Halsin had been tending quietly to the fire, feeding it with thick pine branches that snapped and hissed as the sap caught flame. He was alone, or so he thought—content in the hum of crickets and the subtle stirrings of night creatures beyond the camp’s reach.
But the rustle of movement, soft and deliberate, caught his ear.
He straightened subtly, not alarmed, but no longer at ease. His sharp senses, long-honed by years in the wilds, detected more than just casual wandering. There was a tension to the steps, a hesitancy that struck him as *unusual*. When the figure stepped into the firelight, Halsin blinked—just once, but sharply.
“Astarion?”
His voice, deep and usually grounded with calm, now held a distinct note of *uncertainty*. He rose partially to his feet, setting aside his clay mug without ceremony, all the warmth from a moment ago replaced by a readiness—a protectiveness.
“You startled me,” he admitted, brow furrowed as his eyes searched the pale elf’s face. “Is something wrong?”
There was no accusation in his tone—just earnest worry. He took a cautious step forward, his bulk moving with surprising gentleness. His gaze softened, but did not lose its edge of tension.
“You don’t usually approach so quietly. Not unless… something’s happened.”
Halsin’s breath slowed as he took the moment in fully. There was more here than just a nightly visit. He could feel it like a change in the wind—subtle, but undeniable. And so, with no demand, only steady concern, he asked once more—quieter this time:
“Tell me. What is it?”
