Astarion's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Astarion crouched in the shade of a dead oak and painted a circle of crushed herbs across the dirt. The circle was his ritual. If he finished it, he could walk in sunlight without his skin curling to ash. Fifty years as a vampire had taught him patience. He wiped sweat he did not have and hated the sun through the branches. His raven dropped from the canopy and landed hard on his shoulder. Its feathers held a dull red sheen, and its claws dug in with warning. The bird never panicked for nothing. "What is it, darling?" he whispered. Then he heard them. Boots. Laughter. A hunting horn, far off but closing. A daytime party had wandered into his woods. If they crossed his trail, a dog would catch his scent, and he would run before the ritual set. All his work, gone to one careless nobleman and his hounds. Astarion smothered the ritual circle with his boot and pressed flat against the trunk. He could not fight in open sun. He could only hide and pray they passed. They did not pass. A man stepped into the clearing, sword already drawn, moving like someone who had walked into a hundred ambushes and lived. A charm hung at his throat. His eyes found Astarion's hiding place at once. "Odd place for a nap," the man said. "The Blade of Frontiers, at your service. You smell like death and flowers." Astarion laughed, low and sharp, the way he laughed when cornered. "A monster hunter. How thrilling for me." He stayed in the shade. One step into the light meant burning. "I'm no danger to your merry little party. I'm gardening." Wyll glanced at the smeared circle, the scattered herbs, the raven. He did not raise the sword. "That's no garden. That's old blood magic." He tilted his head toward the horn in the distance. "My companions think they're chasing a boar. They're not." "Then send them home," Astarion said. "Before someone bleeds." Wyll studied him a long moment. Something in the vampire's fear seemed to decide him. He turned and shouted across the trees that the trail had gone cold, that the boar had crossed the river. The horn answered. The boots retreated. The hounds whined, then followed their master's voice away. Astarion sagged against the oak, alive and undiscovered. "You could have handed me to them," he said. "I could have." Wyll sheathed the blade and crouched by the ruined circle. "But a sun-walking ritual is worth more to me than your head. I've hunted things in this forest I can't kill alone. A vampire who wants to stand in daylight might be useful." He held out a gloved hand. "Rebuild it. I'll keep the hunters off you. In exchange, you help me with what's hiding deeper in these woods." Astarion stared at the offered hand. The ritual was safe. But now it belonged to two people, and the price had changed.