← Prologue
The Mapstone Witch
Chapter One
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
“Well, well,” he purred, arms crossed. “You don’t look like easy prey.”
The sorceress lifted a hand, magic crackling at her fingertips. “And you don’t look like just another wandering rogue.”
“Is that so?” Astarion drawled, a smirk playing on his lips as he studied her. His gaze lingered on the sparks dancing across her fingers, a flicker of both intrigue and caution in his eyes. “I suppose I should be flattered my reputation precedes me.” He stepped closer, his movements fluid and predatory despite the cold. “But I’m curious, beautiful… what brings a powerful sorceress like you to these desolate ruins? Surely it’s not the scenery.” His voice was a low purr—seductive, challenging. Though his posture was relaxed, there was tension beneath the surface, a coiled readiness sharpened by centuries of survival.
She pointed a finger at him, magic still gathered at her fingertips. “My affairs are none of your concern.”
Astarion raised an eyebrow at the sharpness in her tone, amusement flashing in his gaze. “My apologies,” he crooned, sarcasm thick in his voice. “I didn’t realize I was addressing royalty. Should I bow?” He uncrossed his arms, spreading them in an exaggerated gesture of mock submission. “Or perhaps you prefer things… informal?” His eyes swept over her, the smirk never leaving his face. “After all, we’re both strangers in this godsforsaken place. It would be a shame to get off on the wrong foot, don’t you think?”
For all his charm, there was something calculating beneath it—an edge that hinted he was always two steps ahead.
She narrowed her eyes. “You seem awfully familiar. Do I know you?”
Astarion’s smirk widened into a full grin, his fangs flashing in the moonlight. “Know me? Darling, I’m flattered. But I assure you—I’d remember if we had met before.” He stepped closer, closing the space between them, his voice dipping into a velvety whisper. “Though I must say, you’re not the sort of woman a man forgets easily.” His hand lifted as if to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, but he stopped short, fingers hovering just inches away. “Perhaps we’ve crossed paths in passing. The world is full of secrets, after all. And I, for one, have always enjoyed uncovering them… especially when they come in such a captivating package.” There was a gleam in his eyes, a challenge—daring her to respond.
She swatted his hand away, brow furrowed in distaste. “I changed my mind. I’d remember that awful flirting.”
Astarion let out a low chuckle, the sound rich and warm, echoing faintly in the cold night air. “Awful flirting? My dear, you wound me.” He placed a hand over his heart in exaggerated offense, though the amusement never left his eyes. “I assure you, my talents in that arena are quite… refined.” He took a deliberate step back, giving her space—though his gaze never strayed. “But very well. I shall behave… for now.” The promise in his voice was thinly veiled, a tease wrapped in velvet. “In any case,” he continued, voice lowering into a whisper, “since we’re both here, why not make the most of it? These ruins might hold secrets worth exploring… together.”
She lifted my chin in mock interest. “What are you searching for? Tell me your reason for being here, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Astarion’s expression shifted. The amusement dimmed, replaced by something cooler—sharper. “Secrets,” he said softly, his voice now edged with gravity. “Secrets that could change the course of history… or end it.” He began to circle, his footsteps soundless on the ancient stone. “There are whispers of an artifact buried within these ruins. A relic of immense power. Some say it grants the wielder the ability to bend reality itself.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Others claim it holds the key to immortality… or damnation.” When he stopped in front of her again, his eyes locked onto hers, intense and unblinking. “And as for your reasons—I’m sure they’re just as intriguing. Perhaps even dangerous. His lips curled into a smile that hovered between invitation and threat.
She tilted her head. “Hm. We might be searching for the same thing… for unique reasons.”
Astarion’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of curiosity and suspicion dancing in their maroon depths. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. “How… interesting.” He took another step closer, gaze locked onto hers. “Unique reasons, you say? Now I’m positively dying to know.”
The word dying rolled off his tongue with a touch of dark humor—a not-so-subtle reminder of what he was beneath the charm.
