The world outside the safety of their frantic ride was metamorphosing, the mild woods receding like a memory, as they galloped towards the edge of a more tumultuous landscape. The flora burgeoned into a spectacle of unnatural beauty—crystalline petals that chimed in the wind, luminescent fronds that painted their path in phosphorescent hues, and undulating grasses that whispered long-forgotten tales. Each plant was a lexicon of magic unto itself, bearing properties that the Pixies had spoken of in hushed reverence. This botanical paradise was once a tapestry of joy for Theory, back when life was a different shade of complexity, before his world had been dimmed by the confines of his reality.

As they pressed on, the gentle forest’s bright, fantastical flora burst into life around them, defiant splashes of color against the drabness of the sky, with each plant pulsing with old magic. 

He remembered the names and the meanings, each one a thread in the rich fabric of his childhood dreams. There was the tengi, vines that could ensnare the unwary, their thorns dripping with a sap that induced deep, restorative sleep. The skeita, its petals unfurling only to the touch of moonlight, could heal the most grievous of wounds. And the weirg, their silvery leaves rumored to carry one's deepest confessions to the Clouds above if spoken to under a waxing moon. For a fleeting moment, his heart ached for the innocence of those days, when his greatest worry was whether he'd return to the hollow before the Pixies noted his absence.

Theory, despite the gnawing onset of his heat, couldn't suppress the spark of joy these wonders ignited in him—a remnant of a simpler time when he'd wander among such marvels, a free child amongst the Pixies rather than a burden from a Shifter orphanage.

A time before the orphanage. A time before the struggle.

The tengi’s embrace, the skeita’s nocturnal dance, the weirg’s confessional rustle—he cataloged each with a taxonomist's precision and a poet's longing. Their meanings and uses were not just knowledge from his past; they were whispered promises of a home he yearned to build, a serene haven from a life spent in flight. With every plant that brushed against him as he rode past, he dreamed of a life rooted in peace, wrapped in the safety of these magical guardians.

He imagined, not for the first time, a small cottage of his own making, nestled in a clearing surrounded by similar marvels, away from the chaos that seemed to tail him as persistently as his own shadow. But the chill in the air, the way it clung to his lungs and hinted at the tempest brewing in the skies, was a sharp tug back to the present. The chilling wind sliced through his cloak bringing the heavy scent of a brewing storm. The storm's approach was palpable, a threat looming over them with the certainty of nightfall.

The village, when it finally emerged from the twilight, was a huddle of hope with its inviting lights piercing the impending darkness. As they reached the outskirts of the village, the first heavy drops began to fall, splattering against the earth with the promise of a deluge. Theory’s body was a cacophony of discomfort, his skin too tight, his bones filled with molten lead. The onset of his heat was insidious, a traitor within that had chosen the most inopportune time to manifest.

The village was quaint, a smattering of lights flickering like fireflies against the impending darkness. The Inn they found was a beacon of dwindling hope after the first several had closed their doors with signs relaying full occupancy.

Theory's fevered mind barely registered the warmth of the inn as they entered, the oppressive weight of his condition dampening the relief he should have felt.

The Satyr innkeeper, with curling horns and eyes that twinkled with a knowing mischief, leaned casually against the wooden counter.

"Evening travelers," the innkeeper greeted with a grin that deepened the creases of his weathered face. "Storm's on your heels. Lucky you made it when you did."

"We need rooms," Theory said through gritted teeth, his voice a growl of discomfort as he scanned the cozy interior, desperate for respite.

The satyr's gaze flickered over Theory with unabashed curiosity. "Just got the one left, I'm afraid. You'll be sharin' tonight, unless you fancy a night with the pigs in the sty."

A look of incredulous horror flashed across Theory's face, his lean muscled frame tensing. "There must be another place. A Blaze, perhaps?" he pressed, the word like a talisman against his rising heat.

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed at the mention of a Blaze, and he shook his head. "Storm's got everyone bunkered down. No Blaze will open their doors tonight, son."

When Shifters with an affinity for fire go through heats, they need special accommodations to really allow themselves the true comfort their nature demands which is why Blazes were created. They can go to regular brothels, but they have to be spelled to keep the fire in them contained which usually left them slightly ill or uncomfortable additionally during the experience. It was no wonder the Keeper was suspicious. Their glamour was still in effect. What need did an Elf have for a Blaze?

Theory mentally cursed himself for the obvious slip up but was too far gone now to backtrack.

Niro, who had been a silent sentinel at Theory's back, stepped forward. The golden-brown hue of his skin was almost aglow in the dim light of the inn, his muscular form towering and imposing. The contrasting eyes, one green and one red, seemed to pierce through the dim lighting as he studied the satyr. Sometimes, Theory wondered what everyone else saw and if Niro’s beauty had translated the same way into his Elven disguise.

"We'll take the room," he stated, his voice a smooth baritone that resonated with an authority that brooked no argument.

"Niro—" Theory started, only to be cut off by a curt shake of Niro's head, the black strands of his shoulder-length hair swaying with the motion. His beard-framed jaw was set in determination.

The Satyr shrugged, the coins clinking merrily as he took the payment. "Room eight, upstairs and to the left. You best hurry before your companion here collapses."

