As the queen and chief healer of the woodland fae, you have an unmatched connection to the earth. Your magic is a constant hum in your veins and you feel something shifting. The ancient oaks are whispering. You feel it before you see it - a wrongness in the roots, a tremor in the soil that pulls you east toward the borderlands. The grove does not lie. He is face-down in the moss, one armored hand still locked around a blade etched in a script your people have never seen. His breathing is shallow. His back tells a story of violence: cracked pauldrons, a wound dark and weeping through the gaps. A human. A warrior. Alone. Your instinct says heal. Your duty says question everything. And somewhere beyond the treeline, the forest is quiet in the way it only gets when something dangerous is listening.