as the courtyard held its breath.
Despite himself, Astarion felt a thread of his anger unravel. There was something... almost disarming about the god's apparent sincerity, about his willingness to meet this moment with something other than arrogance or dismissal.
Movement caught Astarion's eye. Onyx had reemerged from the inn, standing at the edge of the courtyard. His golden gaze was fixed on Fenrir, but there was something different about it.
Sadness.
It was subtle - just a shift in his expression, a tightness in his posture - but it was there. Astarion's gut twisted slightly at the sight.
He sighed in resignation before inclining his head graciously. "Apology accepted."
A subtle exhale escaped Fenrir's lips, relief flickering across his face before he turned his attention upward, meeting Ashara's piercing stare.
"Will that suffice?" he asked.
Ashara huffed, a blast of cold air hitting him in the face. "For now."
"Good." Fenrir turned on his heel, muttering, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need a stiff drink - and maybe a new spleen."
He strode toward the inn, rolling his shoulders, wincing slightly and swearing as something audibly popped in his back.
Then, just as he passed Karlach, he paused.
Turning to her with a considering look, he tapped a finger against his chin.
"Oh," he mused, "and remind me to look at your chest later."
Karlach's eyes widened - her pupils blown in startled disbelief as a hint of dark pink flared at the edges of her cheeks.
Onyx, who had been watching from the sidelines, visibly cringed and, with a long, pained sigh, dropped his head against a wooden pillar with a loud thunk.
Fenrir glanced at Onyx, confused. "What?" His brows furrowed. "I thought you said she was running hot?"
Onyx let out a long, exhausted groan.
Astarion bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep himself from laughing as Karlach's lips slowly stretched into an absolutely wicked grin.
The genuine confusion on Fenrir's face only made it funnier.
Karlach chuckled, resting her greataxe over her shoulder. "Oh, you're definitely Ashara's dad."
Fenrir stared at her for a long moment, tilting his head in that canine way of his, before exhaling and muttering under his breath as he strode inside.
"Mortals. Why do they have to be so... confusing?"
Ashara remained motionless, staring at the door Fenrir had disappeared through. The energy from the fight drained from her in a slow, crashing wave, leaving her limbs trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline. Her massive frame lowered, her paws shifting against the dirt as she sat down hard, struggling to process what had just happened.
She exhaled, staring blankly at the ground. "Astarion... I just attacked my father."
A beat.
"Yes..." Astarion's voice was entirely too pleased. "And may I say, it was absolutely magnificent."
She turned her head toward him, aiming for an exasperated look, but realizing it probably didn't translate well on her skeletal features.
Astarion, ever perceptive, merely smirked, shrugging off his cloak with a flourish. He held it up, amusement dancing in his crimson eyes before reaching into his hip bag and pulling out a long tunic. "I thought it a wise precaution to start carrying around spare clothing if you're going to make a habit of shifting like this."
Ashara blinked, staring at him for a long moment. Then, despite everything, warmth unfurled in her chest, something tender and fond creeping through her thoughts.
Dark smoke curled around her, wrapping her in a thick, swirling shroud as she let go of the power, felt her body contract, her bones rearranging, her muscles reshaping. When her fingers touched the ground, she was herself again - just in time to feel the warmth of Astarion's cloak being draped over her shoulders.
She pulled it closer, the scent of him lingering in the fabric, comforting.
Wordlessly, Astarion handed her the tunic before turning his back, giving her privacy. The small gesture sent another swell of warmth through her - considerate as always. She pulled the tunic over her head, feeling the fabric settle against her skin.
Without hesitation, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him from behind, threading an arm through his and pressing her chin against his shoulder.
He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. Instead, he leaned into her, pressing his head against hers and lacing his fingers with her own. They stood there, locked in quiet stillness, until Astarion twisted in her arms to face her fully.
He reached up, brushing a strand of loose hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with an affectionate touch. "You know," he mused, voice teasing but carrying something thoughtful beneath it, "I'm almost tempted to take Fenrir's deal just so I can request some enchanted clothing for you as one of my 'divine favors'."
Ashara's brow furrowed, the warmth in her chest cooling as she was reminded of the reason behind tonight's chaos. "He doesn't deserve you."
Astarion smirked, tilting his head in mock arrogance. "Oh, I know, darling." Then, his tone softened, the amusement in his expression giving way to something quieter, more serious. "But I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this."
