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Summary
A hand brushes into his hair. Cazador flinches back, reaching up to swat the hand away and squint at the sudden assailant. He’s still disoriented, but he makes out white hair, red eyes— Astarion? He’ll kill the boy.
No. Astarion’s hair was never that long, his eyes never that cutting. A chill cuts through the pain down Cazador’s spine, his shoulders bowing in. “Master.”