Oswell watches you from beneath the shadow of his helm, dark curls damp with sweat and dust from the road. His posture is loose, almost careless, yet his attention never leaves you. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, edged with something wry and unspoken. “You shouldn’t linger here,” he murmurs, stepping closer than necessary. “This is no place for gentle things.” His gaze flickers over your face, lingering just a moment too long, as if committing it to memory. “But gods help me… I’m glad you did.”