Ashara leaned back slightly, studying him. There was something heavier in his words now, something deliberate.
Astarion lifted a hand, cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded path over her skin. "As powerful as you are, my love, you can't be at my side every minute of every day - much as I'd like that."
His expression darkened slightly, a shadow passing behind his eyes.
"Durge's ability to control me brought back unpleasant memories." His voice lowered, the words laced with something raw. "I never wanted to feel that helpless again, but both he and Bâlorak - and even your father - have driven home a truth I didn't want to acknowledge."
His fingers curled against her skin. "That I'm powerless to stop people from hurting me... or hurting you."
Ashara's throat tightened, the weight of his confession settling deep. She pulled him closer, clutching him, as if her presence alone could chase away the echoes of that helplessness.
Then, after a long pause, Astarion sighed, resting his chin against her head. "I was considering trying to usurp Cazador's 'Rite of Profane Ascension' and taking his power for myself."
Ashara's body stiffened. She pulled back immediately, eyes wide, heart clenching. "You can't be serious... it could kill you!"
Astarion exhaled, almost tiredly. "Maybe," he admitted. "But think of the power I'd wield, and I could walk in the sun without fearing I'd turn into a mindflayer."
Ashara's stomach twisted, and she pulled away from his embrace completely, taking a step back. "But... Raphael said all of Cazador's spawn were meant to die in the ritual."
Astarion's expression hardened, an edge of scorn creeping into his voice. "My 'siblings' lured thousands of people to their deaths over the centuries. I doubt Baldur's Gate would miss them."
Ashara's brow furrowed. "Aren't they just like you, though? Victims of Cazador's control?"
A shadow passed over Astarion's face, his confident mask slipping for the briefest moment. He glanced away, voice suddenly quieter. "I... I suppose so."
Then, as if shaking the thought from his mind, he straightened, flashing a quicksilver smile. "The point is, Cazador's ritual - while tempting - is an uncertainty. I don't even know if I could complete it, or whether it would kill me. Not to mention he's in Baldur's Gate. Whereas Fenrir is literally in the next room."
His crimson eyes found hers again. "So why not take the power offered to me here and now?"
Ashara swallowed, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs.
After a long moment, she moved, stepping close again, resting her head against his chest. "So long as you're sure about this..."
Astarion let out a slow, thoughtful sigh, his arms wrapping around her once more, his chin coming to rest atop her head. "The idea of me of all people being a paladin still seems ridiculous, but maybe it won't be so bad?" A hint of a smirk returned to his voice. "The armor is certainly lighter than I expected, so perhaps the role will be too."
Ashara tilted her head up slightly, a smile tugging at her lips. "You do look especially nice in it."
Astarion scoffed, gesturing down at himself. "Nice? Darling, I don't need a reflection to know that this looks fabulous."
Ashara laughed, shaking her head. "I preferred you in silver. You looked..." She hesitated for a moment before finishing, "beautiful."
Astarion stilled.
For a moment, he simply stared at her, his crimson eyes flickering with something softer, something deeper. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "Coming from you," he murmured, "that's practically a love sonnet."
Ashara's heart fluttered. Then, as if drawn together by something unseen, their lips met.
The kiss was slow, deep, lingering, and she melted into it, pressing herself closer, fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck.
Astarion broke away just slightly, barely an inch between them, his breath warm against her lips.
She made a small sound of protest, already missing the contact.
Astarion chuckled, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her waist. "Don't look at me like that, darling." His voice was a lazy purr, teasing but edged with a very real sense of restraint. "If we start something here, Onyx will never let us hear the end of it - neither will Fenrir, I would imagine."
Ashara's heart stuttered in her chest, warmth flickering there before it was smothered by the heavy weight of reality crashing down again. She swallowed, her throat tight, and pulled back slightly, trying to steady herself. "My father is here... actually here." Her voice felt small, the words barely a whisper against the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. "Why now? What does he want?"
Astarion exhaled, tilting his head in that ever-so-slightly infuriating way of his. "Maybe you should go ask him?"
A flutter of anxiety rippled through her. Her grip on Astarion instinctively tightened. "I don't think I can face him after what I just did."
Astarion's chuckle broke through the tension, warm and teasing. "I think he rather enjoyed it."
Ashara blinked, her confusion written plainly on her face. "What?"
