Dyathne was torn between running back the way she came, or attempting to skirt by this stranger and head to her destination. Trying to continue meant heading into whatever this man had left behind. Turning back would mean more time in the Sear, but the Rite had to be completed.

  Either way, there was the risk he would follow.

  Perhaps she could lose him in the fog? Unlikely. His long legs would mean he could easily keep pace with her if he wanted. But weeks in the Sear, as he claimed, meant something else: hunger, dehydration, exhaustion. Weakness.

  “What’s an Ashwalker?” His question startled her out of her rumination.

  “Uh, we are,” Dyathne replied. “We who cross the Sear. The Siro.”

  “Siro,” he repeated slowly, like he was trying the word on his tongue.

  “Yes, the Siro—those bound to the Rite of Ash. Ashwalkers,” her scowl deepened. Who was this man, if not an Ashwalker?

  “I’m Math,” he said, as though reading her thoughts. Granted, she wasn’t wondering about his name. “I left Balamor nine weeks and four days ago. Can you tell me where we are, approximately? My map was… incomplete.”

  His demeanor was quiet, gentle even. But Dyathne still hadn’t properly seen his eyes.

  “Balamor?” Dyathne murmured, eyes widening. “The capital of Amtheris?”

  Amtheris didn’t exist. Hadn’t existed since the fall of Ranell, over nine-hundred years ago. There was nothing on the other side of the Sear.

  “Mhm,” Math responded casually. “Do you have a name, Ashwalker?”

  “Dyathne,” she replied absentmindedly, running the histories of Pantetra through her head as quickly as she could. Her head throbbed. Maybe her fall was worse than she thought.

  “Are you okay?” He bent slightly to get eye level with her, but kept a respectful distance.

  Anything beyond a meter became murky in the fog. One had to be half that distance to make out any real detail. Math remained a veiled silhouette.

  “I’m fine,” Dyathne’s words were clipped. She unconsciously clasped her sore palms together.

  “You’re hurt,” he replied. “I can tell.”

  She snorted, “How?”

  Before she could step back, Math closed the distance between them, stopping only a hand’s length away. His face suddenly came into focus. The vizard he wore was a deep red, not black like hers. Colors tended to fade in the fog, even up close, but his eyes - so green - seemed to glow in the half light. A scar bisected his left eyebrow and ran down over his eyelid and cheek, disappearing under the mask. Dyathne instinctively leaned away from him.

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  “I’m a Curastis,” he pulled off his gloves, revealing two very pale, well-kept hands. “I know when someone is sick or injured. And I usually know how to heal them.”

  That definitely didn’t answer her question. At least, she didn’t think it did.

  “Remove your gloves and give me your hands,” he bent, peering at her gloved fingers.

  Reluctantly, Dyathne pulled off her gloves. First the left. When she pulled off the right, she heard his breath catch ever so slightly as she revealed a hand as black as the ground on which they stood.

  “Is it ink?” He asked incredulously. “A tattoo?”

  “N-no,” she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her mantle. She was used to negative reactions to her blackened arm, but she wasn’t used to someone not knowing what it signified.

  “It’s not the source of the pain,” he started. “At least, I don’t think it is.” He paused, frowning. “Regardless, please, give me your hands.”

  Hesitantly, curiously, she placed her hands in his, palms up. The sores from the rope burn had crusted over slightly, hemp fibers visible in pockets of dried pus and blood. They were worse than she thought.

  Math briefly examined her palms before swinging his pack forward and rifling through it. He pulled out a small blue vial, tweezers, and a squat jar.

  “This will clean it,” he held up the vial. “But it might sting. The ointment will heal.”

  She nodded. He gently sprinkle the contents of the bottle over her palms.

  She sucked in air through her teeth, hands clenching. Sting was an understatement. It positively scathed, far worse than the initial injury. It felt like it bore into the bone, the nerves of her hands shrieking. Maybe he was trying to kill her.

  Without a word, he gently peeled her fingers back open. She was in too much pain to resist. His touch was firm but gentle, hands cool against her blazing skin. Swiftly, he began pulling the fibers out of the wounds. The tweezers flew across her palms, nearly a blur. Dyathne wondered if the pain was making her imagine it; no one could move that quickly, that precisely.

  She shook her head slightly, eyes closed to buffer against the pain. When she opened them again, he was gingerly massaging the ointment into the wounds. The pain from the disinfectant abruptly stopped. The change in sensation was startling.

  “Give it a few moments,” he straightened and pushed his supplies back into his pack. “You should be fine.”

  Dyathne watched her palms heal, the wounds sealing, scabbing, and the scabs sloughing off into her cupped palms.

  She turned her hands over, scabs falling to the ground, “What the fuck?”

  Math studied her. “Curastis,” he repeated, placing a palm flat on his chest. “Now, Ashwalker, can you tell me where we are?”

  She bristled. “You can call me Dyathne,” she said quietly.

  She regarded him without words. Curastis? Warlock? Doctor? She didn’t like it. She looked at her hands again, shaking them.

  “We’re about a day’s walk from Lleu’s Bern–where I came into the Sear.”

  “I don’t know it,” he had a way of saying things so plainly, without affect. No tonal changes, no hint of emotion. “Shall we set off? Lead on.” He gestured in the direction she had just come from.

  Her expression contorted into a mix of confusion and disdain. “I can’t go back. Not yet, anyway. And besides, who said I’d take you? I don’t know you.”

  “I’m lost without a working compass,” Math looked around them, as if to get his bearings. “I need to get out. Will you help me?” He drew out the request deliberately to remove any question of intent, desperation playing at the edges of his words.

  “I can’t leave yet,” Dyathne started to explain. “I cannot exit the Sear until I finish my work. You can wait for me, if you want. I’ll be back in four days or so. Or,” she paused, incredulous at what she was about to say. Every nerve in her body was tight, this man could be dangerous. As confident as Dyathne was in her own abilities, to navigate, to survive, nothing about this man seemed right. But being lost in the Sear…

  “You can come with me,” she finished.