Chris Valemir had a problem.
No, not the kind of problem that could be solved with a sword or a clever comeback — though he was famously decent at both. This was the kind of problem that involved being very, very lost, ankle-deep in mud, and carrying a map that had definitely been printed upside down.
"'Follow the river,' they said," Chris muttered, swatting a bug from his face. "'Stay on patrol,' they said. 'Try not to get distracted,' they said—like I'm the kind of guy who just—wait, was that a squirrel?"
The squirrel, unimpressed by his dramatic monologue, vanished into the brush.
Chris sighed and shoved the useless map into his pack. He was supposed to be guarding the northern border of Solaria. Just a simple two-day patrol near the Aetheris boundary. In. Out. Maybe flex his sword skills if he got lucky. Instead, he'd taken a wrong turn near the Whispering Pines, fallen down a ravine, and crossed into the most unpredictable stretch of neutral territory known to man.
Aetheris.
Where laws were suggestions, magic pulsed wild in the soil, and every town had at least one bard who would sell your soul for half a song and a warm biscuit.
"Great. Just bloody perfect," Chris grumbled, tugging his mud-soaked boot from a swampy puddle. "One patrol. One! How do I even explain this to Captain Elric? 'Sorry, sir, I accidentally defected during lunch hour?'"
He paused as the air shifted.
The forest around him was unnervingly quiet now. No birdsong. No wind. Just silence, thick and unnatural. Chris reached instinctively for his sword.
That's when he saw him.
Slumped against a tree a few paces ahead, half-shrouded by brush and shadow, was a man — dark cloak torn, shirt stained with blood, one gloved hand pressed weakly to his side.
Chris blinked.
Then, against all reason, he muttered, "Huh. That's... probably not a tree elf."
The stranger's eyes snapped open — sharp and silver, like a blade drawn under moonlight. For a moment, they locked eyes. Then the man groaned and slumped again.
Chris approached carefully, sword still sheathed. "Hey, uh, you alive? Please don't be a vampire. Or a really dramatic corpse."
No response.
He knelt beside the man and saw the gash across his side. Deep, but not fresh. Whoever he was, he'd been bleeding for hours. Chris hesitated. Every knight-in-training was taught the basics of field dressing a wound. But they were also told to never, under any circumstances, aid strangers on the border — especially not near Aetheris.
Still... the guy looked like death warmed over.
"Alright, mystery man," Chris muttered. "If you stab me in the kidney after this, I swear I'll haunt you."
With practiced hands, Chris pulled out a healing salve from his satchel, tore strips from his cloak, and began tending the wound. The man didn't move — until Chris touched the deepest part of the gash.
That's when he groaned and muttered something that sounded a lot like, "Talks too much."
Chris blinked. "Excuse you. I just saved your moody, half-dead butt from bleeding out in the dirt."
"I would've… managed…" the man mumbled.
"Yeah? You planning to heal yourself with sarcasm? Didn't think so."
The man gave a quiet, breathless chuckle. "Still talking…"
Chris rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."
He helped the stranger sit upright against the tree. Closer now, Chris noticed details: how his black cloak was singed at the edges. How strange runes were inked faintly along the inside of his sleeves. How his hair — jet black with a stubborn wave — fell over one eye like it had been styled to annoy authority figures.
Definitely not a normal traveler.
"Name?" Chris asked.
"None of your business," came the dry reply.
"Oh, great. You're one of those." Chris crossed his arms. "Well, I'm Chris. Sir Chris Valemir, technically. Knight-in-training. Solarian Order."
The stranger snorted, then winced. "Should've known. You people wear heroism like it's cologne."
"I do smell great, thanks for noticing."
No smile. But the corner of the stranger's mouth twitched, just a little.
Chris leaned back. "You got a name, or do I keep calling you 'Wounded Guy Who Bleeds on Trees'?"
The man gave a low sigh. "Damian."
Chris grinned. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He stood and stretched. "Alright, Damian, you rest here. I'll make camp nearby, keep watch. You look like you'll collapse if the wind changes."
Damian didn't answer. His eyes had fluttered shut again.
Chris turned away — only just for a second.
And that's when everything he owned vanished.
Sword? Gone. Satchel? Gone. Boots? Gone. Even his map — not that it had helped.
"WHAT THE HELL—DAMIAN!"
But the man was gone too. Not a trace left behind. No footprints. No rustling leaves. Just an empty forest and the sound of Chris yelling curses that would make his knightmaster faint.
"…That beautiful bastard robbed me blind."