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wilteddreamsofbaldursgate · 11 hours ago

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Summer Days Gone

Astarion centered || M || 5.7+ words || ao3 || Masterlist

Magistrate Ancunín seldom held private hearings in his office; once granted an open ear, most people overstayed their welcome all too readily, believing their problems to be more significant than they actually were. All too often had he witnessed this ill-mannered behavior, though, once in a while, there were esteemed guests who were eager enough to make his time appropriately worthwhile.

warnings: abuse of power, corruption, semi-graphic descriptions of violence, death, implied sex trafficking, racism, blood. Cazador Szarr.

a/n: Summer Days Gone was written for a server exchange event and I publicly apologize to @ollysoxisfree for publishing her gift two weeks late even though we were given more than enough time to work on our exchange pieces.

Olly, thank you so much for your patience—I sincerely hope you enjoy the read! ♡

And another big thank you to @leomonae for the beta-read!

Magistrate Ancunín nodded along to the lengthy complaints of his guest. His mind had been wandering for a while now, as had his eyes; ever so often he found his gaze straying towards the nameplate crowning his desk, the beautiful star speckled blue irises staring right back at him from the polished metal. Should he wear his new lavender waistcoat for his meeting later that evening? The Magistrate pursed his lips. No, his favorite silver vest would do nicely; it so brought out his eyes and would be just right for the mild sunset hours of early summer.

And besides, it wouldn’t hurt to bring his lucky charm, would it?

“Magistrate?”

Suppressing a frown, Magistrate Ancunín glanced at his guest. Although stout in physique, the Gur woman’s face was gaunt, her black eyes underlined by circles almost as dark. She was visibly troubled, that woman, and, to make matters worse, didn’t look as if she would be taking her leave any time soon.

That was why the Magistrate seldom held private hearings in his office: once granted an open ear, most people overstayed their welcome all too readily, believing their problems to be more significant than they actually were. All too often had he witnessed this ill-mannered behavior, though, once in a while, there were esteemed guests who were eager enough to make his time appropriately worthwhile.

It had taken Magistrate Ancunín only one look at the woman on the far side of his desk to know that she was not one of those guests.

“I was saying—“

“I heard you,” the Magistrate lied. “What I do not understand, though, is why you’ve come to me with your undoubtedly legitimate matter of concern regarding...” He shifted through piles of papers in front of him until he found the letter the woman—what was her name again?—had sent him this past spring. He quickly read over the report, acting as if the little doodles shining in the midnight blue of his signature ink in its margins weren’t there. “The disappearance of—“

“My brothers and sister did not simply disappear, Magistrate,” the woman said, clearly fighting against a scowl threatening to take over her scar-streaked face, as if she were a kind teacher whose patience was finally about to run out. “As I’ve told you repeatedly, they all headed out to investigate a specific location and were never seen again.”

With a mix of amusement and growing irritation Magistrate Ancunín considered the woman’s practical braids and worn hunter’s garb, the cheap boots leaving dust all over his new carpet. Who did she think she was? “With all due respect, that rather sounds like occupational hazard to me.”

The woman tilted her head; there was a grin on her lips now that could only be described as annoyingly victorious. “So you do agree that there is a monster prowling the Upper City—one powerful enough to ‘disappear’ my most skilled hunters?”

Magistrate Ancunín, overplaying his surprise with a scoff, let his eyes dart to the letter in front of him yet again. He hadn’t been aware that the Gur had vanished from the Upper City, in fact, it was the first time he’d heard about it. But, now that he read the woman’s—Varra, if he’d deciphered her signature correctly—letter more thoroughly, he had to admit she’d mentioned that very detail a number of times.

The Magistrate’s heartbeat quickened. This surely was interesting—inconveniently so.

If only to keep his hands busy, Magistrate Ancunín took up his swan feather quill. Its golden tip caught the afternoon sun pouring into his office through the high south-facing windows. Their new brocade curtains would be delivered soon, as would the new furniture for his townhouse. The Magistrate thought about the jewelry that had yet to be picked up from the shop, and, most of all, he thought about his upcoming meeting.

Slowly, he glanced up at Varra again. It occurred to him that she’d been observing his every move; if he wasn’t careful, this meeting could very well turn into a problem he couldn’t afford. Not now. Not because of the Gur.