Astarion simply gestured toward the inn, already turning to walk, his voice casual but carrying a hint of underlying amusement. "I'll explain later." Then, as an afterthought, he glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, and who's that boy I saw Halsin holding?"
Ashara followed after him, glad for the temporary distraction. "His name is Thaniel. He's the fey spirit that used to watch over these lands, but something is wrong with him - Halsin can probably tell you more." She sighed. "Vaarl and I were just there to keep the remaining shadows at bay while Halsin rescued him. I would have invited you along, but we only needed my frostfire and Vaarl's new radiant spells."
Astarion let out an exaggerated huff, placing a hand over his chest. "Hmph... I could have come along for moral support."
Ashara huffed a small laugh as they stepped into the inn. The room was quiet, thick with tension. Their companions stood warily, bodies tense, eyes locked on Fenrir.
The god was seated on a bench by the central hearth, an enormous tankard of ale in hand, drinking with the kind of single-minded focus one only had after being thoroughly beaten. He lowered the tankard with a satisfied groan, smacking his lips. "Damn... I'd forgotten how good this stuff tastes."
Then his eyes met Ashara's.
His posture tensed slightly, the casual air around him shifting into something more guarded. Slowly, he set the tankard down beside him, his movements deliberate, as if wary of provoking her further.
Ashara's stomach twisted. The words she wanted to say were stuck somewhere deep inside her, tangled up with the mess of emotions she didn't know how to handle. There were a thousand questions, a thousand accusations, and yet, she felt utterly lost.
Astarion, always aware, gave her a small nod and stepped back slightly, his presence still grounding but offering her space.
Taking a slow breath, Ashara stepped forward. She didn't quite know what to expect - her heart was beating too fast for clarity, and her thoughts were a mess of frustration, longing, and doubt. She stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between them, and when she finally spoke, her voice was steady despite the storm inside her. "Father."
Fenrir dipped his head in acknowledgment, his voice softer than before. "Daughter."
The weight of the moment settled between them.
Ashara's breath caught. She wanted to speak, to demand answers, to shout at him, but instead, her thoughts scattered. She was still so angry, so hurt, yet in the same breath, there was this overwhelming ache to finally bridge the gap that had existed between them her entire life.
Fenrir seemed to sense the struggle in her, and slowly, he rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving her. His massive form loomed in front of her, but instead of the terrifying god she had always imagined, he was suddenly just... there. Standing in front of her. Her real father, so close, so within her reach, for the first time ever.
The realization cracked something in her chest.
The breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding released in a slow, uneven exhale. Before she could stop herself - before she could think too much about it - her arms moved of their own accord.
And suddenly, she was hugging him.
Fenrir froze at first, his body rigid with surprise, but after a brief, suspended moment, he softened. His arms wrapped around her - large, strong, and warm - and pulled her close. Ashara clenched her jaw, her throat burning as she pressed her forehead against his chest, trying to hold back the sudden sting of tears.
Her voice came quiet, muffled into his armor. "I'm still mad at you."
A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her skin. "I don't blame you." He exhaled, his voice carrying something almost... regretful. "I haven't exactly been a shining example of parenthood. Or godhood, for that matter."
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching his face for something more - anything more. "What's changed? You said you couldn't be a part of my life, that you were too afraid of growing close to me..."
Fenrir took a step back, folding his arms across his broad chest, his posture suddenly more guarded. His gaze flickered away, as if the conversation had drifted into territory he wasn't entirely comfortable with. "Let's just say I've had my eyes opened by a couple of people recently."
He exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair before turning away from her. He strode back toward the hearth, his heavy steps muffled by the worn floorboards. When he reached the bench, he sank onto it heavily, forearms resting on his knees, eyes locked on the flickering flames as though they might hold the answers he sought.
"Selûne paid me another visit." His voice was quieter now, lost somewhere between reflection and regret. "She told me that Shar had her daughter, Aylin, murdered. Apparently, the aasimar was chained up here in the shadow-cursed lands and used as the source of Ketheric Thorm's immortality."
The revelation sent a ripple through the room.
Gale sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening. "So the Nightsong relic was actually a person?"
Fenrir nodded once, the fire casting jagged shadows over his face. "Yes. Selûne's own flesh and blood."
