The fire had burned lower than it should have.
I noticed it only because no one mentioned it.
Montaron sat with his back to a tree, methodically drawing a whetstone along his blade. The sound was steady, deliberate. His eyes kept drifting beyond the fire's reach, into the darkness where the trees swallowed what little light remained.
Imoen slept. Or pretended to.
Xzar hummed softly to himself, off-key, tracing idle shapes in the dirt with one finger. He paused once, flexed his hand, then resumed, apparently satisfied.
I was staring into the embers when I realized we weren't alone.
The man sat opposite us, just beyond the firelight, as though he had always occupied that space.
Not arriving.
Not emerging.
Simply… present.
His robes were red—once vivid, now dulled by road dust and age, the color broken by careful repairs and faded embroidery. They looked worn for travel rather than ceremony. A staff rested against his knee, untouched, like a walking stick someone had forgotten they were leaning on.
He watched the fire with mild curiosity, as if waiting to see whether it would do something interesting.
Montaron looked up.
The whetstone stopped.
Not abruptly—just enough to notice. His posture shifted by degrees, weight settling in a way that suggested readiness without urgency. It was the sort of movement you only noticed because nothing else moved with it.
"You've poor habits," Montaron said. "Sittin' down unannounced near armed folk."
The man smiled faintly, beard stirring with the motion.
"I wasn't sneaking," he said. "You simply weren't looking."
Imoen's eyes opened at once. No gasp. No startle. Just awareness.
Xzar inhaled sharply, delight spreading across his face. "Oh. Oh my."
The man's gaze lifted from the fire.
And fixed on me.
Not on my weapon.
Not on my face.
On the space around me.
I felt it immediately—that same subtle pressure, the tightening that had nothing to do with fear. Like standing too close to something vast and patient.
"Hm," the man murmured. "That expression again."
"I don't know what you mean," I said.
"I expect not," he replied pleasantly. "Most don't."
As his attention drifted back toward the flames, I caught Montaron's eyes flick—briefly, deliberately—to my belt.
To the pouch nestled there.
The glance was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but I couldn't unsee it. I became suddenly aware of the weight at my side, of how instinctively I kept it close.
"Well," the man said, as though resuming a conversation we'd merely paused, "that was an interesting afternoon."
I didn't know how he knew that.
But I knew—with a certainty that settled uncomfortably deep—that he wasn't guessing.
No one spoke for a moment.
The fire popped softly, sending a brief scatter of sparks upward before settling again. The man watched them rise and vanish, expression unreadable.
Montaron broke the silence first.
"You saw somethin'," he said. Not a question.
The man tilted his head, considering. "I noticed something," he replied. "Seeing implies intent."
"And what did ye notice?" Montaron asked.
"That you survived," the man said mildly.
Imoen frowned. "People survive fights all the time."
"Mm," he agreed. "They do." His eyes flicked toward her, warm but distant. "But not always in the same way."
I felt that tightening again, faint but insistent.
Xzar leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, do tell. I love unusual survivals."
The man smiled at him, genuinely amused. "I imagine you do."
His gaze drifted back to me—not fixed this time, not heavy. Curious.
"You hesitated," he said.
The word landed harder than I expected.
"You hesitate like someone waiting for the world to behave differently," he said. "Most people here don't do that."
"I—" I stopped, unsure how to finish. "There wasn't time."
"There rarely is," he said easily. "Yet you found some."
Montaron's eyes narrowed. "That a problem?"
"Not inherently." The man reached out and nudged a stick into the fire, shifting a coal with casual precision. "Hesitation is only dangerous when it's misunderstood."
"By who?" Imoen asked.
"By the one experiencing it," he replied.
I swallowed. "I didn't feel brave," I said. "If that's what you mean."
The man chuckled softly. "No. I wouldn't accuse you of that."
Xzar laughed. "Oh, I like him."
The man inclined his head. "As you should. Courage is loud. What you experienced was quieter."
My pulse thudded in my ears. "You make it sound deliberate."
"I make it sound familiar," he corrected gently.
Montaron shifted, boots scraping softly against the ground. "Ye speak like ye've seen it before."
The man met his gaze evenly. "I have."
That was it. No elaboration. No story.
The fire cracked again.
"And does it end badly?" I asked.
The man's eyes softened—not with pity, but with something older.
"Sometimes," he said. "When people rush to name it."
He didn't wait for a response.
That was the strangest part.
After saying it—after leaving the words hanging where they could do the most damage—he simply let the silence reclaim the space between us. The fire crackled softly, a coal collapsing in on itself. Somewhere beyond the trees, something moved and then thought better of it.
The man watched the flames for a moment longer, as if listening to a thought only he could hear.
"Well," he said at last, rising to his feet, "I've taken up enough of your evening."
Montaron didn't relax. Not fully. His eyes tracked the man's movements with the same care he'd give a blade being drawn.
"Ye tend to say a lot for someone leavin'," he said.
The man smiled, unfazed. "That's because I prefer to leave people with questions. Answers have a way of sticking."
Imoen folded her arms. "You could at least tell us who you are."
"I could," he agreed pleasantly. "But then you'd start asking the wrong things."
Xzar sighed, genuinely disappointed. "And here I thought we were becoming friends."
The man chuckled. "Oh, you'll survive the disappointment."
His gaze found me again—not searching this time, not pressing. Just… noting. As if confirming that whatever he'd sensed earlier hadn't resolved itself.
"Take care," he said softly. "Try not to rush the world. It resents that."
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
When I looked again, he was already stepping back, the firelight failing to cling to him the way it should have. One step became two. The red of his robes dulled, then broke apart into shadow.
He didn't vanish.
He simply stopped being where he had been.
The space across the fire was empty.
Xzar leaned forward, peering into the darkness. "Well," he said, after a moment, "that was rude."
Imoen exhaled slowly. "I don't like him."
Montaron grunted. He didn't look at where the man had been sitting. His attention had shifted elsewhere.
To me.
Then, without comment, he turned back to the trees.
The fire burned lower.
And no one suggested feeding it.