Magistrate Ancunín leaned back in his chair, forcing his spine into a straight line as he stoically met Varra’s hardening gaze. The Gur would only become a problem if he let them.

And he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

“I agree with the City Watch’s findings that there’s no evidence whatsoever that your people have been, well, what? Been abducted? Murdered? Eaten by carnivorous butterflies?” The sneer in his voice didn’t seem to impress Varra much, prompting the Magistrate to go on with the same bored tone he usually reserved for petty criminals entirely beneath him. Their cases weren’t much different from this one to begin with, the Magistrate told himself. The Gur weren’t worth his precious time. “There are no monsters in Baldur’s Gate.”

Varra shook her head, but before she could voice her protest, the Magistrate raised his hand dismissively, silencing words he didn’t care to hear.

“I understand that a city free of monsters is compromising the livelihood of your people, but have you considered that, maybe, it is time you took your business elsewhere? Somewhere you’re actually needed? I hear there are plenty—”

“Do you know why I came to you with my concerns, Magistrate Ancunín?” Varra’s demeanor had changed. Whatever little glimpses of impatience the Magistrate had been able to catch in her face before were now well concealed behind a nonchalant little smile; in the blink of an eye, the shabby woman across from him had turned into a seasoned diplomat whose every word was calculated and every thought a mystery.

It was the tightly clenched fist at her side that gave the illusion away.

Magistrate Ancunín, although rather new to his position, had seen his fair share of people just like Varra: stubborn people. Desperate people. People who didn’t know when to submit. This woman had come to say her part, and, like the dying clinging onto life, she wouldn’t leave until her last words were heard. The Magistrate sighed, knowing from experience that humoring her would eventually bring a speedy end to this irritating meeting. “Do enlighten me.” “I’ve been watching you.” The Magistrate raised an eyebrow, but Varra only continued, unfazed. “Unlike many, you haven’t come to this city in search of power.” “And what am I searching for, if not power?” Varra considered him, the beautiful elf sitting behind his stately desk, his neatly tied hair and manicured hands. She watched intently as Magistrate Ancunín shifted in his seat.

“Life,” she mused after a moment, never letting him out of sight. “I thought—hoped, really—to have found a kin in you, for we, too, have come to this city looking for life. A good life.”

The Magistrate’s lips tensed into the sorry semblance of a smirk. “A good life that depends on the death of others?”

Varra let out a laugh, short and high. It never reached her eyes. “The death of monsters, yes.”

An uncomfortable silence settled in the room, only broken by the way the Magistrate’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. Embarrassed, he wondered whether the woman could hear how much she’d rattled him. The rustling sound of paper dispelled the silence as the Magistrate lazily shifted through the stacks of notes, documents and letters on his desk again; anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to break the silence.

Eventually, feeling uncomfortably small under the Gur’s observant gaze, Magistrate Ancunín cleared his throat. “If there is nothing more to say, madame, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. I’m rather busy, as you can see...”

Varra stared at him blankly, her mouth twitching with anger and more words she undoubtedly wanted to let go but, to the Magistrate’s surprise, she turned out to be a reasonable woman after all. The only thing that passed her lips was a gentle sigh.

“Pity.” And Varra was right: it was a pity, indeed, but Magistrate Ancunín didn’t know that—not yet, though he would soon enough. For now, he only felt a deep sense of relief watching Varra rise from her chair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any service to you, but know I do wish you and your people the best.” The words sounded dishonest even to the Magistrate himself but, thankfully, Varra didn’t comment on them. Instead, she just gave a curt nod of good-bye; the diplomat in her had been replaced by the warrior who knew when she’d lost her fight.

And she was just about to take her leave when she suddenly froze in the movement, prompting Magistrate Ancunín to follow her gaze to a thick envelope on his desk. Recognizing its broken seal, he felt the tips of his pointy ears turn red at once.

“Have you met the master of that house, Magistrate?” Varra asked flatly.

There was no need to clarify which house she’d meant; as sinister as a drop of blood on freshly fallen snow, the lavish letter S stamped into crimson wax loomed right between them. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet, no,” the Magistrate admitted against his better judgment, his voice softer than it needed to be in his own office. “Not personally.”

