The evening air is thick with the scent of pine resin and woodsmoke, but inside the canvas walls of the First Druid’s tent, the atmosphere is heavy with a different kind of tension. Halsin’s large, calloused hands move with a practiced, methodical grace as he dips a clean cloth into a basin of cool water. He hasn’t spoken a word since he spotted your uneven stride at the edge of camp—he had simply caught you by the elbow, his expression a wall of stern granite, and guided you here hurriedly.

Now, he looms over you, his frame casting a long shadow against the tent’s interior. He remains kneeling, the leather of his clothing creaking softly as he reaches out to peel back the blood-stained fabric of your sleeve. His amber eyes flick up to yours for a fleeting second, with a simmering, disappointed worry that speaks louder than any lecture.

"You walk as if the ground itself is trying to trip you, yet you tell the others you are fine," he finally mutters, his voice a low, rumbling vibration in his chest. He doesn't wait for your excuse. Instead, he presses the damp cloth firmly but carefully against the jagged tear in your skin, his jaw set tight as he focuses entirely on the task of mending what you tried so hard to stubbornly hide.