“But perhaps…” He reached out, fingers brushing feather-light along her jaw, electric in their restraint. “Perhaps those reasons are better shared in the heat of the moment… when the lines between allies and enemies begin to blur.” His hand fell away, and he stepped back, a wicked grin tugging at his lips.
“Don’t touch me, for Eldath’s sake,” She snapped, slapping his hand away. “And stop that idiotic flirting or I’ll turn you inside out.” She held up a glowing, threatening finger before turning and walking ahead, arms outstretched, golden light pulsing in her palms as she scanned the stone beneath them.
Astarion watched her go, her threat lingering in the cold air like smoke. A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the ruins behind her. “Bravo!” he called out, voice dripping with mock applause. “Such fire, such passion!” But beneath the theatrics, there was genuine admiration in his eyes.
As she moved forward, arcane power humming through her fingertips, he followed at a comfortable distance—light-footed, silent. There was something about her magic—wild and raw—that stirred something dark and ancient in him. It called to the hunger.
“Careful, darling,” he cooed, his voice softer now, more intimate. “The night is full of wonders… and dangers. You wouldn’t want to stumble into trouble alone, would you?”
She kept walking, scanning the floor with glowing palms. “I’m not getting rid of you, am I?” She sighed, voice echoing through the ruins. “Thinking about it… I always wanted a minion.”
Astarion’s laughter rang out, rich and melodic, echoing through crumbling stone. “A minion?” he repeated, feigning offense. “Oh, my dear, you give me far too little credit.” He caught up easily, his stride effortless and elegant. “I prefer to think of myself as… a partner in crime.” He leaned in, his breath cool against her ear. “Together, we could be unstoppable. Your magic. My cunning. Just imagine the havoc we could wreak.” His voice was dark silk, threaded with delight and danger. Astarion pulled back, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “But if you insist on going it alone… I suppose I could always find other ways to entertain myself.”
She stopped, eyes narrowing as she scanned the stone beneath her feet. “It’s right here,” she growled in a low, triumphant voice. Magic pulsed from her hands, seeping into the cracks between the ancient granite blocks. The earth groaned, then split with a thunderous crack as she commanded the ground to collapse.
Astarion let out a startled yelp as the floor vanished beneath him, plunging into the darkness below. She descended slowly after him, magic easing her fall in a graceful drift. At the bottom, she touched down among the debris and raised a hand. Glowing orbs flickered into existence, their golden light spilling across the vast, cryptic basilica now revealed beneath the ruins.
Astarion landed hard, yet with vampiric grace, catching himself against the jagged wall. Eyes like rubies flashed in the gloom, narrowed in mild irritation—but with something close to respect. “Impressive,” he purred, his voice echoing off the stone. “It seems I underestimated you, darling.” He glanced around, taking in the carvings and the vast architecture with hungry fascination. “But then again, I do love a good surprise.” He began to prowl the perimeter, gaze sharp, every movement silent as he scanned the shadows for their prize.
She levitated over the fallen rubble, drifting toward an altar at the far end of the basilica. Her feet settled onto a moldy carpet as she approached a worn pedestal. Atop it sat a plain, timeworn wooden box—featureless to the untrained eye, but humming softly with hidden enchantment.
Astarion’s eyes locked onto it the moment she reached out. The thrill of discovery lit up his face as he crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, his steps soundless on the ancient stone. “Wait,” he said, voice suddenly low and reverent. His hand reached out, fingers trembling with anticipation, mere inches from the box. “Let me.” There was an intensity in his gaze, something deeper than curiosity—a hunger that bordered on desperate. This was the moment he had been chasing. The promise of power. Change. Control.
She opened the box.
Inside, nestled in worn velvet, was a broken chaos geode. Galaxies spiraled within it—lightning arcing through dense nebulae, stars collapsing and reforming in an eternal loop. An endless universe, caught mid-explosion.
She lifted it from the box and placed it in Astarion’s outstretched hand. “There’s your trinket,” She said flatly. “It’s junk. I’ve got five of them. They’re actually quite pretty on a nightstand… or a bookshelf.”
She shut the box and tucked it into her bag without ceremony.