A moment of silence passed, then another. Then—startling the Magistrate—Varra laughed once, sharply, and this time, it actually reached her black eyes.

“You’re a perfect fool, Astarion Ancunín,” the Gur grinned. “But I suppose so am I.” Before the Magistrate could protest Varra’s insolence, she wordlessly headed for the door, though she did look back once—not at the Magistrate, no, but at the tall windows. In the distance, the afternoon sun bathed the Gate in a golden light; a promise for all the bright days yet to come.

“Summer is fading fast,” Varra said, almost to herself, before, at last, the door fell shut behind her.

Magistrate Ancunín’s shoulders slumped; it took him longer than he would have liked to compose himself. But, eventually, his heartbeat calmed.

He scoffed.

What a foolish woman, that Gur! She knew nothing—she was nothing. He would show her soon enough.

But first, the Magistrate had to hurry, lest he be late for his meeting; he couldn’t afford to let his generous clients wait.

Muttering profanities to himself, he opened a desk drawer and dumped the cursed Gur’s letter inside where it could mingle with unpaid bills and other forgotten correspondence. The letter with the crimson seal vanished in Magistrate Ancunín’s briefcase before he stood, stretching his aching spine. It was time to go.

Summer was just about to begin.

Astarion licked little beads of sweat from his upper lip, tasting the heady remnants of a fleeting lover’s kiss. Even this close to midnight, the sweltering heat of the past day lingered in the Upper City’s cobbled streets and dark alleyways, only to be disrupted by the rare breeze carried up all the way from the bay.

Astarion inhaled deeply as he sauntered through his neighborhood, his shadow dancing around him in the soft glow of the streetlights. Almost greedily did he take in the scents of warm stone and perfumed garments, late night dinners and powdered skin; music and laughter seeping freely into the night through ever opened windows. Those made up the deliciously noisy composition of Baldur’s Gate—his city.

Astarion grinned widely. His spirits were heightened not only by the alcohol in his bloodstream but the money in his pockets, the weight his name carried now. Astarion’s eyes wandered to the rings on his fingers that reflected the star speckled sky high above. Was that the limit to his good fortune?

Amused, he shook his head. No, it was impossible, preposterous even, to imagine that this giddy feeling, this visceral happiness he’d found in Baldur’s Gate, could ever come to an end.

Astarion was drunk on life and deeply in love with this city, and nothing could ever change that. He’d worked too hard for this life—this good life. Whoever wanted to take it from him would have to rip it from his cold, dead hands.

Another breeze tugged gently at his silken tunic as Astarion passed a group of elven ladies and gentlemen enjoying the midsummer night. The sweet smoke of their pipes made his head spin pleasantly. The young magistrate should join them, they said; inviting smiles and glassy eyes of every shape and color followed his every move. How very kind—but, alas, can’t do. Long day ahead tomorrow! Next time, yes! For sure, next time! Thank you. It will be a pleasure. Good night. Astarion threw the group his most charming smile as he walked by, dropping it only after he’d rounded the next corner. Who did these fools think he was? Important men like him didn’t waste entire nights prowling the streets; he wasn’t some common alley cat.

Not wanting to let the rude encounter dampen his mood, Astarion quietly tried to recite a poem he’d read just the other day. Working against the tides of alcohol swirling inside his head, the words came to him strangely slow as he made his way down the street. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The sound echoed from the shuttered windows of opulent townhouses and neatly paved sidewalks before it faded into silence.

Silence.

Astarion paused. Only now did he realize how quiet the night around him had grown, how empty, how colorless. The streetlights had gone out, tinting his way home in varying shades of gray. With pursed lips, Astarion strolled on. It wasn’t like he needed any light to guide him home; if he squinted he could see the iron gate to his house some way ahead. It was still bothersome, though, this darkness—did nobody care to do their job anymore?

A gust of wind caressed the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He stood taller. Not a second could have passed before Astarion heard what sounded like a coin hitting stone, the faint clinking sound reinforced by the unusually quiet night.

