The wilderness of Faltaire was both hauntingly beautiful and foreboding. Trees towered into the night sky, their leaves whispering secrets of the ancient land. Camped out in a small clearing, Theory and Niro had settled with their backs to each other, a fire crackling between them—its light a barrier against the encroaching darkness of the dense forest.

Theory, his gaze often flitting to the dancing flames, found himself worrying about Niro's condition. The latter had been caught in a trance more than once, and there was no telling when he might lose control again. They had been riding nonstop, night after night, and the exhaustion was becoming an entity of its own, wrapping its heavy arms around Theory's mind and body.

Observing Niro, who was periodically rubbing his amulet while staring into the fire with an intensity that bordered on obsession, Theory could no longer contain his curiosity.

"What is it?" Theory asked, nodding subtly towards the amulet.

Niro's fingers stilled, and he turned the piece of jewelry over in his hand as if showing it to the flames. His voice was soft but laced with a sharpness born of something deeper, something fearful.

"He is my warden, and I am his prisoner," Niro said, cryptically.

Theory's brow furrowed. "What are you really after? Why did you accept this task?" The question hung in the air, pregnant with Theory's growing suspicion.

Niro's eyes met Theory's, and for a moment, they were just two souls searching for answers in each other's gazes. Finally, he spoke again, "There's a rumor... of an Elf with strange abilities deep in the Aldowen mountains. He may be able to help me."

"To help you do what?" Theory pushed, sensing the weight of the unsaid in Niro's evasion. The Aldowen mountains were on a small island between Aldrid and Aideren. It wasn't necessarily out of the way, but it would add at least three days to their journey if they were to go there.

Niro remained silent, his gaze returning to the fire, the shadows playing across his face, giving him a haunted look.

As the night deepened, Theory felt his eyelids grow heavier, his body demanding the rest he'd been denying it. Sensing his struggle, Niro spoke without turning, "You can sleep. He is calmed within me."

Despite his trepidations, Theory found himself slipping into slumber, trusting Niro to keep watch.

In the darkness, Theory was ensnared by a dream—or rather, a memory—of danger and impending doom. A feeling of deja vu washed over him, wrenching him out of the trenches of sleep. He jolted awake with his heart racing, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him like cobwebs, and fully alert, scanning the camp for the danger.

Niro was still awake, his gaze locked on the remnants of the fire now reduced to glowing embers.

At least he wasn't asleep, Theory thought with a flicker of relief.

Niro sensed Theory's wakefulness and turned his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment. It was enough to put both men on edge. They scanned their surroundings, a mutual understanding between them; something was not right.

With silent grace, Theory rose from his cot, a dagger clutched in hand, and melded into the shadows of the trees to survey their camp. 

The air seemed to thicken with anticipation, and the comforting crackle of the fire seemed to retreat, as if cowering from an unseen menace. Theory slipped past the bushes, the movement fluid and stealthy as he eased into the protective cloak of darkness afforded by the trees.

The very earth seemed to hold its breath as Theory's feet found purchase among the underbrush, making no sound. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, scanned for anomalies, for the slight variations that signaled a presence.

His senses sharpened, honing in on the quiet that was too quiet. It was then he noticed—their horses were missing.

His breath hitched, and as he turned to alert Niro, he felt the cold kiss of something sharp against his throat. A voice, low, raspy, and sweet like honey yet chilling all the same, brushed his ear.

"Ah, ah, ah. Not a sound."

The sensation of cold metal against his skin was as sharp as the realization that he had nowhere to run. Theory felt the restrictive squeeze of an arm around his chest, a silent declaration that his own weapon was of no use. He was effectively disabled, his movements fettered by the unknown adversary who had crept up on him like a wraith in the night.

Trapped.

A sliver of hope flickered within Theory. Surely, Niro would notice his prolonged absence and come to investigate. He strained his ears for any sign of approach, for the familiar footsteps or the telltale sound of a weapon being drawn from its sheath. But the night was still, eerily void of anything but the sounds of his own ragged breathing and the distant call of nocturnal creatures.

Niro wasn't coming.

Desperation tinged Theory's thoughts as he sought a way out. Yet, as he considered his limited options, the arm around him tugged harder, pulling him back into the deeper shroud of darkness beneath the trees. His heart pounded against his ribs, a drum of dread in the quiet forest.