Theory's gaze darted desperately toward the front door, the distant rumble of thunder mirroring the turmoil within him. Without a second thought, he lurched toward the promise of escape, the open night air that beckoned him with a deceptive whisper of freedom.

"Theory," Niro's voice was a low warning, but it arrived too late. 

Theory, propelled by a mix of desperation and the primal urge to find relief from the heat clawing at his insides, shoved past tables and patrons in a blind rush to the door.

But Niro was quicker, or perhaps just more prepared for the irrationality of a Shifter in the throes of heat. His strong arms enveloped Theory from behind, locking him in an iron grasp. Theory thrashed wildly, his bright red hair a fiery halo in the struggle, glowing eyes reflecting his inner fury.

"Let go of me!" Theory howled, his voice cracking under the strain. "I need to—"

"You need to stay safe," Niro countered, his tone unyielding as he wrestled with the leaner man, hauling him away from the door. His body was an unmovable force against Theory's fevered attempts to break free. Though it was those words that triggered something deep in Theory, catering to his baser instincts as a Carrier. 

Safe.

That was what he needed most right now. Would this Breeder keep him safe? Could he trust this Breeder to protect him?

He needed to be safe.

The innkeeper watched the scene unfold with an unreadable expression, his goat-like eyes sharp and calculating. "Need a hand there?" he called out, a trace of amusement lacing his words.

"No," Niro grunted, hoisting Theory up with a grunt as if he weighed no more than a child, securing a firm grip on his struggling form. The patrons of the inn drew back, creating a clear path for Niro to maneuver through, some with eyes wide in alarm, others with the bemused expression of those accustomed to the unpredictability of Elves.

The innkeeper remained below, his faint chuckle a subtle note under the storm's crescendo, shaking his head as he returned to his duties. 

Whether from experience or intuition, he understood that the storm inside these travelers was far more dangerous than the one battering his inn.

Up the stairs, they went, Theory's curses and pleas muffled by the pounding of the rain and the sturdier walls of the inn. By the time Niro deposited him on the bed of their assigned room, Theory's strength had ebbed away, leaving him panting and glaring up at the man who had become his jailor.

The room was small, the space dominated by a bed that seemed to mock Theory's predicament. Niro closed the door behind them with a soft click, and the world narrowed down to the four walls, the ceaseless drumming of the rain against the window, and the overbearing heat of Theory's condition.

"Dammit, Niro," Theory spat, the words a blade of helplessness aimed at the only target available. "You fucking imbecile. I can't—"

"You won't be alone," Niro interjected quietly, and there was an unexpected softness to his tone that made Theory's breath hitch. He stood there, a warrior in an unfamiliar battlefield, his eyes revealing a depth of understanding that belied his earlier silence.

Theory, torn between frustration and a sudden, unwelcome swell of gratitude, could only glare at him. The storm raged on, within and without, and for the moment, there was nothing to be done but endure it together.

The room was charged with the electricity of a brewing storm, one that raged both outside and within the confines of Theory’s fevered body. His limbs were shaking, every muscle corded with tension as he grappled with the insidious onset of his heat.

“Get out!” he screamed, his voice hoarse, his bright, glowing eyes wild with the fever that ravaged him. His skin burned to the touch, shimmering red markings etched across his cheekbones standing out starkly against his tawny skin.

Niro, immovable as the ancient oaks outside, watched with one green eye and one red, a tempest of concern battling behind his stoic facade. “I won’t leave you to suffer alone.”

The fever that seized Theory was a living thing, a beast clawing its way through his veins with each pounding heartbeat. His body was a vessel caught in the throes of a tempestuous sea, pitching and yawing uncontrollably as the heat bore down on him, threatening to split his very seams.

“Damn you, Niro!” he spat out between clenched teeth, the venom in his voice potent enough to rival the poison of the deadliest serpents. His bright, glowing amber eyes were glassy with fever-induced delirium, the once vibrant hue dulled to the color of smoldering embers.

Niro stood resolute, the strength of his warrior's build anchoring him firmly in the eye of Theory’s storm. His own eyes held a tumult of emotion, kept tightly reined behind a facade as stoic as the mountains they’d traversed.

The room turned into a battlefield, violent in its desperation. Theory threw himself at Niro, a whirlwind of fists and teeth, his body acting on the most primitive of urges—to fight, to flee, to find solace in the heat that threatened to consume him. Every strike against Niro was a plea, a denial, a tangled cry of his inner turmoil.

Chairs toppled, the splintering of wood punctuating Theory’s ragged breaths. His skin was a canvas of fire, each touch igniting new sparks, the shimmering red markings across his cheekbones like war paint.

Theory’s skin felt too tight, his bones ablaze, every nerve ending screaming for relief.

Niro grunted as he narrowly dodged a lamp, shattering against the wall where his head had been moments before. He reached for Theory, not to retaliate, but to restrain, to provide some semblance of safety in the maelstrom of Theory’s self-destructive fervor.

Niro caught Theory’s flailing arms, his grip sure and strong. “Calm down.”

“Fuck off!” Theory’s scream was a shard of broken glass, raw and cutting. He was lost in the sea of his own instincts, every rational thought drowned beneath the relentless waves of his heat.