Instinctively, Astarion’s eyes scanned the sidewalk around his feet, while his hand went to his coin purse, finding it intact. With furrowed brows, he glanced over his shoulder. All he could see were an empty street and sleeping houses, a rat scurrying from one alley to the next.

Then he heard the same sound again, another coin hitting the ground.

Astarion jerked his head in the direction of the sound; he felt a sudden chill.

The sound hadn’t come from behind him, but from ahead.

Frozen to the spot, Astarion stared into the gray-scaled darkness with narrowed eyes.

There was movement somewhere in the shadows a few feet to his right; he’d only noticed it a heartbeat before he heard another coin hit the pavement. Astarion flinched. There was no doubt—someone was lingering in the dark alleyway separating him from the iron gate of the next house. His house.

I’ve been watching you…

The Gur’s words had stuck with Astarion from the moment they’d first passed her lips all those weeks ago. Every now and then, they echoed in his skull, steadily growing louder as summer progressed.

Not daring to blink, Astarion reached for the mean little dagger he kept concealed at his side. Another coin fell. He stared at the mouth of the alleyway, making out a shadow that appeared just a hue darker than the rest, growing in size—stretching towards the street. Towards him. Astarion considered his options. Should he attack, or run? He had nimble feet, he could easily outrun an assailant. The shadow was now big enough to pour out into the street. With the element of surprise, Astarion thought, he could take it up with one or two of them. If not, he could at least stall them and make enough of a commotion to wake the neighbors and alert a Watch on patrol, or—

The shadow rushed at Astarion before he could make a decision. In the blink of an eye, it had reached him. Its warm, sticky fur grazed Astarion's ankle; he cursed and promptly reached down to grab the shadow’s long tail before it could scurry past him.

Heat rose in his cheeks as Astarion glared at the fat, squirming rat he held an arms-length away from his face. He felt like a fool. Of course there were no Gur in the Upper City; somewhere in the Court’s grand archives, a recent ruling had made quite sure of that. Astarion’s midnight blue signature had looked so pretty on the fine paper.

He let out a shaking breath.

They couldn’t hurt him—not here. In his beloved city, Astarion was safe.

He simply didn’t know better, yet.

“Excellent reflexes, rat-catcher. Bravo!”

Astarion wasn’t sure whether the shriek of surprise had come from the pest in his hand, or from his own lips as he spun around. There, but a few steps from him, a gentlemanly figure stood, its amused face the palest shade of gray Astarion’s eyes were able to perceive amongst the dense shadows of the night.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the figure. It took him a moment to recognize the stranger as the pale elf he’d spotted amongst the nightly crowds filling the Upper City every now and then; his thin voice didn’t match his haughty looks, Astarion found, nor the odd intensity in his eyes.

A sudden chill raised the fine hairs on the back of Astarion’s neck as he followed the stranger’s gaze; appalled, Astarion let go of the rat.

The animal darted off after it had barely hit the ground, vanishing in the same dark alleyway it had come from but a moment ago. Not meeting the stranger’s eyes, Astarion cleared his throat. “A plague, those rats,” he said, trying and failing to hide the nervous timbre in his voice.

The stranger gave a short laugh. It echoed mockingly in Astarion’s ears.

“A plague, indeed. But with an expert such as you around there is no need to worry about rats, no?”

Before Astarion could think of a reply, the stranger bid him good-night with little more than an arrogant nod of his head. The elf passed by Astarion, his lips curled into a satisfied grin as he, too, vanished in the alleyway ahead.

A moment passed in which Astarion tried to collect himself. Where an almost absurd dread had settled in his stomach before, he now felt anger rise. The audacity! Who did that elf think he was, to mock him like this? He wasn’t some witless boy, he was the esteemed Magistrate Ancunín—smart, beautiful and important!

Rat-catcher…

Ears burning, Astarion moved on. If his tongue hadn’t been weighted down by alcohol, he would’ve shown that pasty dog exactly who he was—who he could be. The elf might’ve rattled him, yes, but only because…he had heard something odd before he’d had his run in with that rat, hadn’t he?

Only a step into the reaching shadows cast by the mouth of that cursed alleyway, Astarion hesitated. With furrowed brows, he listened. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a cat hiss. Crystal glasses shattering on cobblestones. Far-away laughter. The soothing noise of Baldur’s Gate.

