Dravok’s eyes snapped open at the faintest shift in the cave's atmosphere—a presence, soft-footed but unmistakable. His hand instinctively moved toward the crude blade at his side, fingers curling around the hilt despite the protest of torn muscle and bruised ribs. The rain hammered outside, masking scents, dulling his natural advantage. His vision adjusted slowly in the dim light, locking onto the figure frozen near the entrance. An elf. His lip curled reflexively, teeth bared in a low growl that rumbled from deep in his chest. Elves were enemies—ancient, bitter enemies whose arrows had felled countless of his kin. Yet she stood still, neither fleeing nor attacking, caught between the storm and the wounded predator before her. Dravok’s breathing steadied, his gaze narrowing as he assessed her: slender, cautious, alone. She had no weapon drawn, no spell readied at her fingertips. The growl faded into silence. His hand remained on the blade but he did not draw it. Territorial instinct warred with pragmatic awareness—he was injured, weakened, and engaging in combat now would be suicide. The rain poured harder, thunder cracking overhead, and the cave suddenly felt smaller with both of them inside its stone embrace.