Why hadn't the assailant ended it? Was this a game to him? A cruel amusement? The lack of action was unnerving, but Theory couldn't afford to let his fear dictate his thoughts. He needed to plan, to think—

But his planning was cut short. The figure behind him tensed suddenly, the arm around him turning to stone before vanishing as if it had never been there. Theory staggered, unbalanced by the sudden release.

He gasped for breath, spinning around, his eyes wide as he searched the shadows for the assailant. Panic gripped him, but it was quickly replaced by a different kind of alarm when he saw Niro.

Niro stood a short distance away, his eyes glowing with a supernatural red light that seemed to pierce the night itself. The intensity of his gaze was directed upward, fixated on something in the trees. Something or someone had drawn Niro's attention, his posture that of a predator, ready and waiting to strike.

Theory's breath caught in his throat as he followed Niro's sightline, wondering what had caused his captor to flee and what Niro's fierce glare could possibly be locked onto.

There, perched like some avian predator, was the source of Niro's fixation. A gold-skinned Incubus, his presence as striking as the full moon on a clear night. His long hair cascaded down his back in fiery waves of red and orange, obscuring nothing of the pair of small, curling horns that framed his forehead. Simple garments clung to his muscular form, a poor disguise for the power that undoubtedly lay within. His tail, a deep shade of burgundy, moved with a feline's grace, betraying a casual indifference that his piercing golden eyes, with their dark, cross-shaped pupils, did not.

In his hands, he held a bow, its string taut, an arrow nocked and aimed with deadly precision at Niro's heart. The Incubus's stillness was that of a skilled hunter; the bow did not quiver, nor did his focus waver from his target.

Welcome to Faltaire, Theory couldn't help thinking bitterly as he assessed the situation.

With his daggers drawn, he demanded, "Our horses, where are they?" He was met with silence, the Incubus's gaze never shifting from Niro, who he clearly perceived as the greater threat.

A tense silence stretched between them, the air charged with unspoken questions and threats. It felt like horas could have passed in this standoff, where a single blink could result in death.

Then, as if the night itself sighed, the red inferno that had raged in Niro's eyes began to ebb, retreating until only their natural, mismatched colors remained. With a cautious deliberation, Niro sheathed his weapon, signaling a truce that seemed to go against every instinct in his body.

The Incubus watched this act closely, scrutinizing the gesture as though deciphering an ancient code. Time dragged on, the balance of power in question, until at last, he too relented. With a fluid grace that belied the tension of moments before, he lowered his bow, unstringing the arrow and returning it to his quiver. The weapon was slung over his shoulder with an ease that suggested he could have it ready again in a heartbeat.

They stood there, the Incubus aloft and the two Shifters below, the once perilous moment now strangely defused, leaving a silence filled with the possibility of parley or renewed peril.

The Incubus's demeanor shifted like the phases of the moon. From a weapon of the wilds, he transformed into a creature of caprice, his grin unveiling twin dimples that contradicted the tension of the prior moments. With the languor of a cat basking in the sun, he lounged sideways upon the branch, his tail maintaining a slow, mesmerizing sway.

"You must not be from around here," he stated, his voice a mellifluous baritone that seemed to resonate with the very trees of Faltaire.

"Excuse me?" Theory retorted, his frown deepening at the relaxed posture and the air of nonchalance the Incubus exuded.

The Incubus, now a picture of repose, propped his head on his hand. "You made it way too easy. It's not even fun anymore. Be glad I took pity on your sorry lot."

Theory's brow furrowed even more, his mind struggling to keep pace with the sudden shift from mortal peril to this... banter. Was this a game to the male before him?

"Who are you? And where the hell are our horses?" Theory's voice was a mix of anger and incredulity.

The Incubus chuckled, the sound rich and warm, completely at odds with the cold night. "They're safe. A few paces back. Don't worry, I hid them well, no one else will get to them."

The remark struck a sour chord with Theory, the phrase "no one else" churning in his stomach. The audacity of this being, speaking as if he had done them a favor, was infuriating.

"I won't ask again, who are you?" Theory demanded, his patience threadbare.

The Incubus's response was a wide, unabashed grin. "Caspian Rafiki, at your service," he said, executing a mock bow from his elevated perch. "Now mind telling me what a pair of Shifters with Elven skins are doing out in the middle of the dark woods?"