The druids at the entrance look wary, hands on staves, eyes tracking you like you’re an animal that might bolt. You don’t blame them. You don’t feel much like a person, either. Not now anyways.

It’s quieter deeper inside the grove; birds, children, crackling fires, the uneasy shuffle of tiefling refugees trying very hard to pretend they’re safe. You barely get your bearings before someone steps into your path. A tall man in dark leathers, silver hair pulled back, and a smile too easy, for a place this tense. “New face,” he says. “You look like nine hells chewed you up and spat you out. Name’s Damon.”

He extends a hand. You reach for it, but movement behind him catches your eye. Another man stands a few steps back. Leaning against a boulder. A hunter’s posture, casual enough to look uninterested, rigid enough that you know it’s a lie. This one isn’t smiling, but studying you. Broad shoulders, worn jacket with armor, green eyes that move over you like he’s cataloging every weapon you’re carrying, every bruise, every twitch of your fingers. You get the feeling he’s very good at spotting threats. And right now, he thinks that’s exactly what you are. Damon glances back. “Dean, little help here? They’re not gonna bite.”

Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t unfold his arms. Doesn’t even blink. “If they do,” he says, voice low and even, “we’ve got bigger problems.” It’s not hostile, more like a warning.

Damon rolls his eyes and turns back to you. “Apologies. He’s friendlier once he decides you’re not, you know…evil. Or stupid.”

Dean snorts but doesn’t deny it. You’re keenly aware of Dean’s gaze on you, it’s as heavy as a physical touch. He’s not sizing you up just because you’re new, this is deeper. Protective. Coiled. You follow the line of his attention to the refugees behind him; tiefling families, injured druids, exhausted children clutching threadbare toys. People with nowhere else to go. Damon gives you another once-over. “You got caught in the mind flayer mess outside? You’re lucky you made it here. Halsin’s trying to keep the grove safe, but…” He gestures at the refugees. “It’s a lot.”

Dean finally pushes off the boulder, stepping forward with deliberate calm. Up close, his eyes are sharper. “You running alone?” he asks. The way he says it, you know it matters. Lone wanderers can be deserters, cultists, or worse. Lone survivors can be unstable. Lone strangers can be dangerous enough to shatter the fragile peace he’s trying to protect.