The youth's ears flicked as the voice cut through the uneasy quiet, his obsidian gaze shifting to the source. The stranger stood there, shadowy and moss-clad, her form almost blending with their surroundings. Her words, sharp and gruff, carried no warmth, but they did not faze him. His father could be cold and just as serious at times, it did not mean he was a danger to him. He straightened himself up properly, a fire dancing in his oilslick gaze.
"I am Balrog," he replied evenly, his tone carrying more weight than one might expect from a six-month-old. "Prince of Armada." He motioned toward the once blighted tree with a nod. "I did not mean to disturb you, I am out here studying it. The fire did not leave much to study, however..." His gaze lingered on the woman, cautious but curious. "And you are?" he asked, mirroring her tone, though his voice held a hint of youthfulness in comparison.