Absent was the sound that had caught his attention before: coins dropping onto the empty street, one after another…It occurred to Astarion that neither the pale elf nor the rat could’ve made that sound.

Craning his neck, Astarion dared a careful look into the shadows. The alleyway laid dark and empty, free of any sign of life. Free of any danger—as it should be. As it had been all along. There was nothing to fear in Baldur’s Gate.

Only one thing caught his eye.

With a smooth, fluid motion Astarion darted into the shadows, picking up three gold coins from the ground. For a moment, they felt pleasantly warm in the sweaty palm of his hand before he added them to the heavy coin purse at his side.

Astarion hurried home.

He was grateful to hear his front door close behind him; elated by the color returned to his vision. In the sparse candlelight of his entryway, Astarion let his shoulders fall before he raked a hand through his curls. They stuck to the cold sweat lingering on his temples, the nape of his neck. Astarion sighed, wondering if the past night had left its marks on him.

He took a look at the mirror on the wall. Star speckled blue eyes stared right back at him from a face that was as beautiful as ever.

Were it not for the rusty red stain on his cheekbone.

Frowning, Astarion raised a hand to his face, only now noticing there was half-dried blood on them and—oh!—on his tunic, too. What a shame, Astarion thought, he would never get the stains out of the fine silk…

With a shrug, Astarion wiped his hands clean on the cool fabric. He could just have a new tunic made—dozens of them.

After all, there was no end in sight to the sweltering midsummer heat.

There was autumn in the air; he could tell by the crisp salty breeze reaching him from the harbor. It was still faint, the change of seasons, dominated by the stench of fish and waste and iron—but it was there nonetheless, unyielding.

He shivered.

The wind tugged at the silver curls that were plastered to his face. It was an irritating sensation—he hated when someone messed with his hair—but not as much as the boiling wetness gathering in his lungs. Breathing was strangely difficult, though he couldn’t be sure what exactly had caused the inconvenience. Whatever it was, the part of his brain that was at odds with the tears streaming down his face supposed it didn’t really matter anyway. Not anymore.

He coughed.

The puddle under his cheek slowly turned a darker shade of gray. On its surface, he watched the star speckled sky ripple—whether it was by his labored breath or the spit and blood leaking from his body, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the fat rat deigning to keep him company.

Were those tiny feet able to rattle the stars? If so, its hunger was understandable, justified, even. A good life didn’t come without a cost.

Curious eyes observed the rat as it gingerly gnawed at the side of a crushed hand. Dark ink stained the crooked fingers, or maybe it was blood. Neither was ever easy to wash off. Could the rat eat it away, or did the stain seep through skin all the way to the bone?

A strange sound echoed through the dark alleyway. Somewhere, someone sobbed.

What a proper fool, he thought, how embarrassing it must be to die in the gutter!

But, to his luck, an idea occurred to him as he listened closely. He had heard that noise, so maybe someone else had heard it, too. Nobody had answered his cries, but everybody knew that fortune favored fools—if they could be saved, why couldn’t he?

The rat scurried away with a sudden shriek.

It wasn’t good fortune that made the starlit puddle tremble now, though the Fool wholeheartedly believed it was—as was his nature.

Soon, he would be schooled in the intricacies of his folly. For now, though, he tried not to choke on the blood gathering in his throat.

A pair of shiny boots entered the Fool’s field of fading vision; it took all his strength to raise his tired eyes, behold the person who would surely be his savior. Met with an oddly intense gaze, the Fool thanked all the gods that would hear him.

“Pity.”

He recognized that thin voice; this time, he found it matched the disgust written all over that pale face.

The broken hand in the puddle didn’t move, even when the Fool wanted to reach out to his savior; his body had always been smarter than his brains.

“They were watching,” the Fool moaned, convinced he would be heard even when his voice was little more than a whisper. “They were watching me all along.”

The pale elf looked down at him, lips pursed. Unfazed. Maybe he didn’t understand…?

“I say there are monsters in Baldur’s Gate!” The Fool coughed, blood spilling from his mouth, down his chin. It burned hot against the night.

The pale elf licked his lips as he kneeled, careful not to soil his trousers in the black puddle at his feet.

