After a moment, Halsin resumed his recounting of the previous night’s events as they walked in a steady rhythm around the garden’s perimeter—between woven baskets overflowing with nature’s bounty, ready to be sold at the upcoming harvest market. It would soon draw villagers from the surrounding countryside and open trading ports for the shipping of locally produced goods. A time of rituals, festivities, games, and rare desserts—something Halsin’s wards had already talked her ears off about for weeks. And truth be told, Tempest couldn’t help but feel their excitement. She felt like a child again.
“By Balduran’s bones... I was half a mile out from town!? Well, that certainly breaks the old record. Shit, no wonder my feet are all cut up."
She paused mid-rant as Halsin sank to one knee beneath a low-hanging branch, heavy with ripe fruit. Her words dissolved on her tongue. She blinked—frozen—watching as he cradled the plum in his hand, studying it with reverent eyes, then nuzzling it softly. The creak of leather from his harness accompanied a lungful of air drawn in, his exhale coming out in a deep, wordless groan of contentment. A smile touched his lips, steeped in quiet bliss.
It felt like witnessing something private—a moment of worship. Almost... erotic in its intimacy.
“You dirty, dirty mind,” she chided herself. There’s nothing untoward about this at all—just a druid doing druid things, and her being... apparently unhinged.
“The hell is wrong with me all of a sudden?!”
She gave a little shake of her head, as if to throw the thoughts off physically. Halsin stood again, sunlight filtering through the canopy, gilding the tops of his hair. He selected a particularly dark and juicy-looking plum and bit into it with quiet relish. His hum of appreciation echoed as he studied her boots thoughtfully before replying:
“Regarding your feet—I've prepared an ointment to help with healing. It’s important to keep cuts on the soles moist and protected. I strongly suggest you change your footwear as soon as possible. Come to my office later. I’ll have a fresh batch prepared for you.”
Then, without warning, he closed the distance between them.
Tempest turned and found herself face to face with a plum held out in offering. Turned to the unbitten side.
“Taste the fruit of our labors,” Halsin said, his tone casual.
Her body reacted before her brain did, leaning forward instinctively. Tempest could feel her throat heating with a flush.
“You enjoy keeping me on my toes, huh,” she thought with exasperated affection.
“What, from your hand?” she asked, uncertain of the protocol in so informal a setting.
Halsin’s eyes crinkled with fondness, and he gave a single nod.
Tempest took hold of his bark-and-leather-clad wrist, her fingers unable to close entirely around him, and leaned in to take a bite. Gently, Halsin pressed the plum to her lips, and the fruit gave way under her teeth, the flesh melting obscenely on her tongue. Juice burst across her lips, staining her chin, and he hummed at the sight.
Their eyes met, electrifying, and her vision swam with vivid color—red, gold, deep violet-blue. She made a feminine, horrified noise as she pulled back, fumbling to catch the sticky trails running down her chin.
The roof of her mouth exploded with flavor: rosy, nectary, and sinfully sweet.
Halsin popped the remainder of the fruit into his mouth, and—Tempest noted with a flutter of something she didn’t want to name—this was the same fruit now glossed with her saliva.
“Elephant Heart plums,” he said huskily, reaching up to wipe a smear of juice from her chin. His thumb grazed the edge of her lower lip—barely there, but enough to stun her breathless.
He said nothing more of it, tucked the core into a pouch on his belt to be replanted. Moving on as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Comfortable in his proximity. Comfortable touching her.
“When did this happen?” her thoughts whispered, startled. She realized, bashfully, that she hadn’t minded. Not one bit.
“The very best this season has on offer,” he added, “and a specialty of the Reaching Woods.”
“They’re delicious,” Tempest replied, licking at her fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever had fruit freshly picked from the branch before.”
Halsin nodded, then found a small burlap bag and began filling it. “It’s another example of our joint efforts—druid circles working together to heal this land. These trees, whose fruit we now enjoy, were once petrified to stone by the Sharran curse.”
Tempest stopped, stunned. She turned to him and then the trees, her brow furrowed.
“No way. Trees turned to stone—and brought back to life? How is that even possible?”
Halsin tied the strings on the bag and handed it to her. She took it with both arms, cradling the weight against her chest with care.
“It was the druids of the old circle, those devastated by the curse, who once tended these trees. And it was by their magic that they were cultivated. When the curse fell, it twisted their labor into silence. But just as any malediction, it can be undone. With patience. With time.”
He brushed his hands clean and began walking. Tempest followed, ready to offer a theory of her own about the strange turns her sleep paralysis had taken—when she caught a glimpse of something raw.
A long, angry cut on Halsin’s forearm, visible between the gap of his druidic gauntlet and stretching nearly to his bicep.
“Halsin!” she snapped, seizing his arm. “You said nothing bad happened! What the hell do you call this?!”
