The First Dawn

The celebration had bled into the small hours, a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of song that still echoed in the stone corridors of the Elfsong Tavern. But Astarion had slipped away long before the last fire dwindled to embers. He stood now at the tall window of the room he shared with Tav, the glass cool against his palm, and watched the sky begin its slow shift from black to a reluctant, bruised purple. He should not be watching. The thought coiled through him like a familiar serpent. Two hundred years of Cazador’s commands had carved a deep furrow into his instincts: dawn was death, dawn was pain, dawn was the end of all things he was allowed to have. Even now, with the sun gone and his master nothing but ash in a shadow-cursed field, the old fear still whispered. You are not permitted. You are not worthy of light. But the sky continued its patient work, pale threads of silver and rose seeping through the dark, and Astarion found he could not look away. His reflection—sharp cheekbones, red eyes that seemed too bright in the gloom—stared back at him, a ghost trapped in glass. He traced the outline of his own jaw with a finger, as if to confirm he was still here, still solid. A soft rustle from the bed. Tav stirred, blankets pooling around her waist as she sat up, hair a wild tangle of copper and gold. She blinked at him through the dimness, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her voice rough with the remnants of wine and exhaustion. Astarion did not turn. “I don’t sleep, darling. I linger in a state of profound, decorative unconsciousness. Entirely different.” She laughed, a low, warm sound that made something in his chest tighten. He heard her bare feet pad across the floorboards, felt the ghost of her warmth before she even touched him. Her hand settled on his shoulder, light as a moth. “What are you looking at?” she asked, following his gaze to the window. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “The street. A cat. The absolutely criminal lack of decent nightlife in this city past midnight.” Tav said nothing. She simply leaned her head against his shoulder, her breath a steady rhythm against his collarbone. He could feel her heartbeat, slow and trusting, and it was more terrifying than any sun. “It’s almost dawn,” she said, not a question. “I’m aware.” He let out a shaky breath. “I should close the curtains.” “Why?” He turned to look at her then, truly look. Her eyes were soft, holding no pity, no demand. She was simply there, watching him with that infuriating patience he still did not understand. “Because I’m not supposed to see it. I never have. I—” He stopped, the words tangling in his throat. “What if it burns? What if the old rules still hold? What if I’m not allowed?” Tav’s hand slid down his arm, her fingers intertwining with his. “You’re not Cazador’s anymore. You’re not bound by his laws. You’re free, Astarion. And even if the sun does hurt—which it won’t, we’ve tested it, remember?—I’ll be right here. We’ll close the curtains together.” He stared at their joined hands. Her skin was warm. His was cool. They fit. “You’re a terrible influence,” he murmured, but there was no venom in it. “I know.” She squeezed his hand. “Now stop being dramatic and watch the sky with me. You owe yourself this.” So he stayed. The purple deepened into peach, then into a blaze of gold and orange that set the rooftops of Baldur’s Gate aflame. The first ray of sunlight lanced over the horizon, painting the room in amber. Astarion flinched instinctively, bracing for the sear, but there was nothing but warmth—a gentle, golden warmth that touched his face like a lover’s caress. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Beside him, Tav smiled, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispered. Astarion looked at her, at the light tracing the curve of her cheek, at the way she glowed like something sacred. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It is.” And for the first time in two hundred years, he watched the sun rise. Not as a thief stealing a glimpse, but as someone who was finally allowed to see.