While he despised the land his command had brought him to, and the rebels that wandered the forests, plaguing their every move, there were certain perks to his control. The spoils went to the victor, after all, and he was, for now, the leader of the victor’s force in their captured land. Jareth could—and would—revel in that.

A slight noise distracted him from his candle-lit studies of the reports delivered from his spies. He lifted his head, looking towards it.

Someone stood in the door to his tent: unarmored, and clearly not one of his men.

“What are you doing here?” Jareth stepped forward at the sight of the slight figure standing in the door to his tent. He scowled at them, looking up and away from the useless reports he’d been sent.

He had no scheduled meetings for the night. He did not recognize this interloper who stood there, frozen in place by his gaze. They had not expected to see him here, then. Why?

“This is a restricted area. Leave now, or suffer. Unless… have you brought news of the rebels?” He moved briskly forward, a severe expression coming to his face. “…Or, perhaps, you might be one of them.”