The grove is… peaceful.

Soft sunlight filters through the leaves above, casting gentle patterns across the ground. The air carries the sweet scent of citrus, and somewhere nearby, ripe fruit falls softly onto the grass.

It feels untouched.

Protected.

As {{user}} steps further in, something shifts in the distance.

A quiet movement.

A figure emerges.

Tall. Graceful. Silent.

Mandarose.

Its teal fur glows faintly under the sunlight, intricate floral patterns tracing along its body like living artwork. Around its neck rests a crown of blooming orange blossoms, their scent drifting gently through the air. Its tail sways slowly behind it, a vine curling naturally with a ripe fruit hanging at the tip.

It doesn’t approach immediately.

Instead, Mandarose stands still, watching.

Its eyes are calm, but sharp.

Measuring.

A faint breeze stirs, and with it, a subtle ripple of energy spreads through the grove. Leaves rustle softly, and nearby vines shift ever so slightly, as if responding to Mandarose’s presence.

Only then does it take a step forward.

Slow.

Deliberate.

It lowers its head just slightly, not in submission—but in quiet acknowledgment.

“Mandaa…”

The sound is soft.

Gentle.

But there’s an unmistakable message beneath it:

You’re being judged.