Ashara felt something deep and cold settle in her chest - a grief not just for the aasimar's suffering, but for Selûne herself. A goddess, stripped of her own child, watching helplessly as she was used to fuel something monstrous.
She stepped closer, her voice soft with understanding. "Selûne must be heartbroken."
Fenrir let out a slow breath, his fingers curling slightly. "She is. And furious at me for being such a coward."
Ashara frowned. "I don't understand..."
Fenrir turned his head, and when his gaze met hers, there was something softer in it - something vulnerable.
"She scolded me." His voice held an odd warmth, something almost amused beneath the sorrow. "Told me I should treasure every moment I have with you while you still live. That the fear of losing you should never have been an excuse to keep my distance."
A low, irritated growl rumbled from Onyx's chest.
"I've been trying to tell you that for centuries."
Fenrir rolled his eyes, the weight of the conversation breaking just slightly under the familiar, long-worn tension between him and his creation. "Yes, yes, I know." He waved a hand vaguely. "It obviously takes a neutral third party to reach me these days."
Then he turned back to Ashara, and his face shifted - something resolute, something unchanging settling in his features. "I can't stand on the sidelines anymore and let you face Bâlorak - and whatever twisted scheme the Dead Three have concocted - alone. And as much as I can't bear the thought of losing you one day..." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Letting you live another second thinking that I don't care about you hurts even worse."
Ashara barely had time to react before Fenrir stood, closing the space between them in a few powerful strides. His massive hands came up, cupping her face with surprising gentleness.
"You are the light of my life, Ashara." His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of raw emotion behind it. "The only spark of joy left in a cold, frozen existence. Without you... I would have ended my pathetic, tormented life eons ago."
Ashara's breath hitched, and the last of her restraint shattered.
Her tears fell, hot and unbidden, as she surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tighter, fiercer than before.
Fenrir exhaled sharply, as if the weight of the moment pressed into him, but his arms closed around her without hesitation, enveloping her in something warm and solid.
Somewhere in the room, Karlach sniffled. "I miss my dad..."
Ashara glanced over, blinking through her tears, just in time to see Onyx rise and pad over to the emotional tiefling. He sat down behind her, resting his massive chin on her shoulder, a silent offering of comfort.
Karlach let out a choked laugh, reaching up to scratch his fur, leaning into the warmth.
Ashara met Onyx's gaze over Karlach's shoulder, and in that instant, something clicked. For the first time, she truly saw it.
How Fenrir and Onyx weren't just two separate beings - how they were, in some ways, the same. A single existence split into two halves, bound by something deeper than flesh and blood.
A small, understanding smile curled at her lips as she pulled back slightly, looking up at Fenrir. His own eyes gleamed faintly, the firelight catching on unshed tears he stubbornly refused to let fall.
She smiled, warm and steady, reassuring.
The relief in his face was instant, his shoulders dropping slightly before he cleared his throat and stepped back, flustered, clearly scrambling to maintain whatever dignity he had left after such an open display of emotion.
Ashara wiped at her damp cheeks, a small grin playing at her lips as she exhaled, releasing some of the weight that had settled in her chest. Then, a thought struck her, and she raised a brow.
"Who was the other person?" she asked, her voice lighter now, curiosity threading through her words. "The other one who opened your eyes, I mean?"
Fenrir's expression soured immediately. His lip curled, his posture stiffening as he crossed his arms again. Then, without looking, he jerked his thumb in Astarion's direction.
"Him."
Astarion, who had been lounging against a pillar, watching the reunion with his usual air of detached amusement, jerked slightly at the sudden attention. His crimson eyes blinked in surprise, his posture stiffening.
"Me?" He gaped, momentarily caught off guard before quickly smoothing over his expression with a carefully crafted nonchalance. "Well, I'm flattered, naturally, even if I haven't the faintest idea what I have to do with any of this."
Fenrir didn't answer immediately. Instead, he began walking toward Astarion, his steps slow, measured.
Ashara felt her muscles tense, watching.
Astarion straightened slightly, his earlier amusement thinning as Fenrir closed the space between them with the steady inevitability of a predator advancing on its prey.
The firelight cast jagged shadows across the god's face as he came to a stop directly in front of Astarion, towering over him.
"You've spent two centuries living in misery and fear," Fenrir said, his voice low but firm, as if each word was being weighed before spoken. "You've been broken and rebuilt more times than you can count. You've walked the edge of madness, looked into the abyss, and yet here you are."