“And they got you, you fool, because you did not care to do your job properly,” he scolded as he roughly brushed a damp lock from the Fool’s forehead. “You cannot just drive the rats out, boy, you have to wipe them out.”

The Boy, though he didn’t quite understand, nodded—at least he thought he did, as stone and dirt dug deeper in his throbbing temple. It seemed like it was the right thing to do; he didn’t want the pale elf to be angry with him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I can do better.”

For what felt like eternity, the pale elf considered him with narrowed eyes.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Please, I’ll be so much better.”

The Boy would’ve said anything, promised anything, and would’ve meant every word. Surely his savior could see that?

“I suppose I can give you another chance, then,” the pale elf mused, finally. “If you really think you can do it.”

“Thank you.” The Boy’s body trembled with a sob. “I can do it. Thank you!”

Long, pale fingers caressed his tender cheek, but the Boy didn’t flinch, even when they were as cold as the air, the cobblestones. Death. So unnaturally cold. It was summer, still, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he felt the sun warm his skin when it rose over the Gate only this morning?

Maybe it was the gaudy sigil ring the Boy could glimpse on his savior’s finger—the opulent letter S—that made him think of crimson blood on freshly fallen snow. Yes, snow. So very cold…

Have you met the master of that house?

The Boy hadn’t—not personally, no. Not then.

He had now.

“And you promise to be my good little rat-catcher?”

His body spasmed.

“Answer me.” The pale elf leaned over him, engulfing him in a veil of darkness. “Will you be good?”

“Very good, yes,” the Rat-Catcher promised. His head rested heavily against the cold, pale hand; it did nothing to expel the feverish heat from his skin. “The best. I promise.”

“‘I promise, Master’,” the pale elf corrected, claws as sharp as his tone digging into the Rat-Catcher’s jaw.

“I promise, Master.”

“Good,” Master Szarr sighed. “Do not disappoint me again, boy.”

It was music to the Boy’s ears. Never in his life would he dare to disappoint the Master—he swore it to himself! And so he smiled when the Master’s face slowly crept towards his own. The Boy studied the porcelain skin of his savior, so pale that it was the lightest shade of gray in the night. A smirk, stretched impossibly thin. Intense eyes boring into his own…

But for a moment, the Boy glanced away; gray eyes meeting the star speckled sky, wet at the tip of his nose. It drenched his face and his hair, his favorite silver vest. Could he have a new one made? This one was quite ruined, he feared.

A warm swell of blood came over his lips once more. His entire world—dark alleyways and cobbled stone; cold breezes and blood, so much blood!—could be contained on the surface of one stinking black puddle.

But he was more than that, wasn’t he? He had been so much more only this morning.

He was Magistrate Ancunín—smart, beautiful and important!

He’d been unable to outrun the Gur.

He was dying.

But Master Szarr would save him; although mysterious, he’d always been such a generous client.

There was nothing else that mattered now—Astarion would live, somehow.

He sighed, focusing on the colorless eyes that danced with the stars in the reflected night sky. His eyes were blue, like his signature ink. It looked so pretty on fine paper. The beaten and broken visage frowning back at him from the trembling surface of his world did not. Who did that ugly thing think it was, gaping at him like that?

Astarion tried to ignore that face, but there was nothing else to see.

Nobody else.

That couldn’t be right; he could feel Master Szarr’s weight on him, long fingers tugging at his ruined clothes, a cold tongue licking over his blood-stained lips, but still…

The pale elf did not cast a reflection.

Astarion whimpered; from shock or the pain coming from his fractured spine as he tried to push away, he didn’t know.

He was corrected at once.

Szarr tut-tutted, pinning him down with little effort. Dying or not, Astarion had never stood a chance against this creature, though this didn’t keep him from trying. He grasped at the creature’s hair, tried to scratch its pale, blood-streaked face with broken nails. Bit the creature’s lips as it lapped up the blood around his mouth.

More than anything, Astarion wanted to live; he always had.

The creature laughed.

“My, my! Little liar, you promised to be good but a moment ago, did you not?”

No, not like this!

“If you do as I say, this need not hurt.”

No, I don’t believe you!

“Enough!”

Never.

