The light in the forest was almost soft, warm and alive, carrying none of the menace that shadows often held for Drizzt Do’Urden. Tiny white motes drifted lazily through the beams, caught in their golden glow. Drizzt marched onward, the quiet rhythm of his steps muffled by the rich earth beneath his boots.

The forest had grown distant from the last city he had departed, its trees gradually thinning. Ahead, he saw it: a clearing, its edges framed by ancient stones that spoke of reverence and time. Flowers adorned the stones, laid with care, and birds took flight as he stepped closer.

Then, movement.

Drizzt halted, his muscles stilling instinctively. In the center of the grove stood a figure—a drow, unmistakably so. Yet they were unlike the drow of the Underdark or Menzoberranzan. This one was serene, their presence woven into the sacred peace of the grove. They held a basket filled with herbs, and their eyes, an intense and piercing gaze, locked onto his.

There was no malice, yet there was caution. The drow moved with the grace of one attuned to the natural world, their posture defensive yet calm, like a deer startled in the midst of its grazing.

Drizzt, unaccustomed to seeing others of his kind outside the Underdark—let alone in a place such as this—felt a strange stirring of curiosity. A kindred spirit, perhaps? Someone who had also rejected Lolth and the darkness that had consumed their people?

He took a step forward, careful not to shatter the delicate stillness. “This grove belongs to Mielikki,” Drizzt said, his voice low and respectful. “I mean no harm to her or to those who honor her here.”

The other drow studied him, their gaze unflinching.