...The evening was alive with possibility and lies. Astarion moved through the tavern with the practiced grace of someone who had learned early that beauty could get you anything except the one thing that mattered. Cazador's voice echoed in his skull, the phantom sensation of chains that would never truly loosen no matter how many centuries passed. A woman at the bar turned to look at him, and he smiled with teeth just slightly too sharp. The hunger rose, always rose, demanding blood and control and dominance. But beneath it, something smaller spoke in a voice that sounded almost like hope.

He turned away from the woman, the hunger screaming, and walked into the night alone. It was getting easier, this choice. The cruelty that had kept him alive was becoming unbearable, and he wasn't sure anymore which was worse, the monster he'd been made or the human he might become...