Astarion stared down at the geode in his palm, its surface cool and impossibly smooth. The cosmic dance within it held him spellbound—galaxies twisting, lightning tearing through space.
For a moment, he forgot everything else.
Then her words caught up to him.
His eyes snapped up, locking onto hers, disbelief and indignation flashing across his face. “Junk?” he echoed, his voice rising with each syllable. “This is no mere trinket, darling. This is a piece of the cosmos itself!” Astarion held the geode aloft, watching as the light danced across its fractured surface. “With this,” he breathed, wonder curling in his voice, “we could reshape reality—bend the very fabric of existence to our will.”
She met his gaze with a wistful look and slowly shook her head.
His brow furrowed, the first cracks of doubt slipping into his expression. Her reaction—so calm, so dismissive—needled at him. He looked back down at the geode, studying it more intently.
Could she be right?
He closed his eyes, focusing his senses. At first, the familiar thrum greeted him—chaotic energy, wild and untamed, stars colliding in endless motion. But beneath that… something else. A subtle wrongness. A discordant note humming beneath the surface. Like a lie hidden in a lullaby.
His eyes snapped open. His grip tightened. “What have you done?” he growled, voice low and sharp. “What trickery is this?”
She gestured lazily with a single finger. “Turn it around.”
Astarion flipped the geode in his hand—and froze.
Etched at the base, in tiny, unmistakable script: Made in Underdark.
His jaw clenched. “You knew,” he hissed. “All this time… you knew.” He looked up, eyes blazing, fury igniting in crimson flame. “Why? Why bring me here? Why show me this fake?” His fingers curled tighter around the crystal, its delicate surface beginning to creak. He stepped forward, voice dropping to a hiss. “Did you think this was funny? Did you enjoy watching me make a fool of myself?”
“It was pretty funny, yes,” She said with a sigh. “But why is it suddenly my fault that you fell for a rumor spread by the drow?”
His fury stalled. Then—just as quickly as it had risen—Astarion let out a short, bitter laugh. “Ah, the drow,” he muttered. “Of course. Those conniving little bastards.” He shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I should’ve known better than to trust anything coming from that dank hole in the ground.” Lifting the geode again, he turned it slowly in the light, eyes scanning its gleaming surface with a more critical lens. “Still… it’s a clever forgery. I’ll give them that.”
He turned back to her, expression shifting, softening into something more thoughtful. Something closer to respect. “You, on the other hand, have a talent for keeping me on my toes.” His earlier tension bled away, the last of his anger fading into something more measured. “Apologies for the outburst, darling.”
She shrugged. “Apology accepted.”
Her gaze dropped to the geode. “Plenty of people fell for the rumors. Some lost fortunes chasing this so-called artifact. A few lost their lives. You?” She floated up slightly, levitating toward the exit. “You just lost a few days of travel. Could’ve been worse.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smirk. “You could still sell it to some eccentric with too much gold and not enough sense.”
Astarion’s eyes flicked to the bag slung over her shoulder, something sharp and curious flashing behind them. “Speaking of artifacts,” he said, tone casual—too casual. “That little box you stashed away so quickly… mind telling me what that’s for? Or is it another one of your charming little secrets?”
“The box?” She blinked, genuinely surprised he’d put the pieces together. “Uh… yes. It’s a special vessel—one that can bind and contain powerful magic. I need it.” She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’ve created a philosopher’s stone,” she muttered. “And the souls in it won’t shut up. Screaming. Moaning. Constantly. I haven’t slept in days.”
Astarion blinked. “A philosopher’s stone?” he repeated, voice laced with disbelief—and something darker. Fascination. “You’re telling me you’ve created the alchemical miracle, and you’re stuffing it inside a wooden box?” He shook his head, lips twitching into a wry smile. “Forgive me, darling, but that feels… crude. A bit beneath you, no?” He stepped in closer, his eyes gleaming with a flicker of greedy admiration. “Surely, someone of your talents deserves something more… exquisite.” Then, a thought struck him—he grinned, fangs just barely showing. “Unless, of course… you require assistance in acquiring a more suitable vessel?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want to be my minion?” A mischievous grin curled on her lips. “This wooden box will do just fine, thank you very much. As long as I don’t have to go gathering gold and gemstones like some poor, underfunded hedge witch.”