Astarion's jaw tightened. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his body utterly still.
"Still sane. Still fighting. Still surviving."
Fenrir leaned in slightly, the intensity of his presence pressing down like a stormfront.
"You're terrified of everything and everyone," he continued. "And yet, despite that fear, despite everything, you've chosen to stand beside my daughter, to love and protect her. You, a man who should have no reason to care about anyone but himself."
The tension coiled tighter in Astarion's body and Ashara saw his fingers twitching at his sides.
Then, Fenrir clenched his fists, leaned in closer, and growled, "Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?!"
Astarion's brows shot skyward.
Fenrir straightened, crossing his arms once more, glaring at the utterly bewildered vampire. "I am a being of millennia, I have seen countless empires rise and fall. I was once feared as the Bane of the Gods, the Scourge of Faerûn." His voice was edged with something sharp, something bitter.
Then he jabbed a finger into Astarion's chest.
"And I'll be damned if I let a sneaky, bloodsucking leech like you show more courage in a month than I have in the past thousand years."
Ashara started to move, ready to intervene if needed, but then - she hesitated.
Because something was changing.
Fenrir exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in every fiber of his being. "I ran from the thing I loved most, too afraid of loss to hold on to it. But you, a creature born of suffering, you stayed. You, who should have nothing left inside you but bitterness and hunger, found something worth fighting for. And that makes me look at myself and wonder... what in all the hells is my excuse?"
The tightness in Astarion's posture slackened, just slightly. His sharp, startled expression shifted, his lips twitching as if a thought had just clicked into place.
Slowly, deliberately, a smile curled at the edges of his mouth.
Fenrir's own scowl lessened, a shadow of something dangerously close to amusement flickering across his features.
And for the first time, Ashara sensed something unspoken passing between them.
She didn't understand what it was. But whatever it was, it must have been important, because both of them relaxed. The tension in Astarion's shoulders faded, the sharpness in Fenrir's stance dulled, and for the first time since this conversation started, they weren't predator and prey, or god and mortal.
Astarion exhaled a short, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, this is certainly one for the history books."
Fenrir scowled, immediately back to full irritation. "I'll burn anything that gets written about this."
Then he turned, sweeping his sharp, predatory gaze across the rest of the room.
"That goes for all of you." His voice was firm, laced with unmistakable command. "Nothing said in this room leaves these walls. Understood?"
A wave of nods rippled through their companions and Vaarl's voice called out from the infirmary room, "Understood, jhe'stil Fenrir."
Astarion, still smirking, glanced sideways at Ashara, his voice laced with dry amusement. "I do hope you realize what an honor this is, my love." He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "To have a god so openly envious of me."
Karlach snorted, shaking her head. "You're gonna milk this for all it's worth, aren't you?"
Fenrir raised an unimpressed brow, arms crossing over his chest. "Don't push it."
Astarion simply grinned, unrepentant, and gave a slight shrug before rolling his shoulders, shaking out the last vestiges of tension in his frame. "Right... let's hash out this whole Paladin business, shall we?"
Fenrir looked equally relieved to shift the conversation and leaned back against a pillar, folding his arms as he eyed Astarion. "So, you will accept the mantle of champion then?"
Astarion held up a finger. "Hold on now, before you start planning my divine initiation ceremony, I still think this is a horrendous idea." He gestured vaguely to himself. "I am, after all, a creature of shadows. I don't smite things, I hunt them."
Fenrir scoffed, tilting his head. "I am known as the Lord of the Wild Hunt, if you recall. I don't care how you choose to fight, so long as the end result is the same."
Zevlor, who had been silent up until now, stepped forward, his expression measured. "About that... who exactly do you consider your enemies?"
Fenrir turned his sharp gaze onto the tiefling, looking him up and down as if only now truly noticing him. Then his lip curled slightly in distaste. "Ugh... one of Helm's lapdogs."
Zevlor tensed, but to his credit, kept his voice even. "It's true - I served Helm in Elturel. But it has been a long time since I called him my god."
Fenrir's expression brightened slightly, the tension in his frame loosening. "Oh? In that case - welcome to the discussion."
Ashara flicked a curious glance at Zevlor, noting the way he avoided her gaze. Something unspoken lingered there, something she'd have to press him about later.
