He beats Fenris to it. One of the only times Astarion’s quicker on the draw, and no doubt because of a surplus of hard-fought exhaustion on Fenris’ part, or perhaps the heat still seeping into wearied bones— either way, he snags a towel between slender fingers and tucks it soft around Fenris’ shoulders.

“Didn’t hurt me before you left, either. Good to know that I don’t always have to force you to fight an entire coven whenever I want to steal you for myself.”

The side drain on the tub is pulled with ease via the toe of his boot, Astarion already tugging down some overlush velvet robe from a nearby hook. Until that armor is tended to, he won’t have Fenris slithering back into it.

“But must you truly burn the place to ashes?” He asks, heaping that robe overtop the towel without any amount of moderation. “I despise its wretched existence more than anyone, but the truth is it's also sprawling— a seat of power. There’s something to be said for that, you know. Especially when we’re more than a little strapped for resources.”

And very far from Yartar.