Astarion bristled. “Minion?” he repeated, scoffing. “Hardly.” His tone sharpened, dripping with disdain. “I am no one’s servant, darling. I’m a partner. An equal.” He circled her slowly, the predator in him pacing beneath the charm. “Think of it as a collaboration,” he continued. “Two brilliant minds, pooling their resources, talents, ambitions. Together, we could achieve far more than we ever could alone.” He paused in front of her, meeting her eyes, expression dead serious despite the glint of mischief. “So,” he said smoothly, “shall we strike a deal?”
She sputtered her lips and shrugged. “Well… if you insist.” Without waiting for a response, she grabbed his wrist and lifted into the air, rising toward the hole in the ceiling. “Come! My trusty minion!” she cackled, laughter echoing beneath the arched stone as they soared upward.
Astarion groaned, muttering under his breath as he was dragged along, his pride clearly bruised. “Must you insist on that particular title?” he groused, clinging to her arm as they ascended. “I thought we agreed on partners, equals.” Despite the complaint, there was a reluctant fondness in his voice—a begrudging warmth. He knew he should resent being pulled around like some errant fledgling, but there was something about her boldness, her audacity, that intrigued him. It was maddening… and oddly endearing.
As they burst through the crumbled ceiling into the open night sky, the last of his irritation melted away, swept off by the wind. The cool air rushed past his face, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he smiled—truly smiled. The sensation of flying beside a powerful sorceress, the stars wheeling above, the forest stretching far below… it was exhilarating.
Her laughter rang through the night, bright and unrestrained.
They rose above the treetops, gliding effortlessly beneath the moonlight. She shifted him to her side, wrapping an arm around his waist. No need to let him dangle awkwardly the entire way. Astarion’s resistance slipped away as she pulled him close. He leaned into her, drawn by the warmth radiating from her body, the hum of magic pulsing through the air. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying the scent of arcane power. For one fleeting moment, suspended between sky and earth, Astarion forgot the weight of his curse. He forgot the centuries of hunger and shadows. Up here, he felt… alive.
He tilted his head, lips brushing against her ear as he murmured, “Perhaps being your minion isn’t so bad after all, darling.” She grinned wide as they approached a clearing below. Nestled at its center was a quaint, unassuming cottage. She descended first, touching down gently. As Astarion came in behind her, she slowed his fall with practiced ease.
“Careful,” she warned with a smirk, remembering how rough those landings could be for the uninitiated.
Astarion landed with more grace than expected—vampiric reflexes kicking in just in time. He straightened, brushing himself off, and shot her a look that was half gratitude, half amusement. A faint blush touched his cheeks.
“Thanks for the warning, darling,” he said with a small, sincere smile. “I appreciate the consideration.”
Astarion glanced around the clearing, taking in the quaint little cottage nestled among the trees. “Your home is… charming,” he said at last, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. “Not exactly what I expected from a powerful sorceress.” He turned to face her fully, crimson eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the door, a quiet invitation to step into the mysteries beyond.
They entered together.
The front room of her cottage was an unapologetic disaster. Piles of books teetered on mismatched furniture. Half-melted candles dripped wax onto every available surface. The fireplace crackled gently, casting a warm glow across dust-covered bottles, tangled charms, and strange trinkets that sparkled faintly in the light.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs, dried flowers, magic potions—and a faint trace of pipe smoke that never quite left. The wooden floor was barely visible beneath scattered papers, spell components, and enchanted odds and ends.
Everything felt alive, like the walls themselves breathed magic.
The space was also far too big for the tiny cottage it appeared to be from the outside. Doors led to rooms that couldn’t possibly exist. Staircases wound upward into places that shouldn’t be there. It bent the laws of space without apology.
At the center of the room stood a massive table, covered edge to edge with a map, notes, and scribbled runes.