Fenrir leaned forward, his expression sharpening. "In answer to your question - my enemies are those who would use strength and power to justify acts of cruelty. The bullies, the sadists, the monsters who kill without reason with a smile on their face."
Astarion raised a brow, his smirk twitching slightly. "And you want me to be your instrument of divine retribution? Isn't that a tad hypocritical?"
Karlach nudged him, her warm, ember-lit eyes serious beneath her grin. "Hey, that's not you."
Fenrir nodded, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. "The walking inferno is right. I read the pages of your life's story, Astarion. You have never once killed without reason - unless forced to by Cazador."
Astarion stiffened. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his body tensing with the memory of Fenrir's intrusion into his mind.
Ashara stepped closer, brushing her fingers against his in silent reassurance. He glanced at her, hesitating for only a moment before threading his fingers through hers.
She leaned into him, pressing her weight gently against his arm. His grip in her hand tightened, grounding himself in her presence.
Fenrir watched the exchange, his own expression briefly subdued, lost in some silent contemplation. Then, after a moment, his shoulders squared as if he had come to a decision.
"I am an outcast god - so why not become the god of outcasts?"
The words carried weight, something unshakable behind them.
He turned back to Astarion, his tone measured, deliberate. "If you take an Oath of Vengeance in my name, your duty will be to champion those abandoned and scorned by the world - even those who hide in the shadows, shackled by chains they cannot break."
Zevlor's gaze flickered toward Astarion, his voice wry. "It would seem you are the perfect candidate for the job after all."
Astarion shifted uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line. His jaw worked as if chewing over something unpleasant. "Why would I waste my breath fighting for wretches like that?"
Fenrir shrugged. "Who else would fight for them - except someone who knows what it's like to be one?"
Astarion's expression darkened. "Most aren't worth saving."
Fenrir tilted his head slightly. "Maybe. But those that are - don't they deserve to be heard?"
The silence that followed was thick, heavy.
Ashara watched as Astarion's gaze flickered, staring somewhere far beyond the room, lost in thoughts she couldn't reach.
Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed. His body straightened, and when he looked back at Fenrir, his expression was resigned as he sighed and rolled his eyes. "All right fine, what do I need to do?"
Then, just as quickly, a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. He cast a sideways glance at Ashara and smirked. "Secret handshake? Blood ritual? Stand on a cliff and howl at the moon?"
Fenrir blinked, looking genuinely caught off guard by the suggestion. "Uh... nothing like that was needed the last time I checked."
A choked sound came from Onyx, his entire body twitching as he desperately tried to smother his laughter. His tail thumped against the floor as he furiously scratched at his neck, ears flicking back in an attempt to feign innocence.
Ashara fared no better. She pressed her face against Astarion's shoulder, her body shaking with restrained laughter. "You're impossible."
Astarion, utterly pleased with himself, flashed a smug grin. "I do try my best."
Fenrir's scowl deepened as his gaze flicked suspiciously between the two of them. His keen eyes narrowed, reading something unspoken in their reactions.
Ashara caught the look and quickly straightened, clearing her throat. "Private joke."
Fenrir grunted in irritation, clearly not liking being the one left out. Without another word, he strode over to the bar, refilled his tankard, and returned to his seat by the fire. He took a deep drink, then exhaled, fixing Astarion with a measured look.
"Look," he said, voice more level now, though still edged with impatience. "You want to kill some evil bastards, and I can give you the means to do so. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that." He took another swig before adding, almost offhandedly, "Technically, you've already sworn an Oath of Vengeance. I'm just here to make it official on behalf of the interested third party."
Astarion, who had been loosely leaning against Ashara, suddenly stiffened. His grip on her hand tensed. His crimson eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"
Fenrir didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand and flicked his fingers. A sphere of swirling blue mist materialized before them, its surface rippling like water disturbed by an unseen force. The glow pulsed faintly, illuminating their faces with an eerie shimmer.
Ashara's breath caught as an image coalesced.
She recognized the scene instantly - the cave where they had found Mirkon, back at the druid's grove. The dim glow of reflected torchlight flickered across the damp rock walls, the distant drip of water echoing in the cavern's quiet hush.
Inside the mist, a makeshift shelter came into focus, a crude attempt at protection against the outside world. Within it lay a small, still figure. A young tiefling girl with a bandage over one eye.
Dead.
