Astarion

The air in the crypt was thick with an unsettling silence, pressing against Astarion’s chest. His steps echoed off the cold stone floor, each one a grim reminder that he had come here not by choice but out of necessity. He hated every moment of it—hated the idea of asking for help, hated the thought of being at the mercy of a god. Yet, as much as his pride screamed at him to turn and flee, he knew he had no time left. The lich had already started taking his siblings, one by one. Soon, it would be his turn. He couldn’t afford to wait.

Withers, ever cryptic and dry, had brought him here, saying only that Jergal was the one to offer him salvation. But Astarion could feel the weight of this moment in his bones—the price would be steep, and it would demand something he wasn’t sure he could give. He wasn’t here for mercy. He was here because his very soul was at stake.

A cold presence filled the chamber, and Astarion tensed. The shadows seemed to deepen, coiling and wrapping around him like a vice. And then the voice came—calm, clipped, and indifferent.

"You seek redemption."

Astarion’s lips curled, his breath quickening. "I seek freedom," he spat, bitterness lacing his voice. "The lich is taking my siblings. I’m next if I don’t act. Help me, Jergal, and I’ll do whatever it takes to stop it."

From the darkness, Jergal’s voice replied, barely a whisper, yet it felt as though it filled the entire room.

"Seven thousand souls."

Astarion’s eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing across his face. "What? Seven thousand?" His laugh was hollow. "What makes you think I care about souls?"

"Save them. Redeem them." The god's voice was distant, cold—like the sound of wind through a forgotten graveyard. "It is your task. Nothing more."

Astarion clenched his fists. "And what do you get from this, hmm? Watching me suffer? Watching me do what I despise most? I’ve spent centuries hunting and destroying, and now you expect me to save them?"

There was a brief pause before Jergal’s voice came again, almost too calm, as though this amused him.

"You will do it. Whether you want to or not."

Astarion’s jaw tightened, his patience thinning. "I can’t save anyone. I’ve never cared about redemption—my redemption, let alone the redemption of others." His voice dropped to a growl. "Why me?"

A faint chuckle reverberated through the crypt, an unsettling sound. "It is not about what you care for, Astarion. It is about what you must do." The god’s voice sharpened. "You will save them, or you will join your siblings in the abyss."

Astarion’s breath quickened. "And if I fail?"

"Then you will remain as you are—lost," Jergal answered simply.

Astarion’s heart twisted. His mind raced, but he couldn’t shake the grim truth of it. He had no choice. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

As the god’s words echoed in the crypt, Astarion was ready to turn and leave, to fight this on his own in whatever way he could. But then, Withers’ familiar voice cut through the oppressive silence.

"Let me speak for him," Withers said, his tone dry, but with an edge of urgency. "Jergal, Astarion may not like it, but he is the one who can do this. He may not want to save souls, but this isn’t about want. It’s about necessity. He knows what’s at stake—he’s seen the damage the lich has done. He’s fighting for his mind, for his humanity, just as he’s fighting for the fate of his siblings. You know this. Don’t make him beg for it, Jergal. Don’t make him lose even more of himself."

For the briefest moment, there was silence. Then Jergal’s voice responded, colder than ever but tinged with a hint of distaste, as though the god was irritated by Withers’ interference.

"Seven thousand souls," Jergal repeated, unyielding. "It is done."

Withers’ tone shifted, softer now. "He’ll do it, Jergal."

Astarion stood still, his anger simmering beneath the surface, but his resolve hardening. "Fine," he spat, "Seven thousand souls. I’ll save them. But don’t expect me to enjoy it."

Jergal’s presence seemed to withdraw slightly, as though the god had already lost interest. "Then go. Begin. Time runs short."

With that, the crypt grew still again, and Astarion turned to leave. His mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions—anger, revulsion, but a cold, terrifying determination. He hated this. Hated being forced into a role that went against everything he was. But he had no choice. Seven thousand souls—if he didn’t save them, he would lose everything.

And as much as it sickened him, he would do it.