Astarion stepped inside and halted, eyes widening as he took in the glorious chaos. “Well,” he said slowly, voice tinged with disbelief. “It seems your talents extend far beyond flashy magic tricks.” He approached the central table, running an elegant finger along the edge of the parchment map. “Quite the collection you’ve amassed, darling. I must admit—I’m impressed. It takes a certain kind of genius to maintain such… organized chaos.” He straightened, glancing around again with barely concealed awe. “So then—what brings us to your humble abode? Surely it’s not just for the pleasure of my company.”
She peeled off her cloak and hung it by the door. “Well, I thought you wanted to be my mi—”
Astarion shot her a sharp look before she could finish. She blinked, then pivoted quickly.
“—my assistant?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with theatrical exasperation. “Assistant. Partner. Colleague. I really don’t care what title you give me—so long as it’s not minion.” He fixed her with a pointed glare, eyes flashing with irritation. Turning away, Astarion wandered through the cluttered room, idly picking up odd trinkets and examining them with a discerning eye. “Now, about that philosopher’s stone of yours,” he mused, his voice thoughtful as he lifted an intricately carved amulet. “Have you considered the implications of creating such a powerful artifact?” He set the amulet down gently, his gaze drifting back to her. “I mean… trapping souls—even malevolent ones—isn’t exactly harmless. Who knows what kind of backlash you might face?”
“Oh. Right! The stone.” She pulled the wooden box from the bag hanging beside her coat, tucking it under her arm. “Come on. I’ll show you a room you can use—if you really want to stay.” She passed him on her way to the stairs, not waiting for a response.
Astarion followed, curiosity flickering in his eyes. As he ascended behind her, he couldn’t help but marvel again at the impossible nature of the cottage. The walls seemed to stretch and breathe, corridors expanding and shifting to reveal staircases and rooms that hadn’t existed moments before.
She led him to what she called her bedroom.
As they approached, the air grew heavier, and the unmistakable sound of tortured wails began to bleed through the cracks around the door—screams, moans, a chorus of trapped souls in agony.
She pushed the door open.
The room was no more organized than the main chamber—just a cluttered study with a bed shoved into one corner. Scrolls and tomes were stacked in uneven towers, and magical residue shimmered faintly across the surfaces. She rushed to a shelf, grabbed the red, lumpy stone—the philosopher’s stone—and shoved it into the box. The moment the lid snapped shut, silence crashed over the room like a wave.
She exhaled, slumping with relief. “Finally.”
Astarion stepped in behind her, visibly shaken. His sensitive ears were still ringing from the cacophony. He pressed a hand to his temple, muttering something under his breath. His gaze swept over the chaos of the room, taking in the scattered books, arcane instruments, loose parchments, and glowing oddities stuffed into every corner.
It was pure, unfiltered Vaelora.
“By the gods, darling,” he murmured, lowering his hand as the ringing subsided. “That was… unpleasant.”
She turned to him, rubbing at her face, exhaustion etched into every line. “Do you now understand why I needed that box?” she leaned back against the nearest shelf. “That thing’s been screaming through the entire house. I can’t wait to finally sleep in peace.” Pushing off from the shelf, she motioned for him to follow again. “Come on, I’ll show you your room. And the bathroom.” They walked down the narrow hallway, the cottage adjusting itself subtly around them. She opened one of the doors and gestured inside.
“This is the bathroom.”
Astarion peered inside—and paused.
It was an odd mixture of luxury and disaster. Gilded mirrors and delicate crystal perfume bottles shared space with cluttered shelves, scattered towels, and mismatched vials filled with everything from glowing oils to dried roots. It looked like someone had magically fused a noblewoman’s vanity with a mad alchemist’s laboratory. “I must say, darling,” Astarion remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he eyed the organized chaos of the bathroom, “your bathroom is quite the experience. One could almost mistake it for a mad alchemist’s lair.”
She smirked and gestured to the door directly across the hallway. “This is your room, if you like.”
He stepped inside—and paused.