“As you wish.” Szarr grabbed his jaw again, forcing Astarion’s head off the ground before he slammed it back against the cobblestone, not unlike the Gur had done a while ago. Bone cracked; Astarion wailed. Claws raked through his blood-streaked curls, scratching at his scalp. “Yes, let me hear how sweet those screams sound, boy.”

The creature opened its maw, exposing a pair of long, sharp fangs. They gleamed under the starlight, reflecting a pair of horrified gray eyes.

In that moment—the Magistrate, the Fool, the Boy, the Rat-Catcher, the Liar—they all wished Astarion had just died a good death when he’d still had the chance.

He screamed when the creature sank its teeth into the side of his neck.

No, please.

The creature chuckled, greedily taking its fill of what little life the Gur had left him.

Please, help.

A gentle breeze carried his screams from the gutter all the way to the Upper City.

The creature tore at his throat. How much blood did he have left to spill, how much pain was there to feel?

If his beloved Baldur’s Gate had ever heard him, his agony must not have been worth its time; it mocked him only with silence.

He laid still, at last.

Summer was fading fast…

And so was Astarion Ancunín.

Nimble feet carried the Spawn through damp corridors. Across the drafty entry hall. Into cold, busy streets. He scanned the bleak evening sky; if he were alive, his heart would skip a beat. How late it was already! He had to hurry now—the way to the Upper City was steep, and he couldn’t let his clients wait, oh no.

Punctuality was of utmost importance. He couldn’t embarrass the Master, not again.

With a shudder, the Spawn straightened the stiff collar of his cape; the wool was rough against his ashen skin. He tugged it closer around him anyway. He had earned the cape for bringing the Master that glassy-eyed elf, the first of his many clients—the one who had made his head spin with her stinking pipe.

Who had that bitch thought she was when she’d messed up his curls, pushed his face against the cold tiles of her room; this bitch, this rat—easy prey. The Master had instructed him well.

The Spawn shook his head. Sometimes, when he was very still, he could still hear the elf’s screams echoing inside his skull. They hadn’t been as sweet as his, the Master had said, disappointed. Why must he always disappoint him so? He didn’t do it on purpose, he promised, but the Master did not care for idle talk, oh no.

Master Szarr was an important man. Very busy. Best not waste his time.

Frowning, the Spawn scurried past dark alleyways, over wet cobblestones. Somewhere in the shadows, a rat squeaked. He licked his lips, but—oh no, no—no time for that.

The Master had forbidden him to even think of eating before his job was done.

A sharp gust tugged at his ill-fitting cape; the Spawn stood a little taller against the wind. He wasn’t supposed to slouch, but he’d always had a weak spine—not that he would tell the Master that, oh no, he so hated excuses.

The Spawn rounded a corner. Heavy fur coats hiding red-nosed faces pushed past him, the overwhelming symphony of their heartbeats echoing from the shuttered windows of opulent townhouses and neatly paved sidewalks. The Spawn pulled the hood of his cape deeper around his face, lest someone recognize who he was.

Had been.

In every shadow, the noise of life prevailed. The Spawn could hear blood pumping through living bodies, so many of them—so much blood. The Master drank his fill every night; sometimes, the Spawn picked such a delectable feast for him that the Master allowed him to drain a small alley cat. Very kind of him, oh yes.

Night had stolen the last bits of color again, tinting the city in scales of gray; the Spawn had reached his client’s house just in time. They wouldn’t be so generous, he knew, not tonight. Not to him, oh no.

The Spawn hesitated to knock at the door.

The truth was, there were monsters in this city. From the docks to the highest tower in the courthouse, in every alleyway. In all those fine houses. Behind every iron gate. From every black eye that watched him, a monster stared back. It was the only reflection the Spawn was granted to look at.

Slowly, he tilted his head back. Crimson eyes lost themselves in the murky puddle that was the night sky. From it, the palest shade of gray danced through the sky. It fell gently towards the dirty streets of Baldur’s Gate—a blood stain amongst freshly fallen snow.

Astarion still loved this city, he always would; it just so happened that the city didn’t love him back. It never had.

Brushing the snow off his shoulders, the Spawn sighed.

Summer had gone by so fast.

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