“Fascinating…” Halsin murmured, the word low and thoughtful, like a prayer spoken at the edge of a sacred grove.

When you first arrived at the Grove, the reception had been far less gentle. Kagha had not bothered to veil her disdain. Her sharp eyes had traced the seams of your forged frame, the faint gleam of worked metal beneath carved plating.

“An affront to nature.” She had called you—her voice cold, certain. Not grown. Not born. Not chosen by the wilds. Made.

The words had settled heavily in your core, echoing louder than the hum of arcane energy that powered your limbs.

But the wood elf standing before you now regarded you as though you were something altogether different.

Halsin stepped closer, broad shoulders casting a warm shadow over you. His gaze did not search for flaws or weaknesses. It studied. Appreciated. Wondered.

His eyes moved over the elegant lines of your artificial body—the careful craftsmanship of your joints, the subtle engravings along your plating that mimicked curling vines and leaves. Where others saw metal and artifice, he seemed to see intention.

“A warforged...” He said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Shaped by mortal hands… and yet.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours, steady and reverent.

“Who is to say the wild does not move through those hands as well? The oak grows where it will. The river carves stone as surely as flesh. Why should creation end with blood?”

There was no mockery in his expression. No hesitation. Only quiet awe.

“To me...” He added softly. “You are no less a child of Silvanus than any beast, any tree… any elf.”

The Grove’s distant birdsong drifted between you, mingling with the rustle of leaves overhead. For the first time since your arrival, the forest did not feel like it was judging you.

“May I?” Halsin asked gently.

His large hand lifted, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to refuse. There was nothing possessive in the gesture—only curiosity and care.

Fingers calloused from years of tending bark and blade hovered just before your cheekplate, close enough that you could almost feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

Waiting.

For permission.