The room was serene. Quiet. Neat. The bed was carefully made, the shelves lined with well-placed books, and soft lighting gave the space a gentle warmth. It stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house, especially the whirlwind mess of her bedroom. “Well, well,” he murmured, genuine appreciation slipping into his voice. “It seems you’ve given me a sanctuary amidst the madness.” He turned toward her with a sardonic smile. “I must say, darling, I’m touched by your generosity… and your taste in interior design.”
His words were teasing, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed something more sincere. Gratitude. A soft kind of surprise that she’d thought to make space for him at all. She smiled, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement as she stepped a little closer. There was a hum in the air—something charged.
“I hope you’ll feel at home here.” She took a breath and exhaled. “Well, I’m going to make breakfast. I ran out of the house in the middle of the night without eating anything.” With that, she turned and left, footsteps soft as she disappeared down the hallway—leaving him alone in his newfound sanctuary.
Astarion stood there for a moment, listening to the fading sound of her movements, the faint rustle of life returning to the quiet cottage. A pang settled in his chest—unexpected, unwelcome. The thought of her in the kitchen, preparing a meal, humming to herself… it stirred something strange and tender in him. A sense of warmth. Of something almost human. He sat down on the bed, running a hand through his silver hair. The mattress was soft. The sheets were clean and crisp. It was a far cry from the cold stone floors and blood-soaked dungeons he’d spent most of his unlife enduring. For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine waking up like this every day—greeted by the scent of food, the flicker of candlelight, laughter in the next room. Someone waiting. Someone who understood him.
But only for a heartbeat.
He shook his head, chasing the foolish thoughts away like cobwebs. No matter how soft the bed or how warm the cottage…
He was still a vampire.
A creature of the night.
Bound by blood and darkness.
Astarion blinked. “A philosopher’s stone?” he repeated, voice laced with disbelief—and something darker. Fascination. “You’re telling me you’ve created the alchemical miracle, and you’re stuffing it inside a wooden box?” He shook his head, lips twitching into a wry smile. “Forgive me, darling, but that feels… crude. A bit beneath you, no?” He stepped in closer, his eyes gleaming with a flicker of greedy admiration. “Surely, someone of your talents deserves something more… exquisite.” Then, a thought struck him—he grinned, fangs just barely showing. “Unless, of course… you require assistance in acquiring a more suitable vessel?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want to be my minion?” A mischievous grin curled on her lips. “This wooden box will do just fine, thank you very much. As long as I don’t have to go gathering gold and gemstones like some poor, underfunded hedge witch.”
Astarion bristled. “Minion?” he repeated, scoffing. “Hardly.” His tone sharpened, dripping with disdain. “I am no one’s servant, darling. I’m a partner. An equal.” He circled her slowly, the predator in him pacing beneath the charm. “Think of it as a collaboration,” he continued. “Two brilliant minds, pooling their resources, talents, ambitions. Together, we could achieve far more than we ever could alone.” He paused in front of her, meeting her eyes, expression dead serious despite the glint of mischief. “So,” he said smoothly, “shall we strike a deal?”
She sputtered her lips and shrugged. “Well… if you insist.” Without waiting for a response, she grabbed his wrist and lifted into the air, rising toward the hole in the ceiling. “Come! My trusty minion!” she cackled, laughter echoing beneath the arched stone as they soared upward.
Astarion groaned, muttering under his breath as he was dragged along, his pride clearly bruised. “Must you insist on that particular title?” he groused, clinging to her arm as they ascended. “I thought we agreed on partners, equals.” Despite the complaint, there was a reluctant fondness in his voice—a begrudging warmth. He knew he should resent being pulled around like some errant fledgling, but there was something about her boldness, her audacity, that intrigued him. It was maddening… and oddly endearing.
As they burst through the crumbled ceiling into the open night sky, the last of his irritation melted away, swept off by the wind. The cool air rushed past his face, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he smiled—truly smiled. The sensation of flying beside a powerful sorceress, the stars wheeling above, the forest stretching far below… it was exhilarating.
