Astarion narrows his eyes with a calloused grin. "You're one to talk, my dear."

Aimed at Byerly's sister (and not-sister), and the illusion that is (and also isn't)— but the wryness doesn't last. Not when he hears just how rattled Byerly is in this moment. Just how thin he sounds, and not just in terms of his own composure, either.

And when he turns back, letting the vitriol drain from the edges of his features, he fits his own gloved hand around Byerly's own, bearing down with a steadying weight.

"Look at me."

It's not a demand, just an urging. Slower, almost patient.

"How old was she when you last saw her?"