You sneak into the very heart of Cazador's palace for profit. The rumors that the vampire lord's basement holds untold riches—from ancient artifacts to gold stolen from hundreds of victims—sounded too tempting to ignore. You infiltrated the mansion through an old sewer grate leading into the basement catacombs, and now you creep cautiously through the dark corridors, trying not to breathe.

Your plan was simple: find the treasury, take whatever you can carry, and vanish before sunset. You slip out of a narrow, cobweb-covered alcove, brushing dust off your clothes, expecting to see chests of gold.

But instead, a dungeon opens up before you.

The air here is stale, smelling of damp, mold, and stagnant blood. In the dim light of a smoking torch, thick rusty bars of cages gleam. In the farthest corner, right on the cold stone slabs, sits a figure.

An elf. He looks exhausted: silver hair tangled, a white shirt torn to shreds, exposing pale skin, and bare feet covered in dirt. He sits with his arms wrapped around his knees, seeming completely broken.

You take another cautious step, and a stone under your boot betrays you with a screech.

In that same second, the figure in the cage moves. The elf does not jump up. He slowly, with frightening grace, raises his head. Bright red eyes look at you from the semi-darkness. There is neither pleading nor fear in them—only a hungry, predatory wariness and cold calculation. He assesses you like prey, instantly calculating who you are, why you came, and whether you can be used.

"Charming," he rasps. His voice is cracked from thirst, but it carries a familiar theatrical mockery. "Well, well. Has Cazador finally sent me someone who looks better than the rats? Or did you just get lost looking for the wine cellar, darling?"

He lifts his chin slightly, and in the torchlight, the dark circles under his eyes become noticeable.

The dust of ancient ruins, mingled with the smell of fresh blood and the acrid smoke from overturned braziers, hung in the air like a thick veil. The ancient stone vaults shuddered from the clang of steel and the death rattles of the dying. The bandits who had dared to occupy these catacombs clearly hadn't expected such guests to come for the artifact.

At the very epicenter of the carnage reigned a perfect, lethal chaos. Astarion moved like quicksilver—swift, elusive, and absolutely merciless. His leather armor already gleamed with the splatter of others, and in his bright red eyes burned that very same wild, hungry fire found in a predator finally released from its cage.

The blades in his hands sang.

He wasn't just killing—he was dancing this bloody waltz, savoring every moment. Freedom smelled of iron and the fear of his enemies. In his past life, his every movement had been dictated by his master's will, every kill—by someone else's command. Now, he slashed left and right exclusively for himself. For the sun, which once burned his flesh and now beckoned with a ghostly hope.

A young mercenary with a rusty cleaver lunged at him, swinging for a strike. Astarion merely curled his lip in disdain, his face lighting up for a split second with a theatrical, wicked smirk.

"Darling, are you serious?" he sang with feigned concern, and his dagger slid right under the bandit's ribs with a wet crunch.

He twisted the blade, ripping it out with a fountain of dark blood, and immediately, without losing momentum, spun on his heel. The second blade traced a bloody arc through the air. A nauseating, juicy sound of flesh and bone being cleaved rang out. The bandit's head separated from his body, shot into the air, spraying crimson droplets all around, and rolled across the stone floor with a dull thud right at the feet of the next attacker.

"Disgusting. And magnificent. Gods, how I've missed this feeling—deciding who lives and who dies."

Severed hands, scraps of sleeves, and torn chainmail flashed through the air. Someone screamed, trying to crawl away, but Astarion was already there. He stepped on the chest of an elf in a leather vest, pressing him into the dust, and slit his throat with cold, calculating cruelty. Blood sprayed in a fountain, showering his pale cheeks. He froze for a moment, breathing heavily, feeling his vampiric nature going mad within him from the smell of fresh, hot blood. Hunger clawed from the inside, demanding to be sated, but Astarion merely wiped the droplets from his face with the back of his hand, leaving a dirty, red streak on his skin.

He cast a quick glance to the side—at you. There wasn't a drop of that helplessness he so hated in himself in that look. Only the heavy, intoxicating awareness of his own power.

"Well then, my dear," Astarion straightened up, stepping gracefully over the mutilated corpse, his voice sounding almost cheerful despite his labored breath. "It seems the party was a resounding success. I hope this artifact of yours—the one meant to give me back my sunbathing—is lying somewhere behind the next door. Because, I confess honestly," he sniffed the air loudly, closing his eyes in pleasure, "...the smell of dead bandits is starting to tire me."

He walked closer, his boot heels clicking against the blood-stained stone, and stopped beside you. His posture bore the usual theatricality, but in his eyes lurked a sharp, hidden anxiety.

"Are you unharmed?" he asked, and this time there was no irony in his voice, only a brief, business-like check. He wiped the blades on the dead man's clothes and sheathed them. "Excellent. Because I, you know, have no intention of carrying you through these cobweb-infested ruins. Let's go. The sun won't wait."

He turned toward the dark corridor ahead, and that familiar mask—charming and slightly dangerous—played across his face once again. But the fingers gripping the hilts of his daggers trembled slightly. Not from exhaustion. From anticipation.

.