Her laughter rang through the night, bright and unrestrained.
They rose above the treetops, gliding effortlessly beneath the moonlight. She shifted him to her side, wrapping an arm around his waist. No need to let him dangle awkwardly the entire way. Astarion’s resistance slipped away as she pulled him close. He leaned into her, drawn by the warmth radiating from her body, the hum of magic pulsing through the air. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying the scent of arcane power. For one fleeting moment, suspended between sky and earth, Astarion forgot the weight of his curse. He forgot the centuries of hunger and shadows. Up here, he felt… alive.
He tilted his head, lips brushing against her ear as he murmured, “Perhaps being your minion isn’t so bad after all, darling.” She grinned wide as they approached a clearing below. Nestled at its center was a quaint, unassuming cottage. She descended first, touching down gently. As Astarion came in behind her, she slowed his fall with practiced ease.
“Careful,” she warned with a smirk, remembering how rough those landings could be for the uninitiated.
Astarion landed with more grace than expected—vampiric reflexes kicking in just in time. He straightened, brushing himself off, and shot her a look that was half gratitude, half amusement. A faint blush touched his cheeks.
“Thanks for the warning, darling,” he said with a small, sincere smile. “I appreciate the consideration.”
Astarion glanced around the clearing, taking in the quaint little cottage nestled among the trees. “Your home is… charming,” he said at last, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. “Not exactly what I expected from a powerful sorceress.” He turned to face her fully, crimson eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the door, a quiet invitation to step into the mysteries beyond.
They entered together.
The front room of her cottage was an unapologetic disaster. Piles of books teetered on mismatched furniture. Half-melted candles dripped wax onto every available surface. The fireplace crackled gently, casting a warm glow across dust-covered bottles, tangled charms, and strange trinkets that sparkled faintly in the light.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs, dried flowers, magic potions—and a faint trace of pipe smoke that never quite left. The wooden floor was barely visible beneath scattered papers, spell components, and enchanted odds and ends.
Everything felt alive, like the walls themselves breathed magic.
The space was also far too big for the tiny cottage it appeared to be from the outside. Doors led to rooms that couldn’t possibly exist. Staircases wound upward into places that shouldn’t be there. It bent the laws of space without apology.
At the center of the room stood a massive table, covered edge to edge with a map, notes, and scribbled runes.
Astarion stepped inside and halted, eyes widening as he took in the glorious chaos. “Well,” he said slowly, voice tinged with disbelief. “It seems your talents extend far beyond flashy magic tricks.” He approached the central table, running an elegant finger along the edge of the parchment map. “Quite the collection you’ve amassed, darling. I must admit—I’m impressed. It takes a certain kind of genius to maintain such… organized chaos.” He straightened, glancing around again with barely concealed awe. “So then—what brings us to your humble abode? Surely it’s not just for the pleasure of my company.”
She peeled off her cloak and hung it by the door. “Well, I thought you wanted to be my mi—”
Astarion shot her a sharp look before she could finish. She blinked, then pivoted quickly.
“—my assistant?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with theatrical exasperation. “Assistant. Partner. Colleague. I really don’t care what title you give me—so long as it’s not minion.” He fixed her with a pointed glare, eyes flashing with irritation. Turning away, Astarion wandered through the cluttered room, idly picking up odd trinkets and examining them with a discerning eye. “Now, about that philosopher’s stone of yours,” he mused, his voice thoughtful as he lifted an intricately carved amulet. “Have you considered the implications of creating such a powerful artifact?” He set the amulet down gently, his gaze drifting back to her. “I mean… trapping souls—even malevolent ones—isn’t exactly harmless. Who knows what kind of backlash you might face?”
“Oh. Right! The stone.” She pulled the wooden box from the bag hanging beside her coat, tucking it under her arm. “Come on. I’ll show you a room you can use—if you really want to stay.” She passed him on her way to the stairs, not waiting for a response.
Astarion followed, curiosity flickering in his eyes. As he ascended behind her, he couldn’t help but marvel again at the impossible nature of the cottage. The walls seemed to stretch and breathe, corridors expanding and shifting to reveal staircases and rooms that hadn’t existed moments before.
