Broken Glass - Taekook

12

The sky is pitch black when I wake up, to Yoongi gently shaking me into consciousness. Before I can question him, he holds a finger to his lips, gesturing towards Aphelia. Her glow is dim, and the usual pure white is replaced with a pale green. The fire is slowly dying, and the gentle orange seems to cover up Aphelia's emerald coloured light entirely. 

I glance around at my companions. Taehyung's holding a small knife in his right hand, Seokjin's hand is clasped over the axe he always uses for firewood, and Namjoon holds a small charred branch from the corner of the fire. I scramble to sit up, reaching into my own pack and pulling out the knife given to me by the old villager of Hazelpoint. I don't know what I'd do with it, but it's certainly better to have something to defend myself with. 

We sit there in silence, crouched in defensive positions, and then a call comes through the darkness. "We do not plan to attack." 

The voice comes from my right, but when I peer out into the night, I see nothing. In front of me, the faint light of our camp is reflected onto the flat surface of the lake, and the round image of the silver moon glitters some way away. Further away, however, my vision fades slowly into darkness. After a brief glance at the rest of us, Namjoon replies for the whole group. 

"We are merely travelling through an uncertain land, stranger. We mean you no harm, unless you pose a threat to us. Will you come into the light, share the warmth of our fire, enjoy a peaceful conversation with us?" 
"Are you aligned with the King?"  

The voice quavers on the last word, and I bite my lip, worried. My companions share another look. "It is dangerous to share opinions so openly, stranger," Namjoon responds, "but we do not work for him. We hail from the outskirts of Eithyr, and have never come into contact with his forces."

There's a moment of quiet. "We will come into the light, in peace and friendship, if you swear not to attack." 

"We will not attack," Namjoon returns. Yoongi pauses, a thoughtful look on his face, and then he shrugs to himself, presumably having considered something. 
"Ta sei jurtua," he says clearly into the night. 

The night is almost painfully silent, except for the faint rustling of the grass in the breeze, and the gentle ripple of a nearby waterfall. No matter how hard I strain my senses, I can't pick up any indication of another person, and the lack of stimuli is worrying, in a way I can't explain, even to myself. There's something uncomfortable about the fact that I have no way to tell where danger comes from, even if I really focus on finding it. 

As we wait, nervous and confused, we slowly form a circle, backs to each other, so that we can defend from any direction as required. I can hear my heartbeat, thumping in my ears like a drum of war, and my grip on the knife in my hand is uncertain, unsteady. I'm more likely to drop it than to be of any use in a fight, and I think my companions know that, because I slowly find myself in the middle of this tight circle, protected by a shield of people who have probably trained themselves in self defence. 

Then a single footstep rings out, a few metres beyond our light, in the same direction it came from before. I tense up slightly, my grip on my knife tightening, before relaxing slightly at the sight of a figure appearing from the gloom. 

Cloaked and hooded, it's hard to see their face, or indeed any identifying feature. The front of the cloak is slightly open, revealing a flowing white shirt and dark brown trousers, the slight sheen of a sword in a sheath at their waist, connected by a wide leather belt. As they approach, slowly, a second, shorter figure appears beside them, similarly dressed. But instead of a sword, the strap of a bag hangs diagonally over their left shoulder, a silvery buckle just visible in the centre.