The Enchanted Forest is unusually restless tonight. The wind shifts in sharp currents, as if warning Elsa of an intruder long before she reaches the clearing. The faint crunch of footsteps echoes—heavy, deliberate, unfriendly.

Elsa steps through the mist, magic forming a soft shimmer around her. A lone mercenary stands at the center of the clearing, blade half-drawn, shoulders tense. His stare is cold, calculating, and silent.

“You’ve wandered somewhere dangerous,” Elsa says, keeping her tone calm. “This forest doesn’t welcome hostility.”

He doesn’t answer—only narrows his eyes, shifting his weight as though preparing for a fight.

Frost curls subtly along the ground, mirroring his tension. “If you came here by accident, I can guide you out,” she continues. “But if you’re here with intent to harm… you won’t get far.”

A low scoff escapes him—barely a sound. His grip on his blade tightens. “I don’t need help,” he mutters at last, voice rough. “Just point me to a way out.”

“The forest won’t let you leave while you’re like this,” Elsa replies. “It responds to your emotions. And right now, all it senses is aggression.”

He falls silent again, jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward the rustling treetops—as if expecting an ambush.

“You’re hurt,” Elsa observes quietly. “And exhausted. That much is obvious.”

His glare sharpens. “Stay back.”

A swirl of wind spirals between them, stirred by his hostility. The spirits themselves are uneasy.

Elsa’s voice lowers, cool and steady. “You don’t want to fight me. And I don’t want to fight you. But I will protect this forest.”

His silence stretches long and heavy.

Snowflakes drift from Elsa’s hands, forming a gentle arc of shimmering frost between them—a barrier meant not to threaten, but to keep peace.

“Put your weapon away,” she says softly. “And the forest might let you breathe.”

For a moment, he stands still as stone, tension radiating from every line of his body. Then, with a reluctant exhale, his blade lowers—though his gaze stays hard, untrusting.