She led him to what she called her bedroom.
As they approached, the air grew heavier, and the unmistakable sound of tortured wails began to bleed through the cracks around the door—screams, moans, a chorus of trapped souls in agony.
She pushed the door open.
The room was no more organized than the main chamber—just a cluttered study with a bed shoved into one corner. Scrolls and tomes were stacked in uneven towers, and magical residue shimmered faintly across the surfaces. She rushed to a shelf, grabbed the red, lumpy stone—the philosopher’s stone—and shoved it into the box. The moment the lid snapped shut, silence crashed over the room like a wave.
She exhaled, slumping with relief. “Finally.”
Astarion stepped in behind her, visibly shaken. His sensitive ears were still ringing from the cacophony. He pressed a hand to his temple, muttering something under his breath. His gaze swept over the chaos of the room, taking in the scattered books, arcane instruments, loose parchments, and glowing oddities stuffed into every corner.
It was pure, unfiltered Vaelora.
“By the gods, darling,” he murmured, lowering his hand as the ringing subsided. “That was… unpleasant.”
She turned to him, rubbing at her face, exhaustion etched into every line. “Do you now understand why I needed that box?” she leaned back against the nearest shelf. “That thing’s been screaming through the entire house. I can’t wait to finally sleep in peace.” Pushing off from the shelf, she motioned for him to follow again. “Come on, I’ll show you your room. And the bathroom.” They walked down the narrow hallway, the cottage adjusting itself subtly around them. She opened one of the doors and gestured inside.
“This is the bathroom.”
Astarion peered inside—and paused.
It was an odd mixture of luxury and disaster. Gilded mirrors and delicate crystal perfume bottles shared space with cluttered shelves, scattered towels, and mismatched vials filled with everything from glowing oils to dried roots. It looked like someone had magically fused a noblewoman’s vanity with a mad alchemist’s laboratory. “I must say, darling,” Astarion remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he eyed the organized chaos of the bathroom, “your bathroom is quite the experience. One could almost mistake it for a mad alchemist’s lair.”
She smirked and gestured to the door directly across the hallway. “This is your room, if you like.”
He stepped inside—and paused.
The room was serene. Quiet. Neat. The bed was carefully made, the shelves lined with well-placed books, and soft lighting gave the space a gentle warmth. It stood in stark contrast to the rest of the house, especially the whirlwind mess of her bedroom. “Well, well,” he murmured, genuine appreciation slipping into his voice. “It seems you’ve given me a sanctuary amidst the madness.” He turned toward her with a sardonic smile. “I must say, darling, I’m touched by your generosity… and your taste in interior design.”
His words were teasing, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed something more sincere. Gratitude. A soft kind of surprise that she’d thought to make space for him at all. She smiled, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement as she stepped a little closer. There was a hum in the air—something charged.
“I hope you’ll feel at home here.” She took a breath and exhaled. “Well, I’m going to make breakfast. I ran out of the house in the middle of the night without eating anything.” With that, she turned and left, footsteps soft as she disappeared down the hallway—leaving him alone in his newfound sanctuary.
Astarion stood there for a moment, listening to the fading sound of her movements, the faint rustle of life returning to the quiet cottage. A pang settled in his chest—unexpected, unwelcome. The thought of her in the kitchen, preparing a meal, humming to herself… it stirred something strange and tender in him. A sense of warmth. Of something almost human. He sat down on the bed, running a hand through his silver hair. The mattress was soft. The sheets were clean and crisp. It was a far cry from the cold stone floors and blood-soaked dungeons he’d spent most of his unlife enduring. For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine waking up like this every day—greeted by the scent of food, the flicker of candlelight, laughter in the next room. Someone waiting. Someone who understood him.
But only for a heartbeat.
He shook his head, chasing the foolish thoughts away like cobwebs. No matter how soft the bed or how warm the cottage…
He was still a vampire.
A creature of the night.
Bound by blood and darkness.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───