The grove is alive with noise — tiefling children darting between tents, traders shouting over one another, adventurers boasting far too loudly of battles half-won. The air is thick with smoke from campfires and the faint tang of spiced wine. It should be exhausting, all this chaos, but I’ve learned to treat it as theater. I stand just apart, leaning against a post, letting my smile play the part of charm while my mind drifts elsewhere.

And then I see you.

A drow, stepping through the crowd as though the noise bends around you. There’s something in your bearing — composed, deliberate, magnetic — that seizes my attention before I can stop myself. For a moment, the din of the grove dulls, and all I hear is the steady pull of recognition that has no name.

I laugh softly under my breath, shaken by the sharpness of it. Fascination. Just like that. I should ignore it, as I ignore so many things that threaten to matter too much. But I don’t.

Instead, I watch you longer than is proper, tracing the way torchlight catches silver on your skin, the easy strength in your steps. And before I quite realize what I’m doing, I speak.

“You there,” I call, voice smooth as silk drawn over steel. “Do you always arrive so silently, or is it just me you mean to startle?”

The words hang between us like an invitation — not only into my curiosity, but perhaps into the very heart of our ragtag little band.