Ashara's stomach twisted.
Then, a pale hand reached out, hesitating only for a moment before gently closing the girl's lifeless eye.
A breath hitched beside her. She turned, and her heart clenched at the expression on Astarion's face. He was frozen, his usually animated features locked in a raw, stunned stillness.
Then, his own voice - faint, distant - echoed from the projection.
"I'll make him pay for this. I'll make them all pay, I promise."
Ashara sucked in a sharp breath as she realised this was Astarion's memory. She was seeing it through his eyes.
The mist swirled again, breaking apart like dissipating fog. The image faded, leaving only silence in its wake.
Astarion's fingers clenched around hers, his grip tight. His stare remained fixed on Fenrir, unblinking, unreadable.
Fenrir took another slow sip from his tankard before finally speaking.
"The spirit of that girl has been hanging around you ever since then," he said, his voice quieter now, lower, edged with something more solemn. "Waiting for you to fulfill your promise. She's here now." Fenrir's eyes narrowed as he stared at something unseen to one side of Astarion, before adding, "Showing me her middle finger for some reason..."
Ashara felt a faint tremor in Astarion's fingers, subtle but unmistakable. Without thinking, she squeezed his hand tighter, grounding him in the present, anchoring him against whatever storm raged inside his mind.
Across from them, Fenrir held Astarion's gaze, his expression more solemn than she had ever seen it. "So I ask you again, Astarion Ancunín - will you take up the mantle of champion and fight for vengeance in my name?"
The words hung in the air, thick with meaning.
For a moment, Astarion didn't move. His grip remained firm in Ashara's, his body taut with some unreadable emotion. Then, slowly, deliberately, he released her hand and took a step forward. His crimson eyes locked onto Fenrir's, and for once, there was no flippancy, no smirk, no carefully constructed mask.
Only quiet, unwavering resolve.
"Yes."
Fenrir rose slowly, deliberately, his massive frame straightening as he stepped forward. "I won't ask you to kneel - you've been doing that all your life." His voice softened, but there was an iron certainty beneath it. "Instead... give me your hand."
Astarion hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side. Then, with deliberate slowness, he extended his hand. Fenrir clasped it firmly. Then, without warning, he lifted his other hand and pressed it against Astarion's chest.
The reaction was immediate.
A pulse of power erupted from Fenrir's touch, a shockwave of bright blue light flaring outward, illuminating the entire room. Astarion's body locked up - his back arching, his jaw clenching as the energy surged through him, illuminating the veins beneath his pale skin. A sharp gasp tore from his throat, but he didn't pull away. The light crackled, humming with raw power, before fading just as quickly as it had come.
Astarion staggered, his breath coming hard and fast as his body shivered for a moment.
Fenrir didn't let him fall. He caught him by the shoulder, steadying him with surprising ease. "You all right?"
Astarion took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes. That was... quite an experience." His voice was hoarse but tinged with something almost exhilarated.
Fenrir released him, stepping back. "My magic is a little different from what you're used to," he explained. "You won't be connected to the Weave anymore, but to my own primal life-force - same as Onyx and Ashara."
Astarion flexed his fingers, turning his palm as if testing something unseen beneath his skin. He nodded once, absorbing the words, but said nothing.
Fenrir gestured to the sword at Astarion's hip. "Draw your weapon."
Astarion, still catching his breath, did so - his movements more assured than before, a new weight behind them. The blade sang as it left its scabbard, gleaming in the firelight.
Then, instinct took over.
He twirled the sword in his grip, and as if answering his intent, a surge of frostfire erupted along the blade's edge, blazing to life in a swirling storm of ice and flame.
Astarion flinched, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden manifestation of power. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin.
He gave the sword another flourish, and with a flick of his wrist, the frostfire vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
He tested it again - another spin, another twirl - and again the fire answered, bursting to life like a living thing, eager, hungry.
Ashara watched as delight sparked in his eyes, shifting into something deeper, something almost childlike in its wonder.
Fenrir observed in silence, his expression unreadable, though there was a distinct gleam of satisfaction in his sharp gaze. He extended his hand once more.
This time, Astarion didn't hesitate. He clasped Fenrir's forearm, a warrior's grip, meeting his gaze with confidence.
Fenrir's smile was full of something almost like pride.
"Welcome, Astarion Ancunín - Paladin of Fenrir."