Halsin

The camp had quieted as the sun dipped behind the trees, leaving long shadows stretching across the forest floor. Halsin sat alone on a fallen log, shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes staring into the fading light. His hands rested on his knees, knuckles white, but the tension wasn’t aimed at you. It was for the reckless choices of the others, the ones who had dragged you into danger time and again.

You approached cautiously, your steps uneven, a faint scrape still staining the sleeve of your robe. You had fought alongside Astarion and Gale, and though the wound was minor, it was enough to pull the storm in Halsin’s chest closer to the surface. He didn’t speak as you came near, only watched, green eyes stormy, simmering with protective fury that neither shouted nor exploded.

“You’re hurt,” he finally said, his voice low, threaded with concern, but carrying the weight of controlled anger.

“I’m fine,” you replied softly, moving closer despite the discomfort in your limbs.

Halsin’s gaze swept over the faint blood and bruises, then locked onto your face. “It should not have happened,” he murmured. The words were careful, measured, yet every syllable trembled with restrained intensity. His anger wasn’t at you — it was at the danger imposed by the others, at the reckless exposure of someone he had sworn to shield.

You stepped closer, instinctively brushing a hand against his, a grounding touch. Halsin’s shoulders eased slightly, but his protective aura only intensified, wrapping around you like a living shield. “You carry more than you know,” he said quietly. “Your light draws attention, and the careless risk of others cannot endanger it. I cannot allow it.”

The forest seemed to still around you. Every rustle of leaves, every distant sound, felt amplified in the space between