Chapter Text
The door creaked open, letting in the damp scent of dirt and clay. Uneasy, uneven steps stumbled into the library. Gale looked up to find a short, stout figure caked in dirt. Her hair was plastered against her skin where it had fall free of her plaits.
Gale nodded at her before returning to writing, greeting her without looking up, "Good. I was getting worried."
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《Two weeks later》
Gale pulled back from Astarion as though waking from a fever-dream, the remnants of heat still clinging to his skin. His breath came unsteady, his mind struggling to reassert control over the pull that had driven him.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, the words escaping in a rush. The iron authority he had worn since Astarion’s arrival crumbled in the space of a heartbeat. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Astarion’s eyes locked on his, the pupils wide and glassy, his expression raw. There was longing there, yes, but not the kind Gale wanted to see. It was edged with a desperate need.
That’s all this was.
Astarion wasn’t seducing him. He wasn’t even trying to. This was survival, honed into instinct centuries ago. The same trick he had used countless times before: offering his body as a shield against danger. As soon as it was offered as an option.
“No, Gale, it’s fine,” Astarion tried, his tone coaxing, but it rang hollow. The lie sat between them, flimsy and transparent.
“It’s not.”
Astarion had been vulnerable before—Gale had seen him in fear, in hesitation, in defeat—but this… this was different. This was weakness that went deeper than wounds or weariness. Mortality had returned to him after two hundred and twenty years, and it showed in every angle of his body, every flicker in his expression.
“You can stay here until your spawn are… dealt with,” Gale said, the faint exhale in his voice betraying a weariness he didn’t care to name. “Caelum will show you how to cook something decent. You’ll need to eat properly now.”
He turned to leave before the sight of Astarion like this tempted him to stay. Before the echo of that kiss rooted itself too deep.
“Gale?”
The call stopped him mid-step. Astarion’s voice was soft—softer than Gale had heard in years. The edges had been stripped from it, the confident lilt gone.
“I wish…” The pause stretched, and for a moment Gale thought he might not finish. But then the words came, low and hesitant. “If I could take it back… all of it—except Caelum—I would.”
A bitter, humourless laugh broke from Gale, sharp enough to sting. “You wish.”
“I mean it.” The words came faster now, as though he could make them real by sheer force of will.
“I’m sure you do.” The dismissal was quiet, but final. Gale left without another look.
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The library was dim, the sunset staining the tall windows with muted gold and bruised violet. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of light, the silence thick enough to feel. Gale sank heavily into the chair by his desk, elbows braced on the arms, head bowed into his hands. A low groan escaped him, raw and unguarded.
After a long moment, he straightened, drawing the small iron key from his pocket. Its familiar weight pressed cool against his palm. He unlocked the desk drawer and slid it open, revealing a single, untouched scroll.
The parchment was crisp, its seal a perfect, unbroken curve of wax stamped with a sigil he could draw from memory. The script upon it was simple, elegant: Votum, picked out in gold leaf that caught the last light of day.
He had used its twin once before. The magic was deceptively simple to master, but this scroll… this was a promise still unspent.
His fingers hovered over it, but he didn’t lift it from the drawer.
“He wishes…” Gale murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue. Astarion’s voice still echoed in his mind, soft and trembling. For a moment, he almost let himself believe it had been real. Almost.
The lid of the drawer slid shut with a muted click.
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《One week earlier》
Gale was led into the tavern by Rolan, the swell of noise and scent hitting him like a wave. The place was crowded—tankards clattering, dice rolling across tabletops, laughter and arguments weaving together in a thick haze. The mingled aromas of spiced meat, stale ale, and warm bodies filled the air, the pulse of so many mortals beating like a drum in his ears.
Vorra trailed close behind him, her face pale and tight, the muscles in her jaw working as she tried to control her hunger. Gale caught the way her eyes flicked toward every exposed throat, every flushed cheek, every hand grasping a mug of dark red liquid. He placed a subtle hand at her elbow, firm enough to guide, gentle enough not to draw suspicion.
Rolan whispered to one of the servers, who darted a glance toward the corner booth. There, tucked away in the shadows, sat a tiny woman, her back straight as a drawn bow, her boots dangling above the floor. Her feet swung idly, not quite reaching the ground, yet the air around her seemed to tighten the closer one came.
Rolan turned abruptly, clearly eager to be rid of the weight pressing down on him. “Well. I led you here. That’s her. I’m leaving.”
“Her?” Gale asked, though he wasn’t sure what he had expected from someone called Muffin. Certainly not this wrinkled little figure with stringy white hair tied back in a ribbon and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. And yet Rolan wouldn’t go within two paces of her.
“That’s her,” Rolan repeated, his hand already extended, palm up. “I’ve held up my end. I expect that blood now.”
“I don’t have it on me,” Gale replied smoothly. “I left it at your tower. On your vanity.”
Rolan’s brows furrowed. “When were you in my room?”
“Oh, are we going to act like going in your room is some sort of violation?” Gale arched a brow, his tone dry, cutting. “Apologies if I overstepped.”
“Right.” Rolan’s lips thinned. “Good luck.” He gave a sharp nod, but his shoulders were stiff as he disappeared into the crowd, clearly relieved to be leaving the matter behind.
Gale glanced back at Vorra. Her nostrils flared, her gaze darting to the nearest barmaid balancing a tray of steaming stew and bread. Every person here was a temptation—every pulse in the room a siren song. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, and Gale saw the panic edging into her expression.
This needs to be quick. If she slipped, if she lost control, they’d both be staked before they had a chance to bargain.
He guided her forward.
Muffin looked up as he approached, and her smile spread, bright and far too knowing. “Mr. Dekarios!” she chirped. Her voice was thin and reedy, as if her lungs had shrunk with age, but it carried through the din with uncanny sharpness.
“You’ve been expecting me, then?” Gale asked, masking his unease with politeness.
“In a way…” Muffin hummed, her head tilting. “I know what you’re after. And I know you’ve been told my asking price.” Her gaze slid to Vorra, then back to Gale. “My only question is—why bring your spawn with you?”
Gale’s jaw tightened. “I want two.”
Muffin’s eyes glittered. She leaned back in her seat, tapping her nails against the table as if weighing the words. “Greedy.”
“Perhaps,” Gale said evenly.
“Does she know?”
If bile could have risen in his throat, it would have. He forced the words out like broken glass. “She’s my spawn. She’ll do as I say.”
Vorra’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide, fear breaking through the mask of composure she’d been struggling to maintain. “What?”
Muffin didn’t even blink at the outburst. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her small, gnarled hands on the edge of the table. Her smile sharpened, and when she spoke, it was with the calm cruelty of someone very used to being obeyed. “I’ll be taking your teeth, dear.” She said it almost kindly, as if she were offering a child sweets. “Your master is quite desperate to get a couple of scrolls from me.”
“All my teeth?” Vorra gasped, instinctively clutching both hands to her mouth, her voice rising with panic.
Gale laid a firm hand on her shoulder, steadying her in place. “No, just the fangs. Right?”
“Correct,” Muffin purred.