“I had the situation under control,” I tell him.

He smiles. With a flick of his free hand, he brushes back his hood, revealing white-blond hair cropped short. He’s younger than I thought, pale-skinned and good-looking. His eyes travel over the sword and there is something brightly eager in his look, almost ravenous. I see him push this hunger forcibly away and the moment is gone.

“That is a handsome weapon,” he says. “Meteoric iron, I suspect. Forged in Giza. It will slice through metal like butter. Perhaps they were the fortunate ones.”

I shiver and say nothing.

“You are cold,” he says. He leans his staff against the brick wall and brings his pale, slim hands together. He cups them one over the other and moves them furtively. A light appears, as if a burning coal is enclosed in his hands. With a quick movement, he releases his fingers outward and the light leaps from his hands. A bright flame arcs to the ground. Now a fire without wood burns between us, emanating an immediate heat. Despite myself, I let go a breath in relief and shuffle in closer. He watches me without speaking and I wonder if his silence means he’s less, or more likely to try to kill me.

“So, you’re a magician,” I tell him, trying to sound unimpressed but feeling a shock of warmth flood my body.

“Si. Something like this.”

I edge closer to the heat, feeling my body unclamp.

“With whom do you fight?” he asks now.

“Fight?”

“You are a Pathfinder,” he says, raising his white eyebrows. Then he nods. “Si. It is certain. But on what side, is the question. The Collective, or the Order?”

A loaded question. I get a sense my life hinges on the answer.

“I’m not from here,” I deflect, thinking fast, pretending not to be scared. But my voice betrays me.

“I can see,” he says. “You are new to this.”

“New. But not born yesterday.”

A flicker of a smile. He too now moves to the fire. I squint at him through the smoke. Entitlement pours off him, thick as treacle. It takes an effort of will not to move away. But I stay where I am.

“Tell me,” he says. “What are you doing here, on the front line…alone?”

The front line?

“I’m not alone,” I tell him, glancing beyond the fire. “There are others.”

We’ll be here. Waiting.

Silence. The flames gutter and twist.

“They’ll be back,” I insist. “Any second now.”

“Of course,” he says. “But perhaps, if it does not trouble you, I will wait here with you, in case they are…held up.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“No, no.” He glances at the sword again. “I cannot leave you at the mercy of whatever foes emerge from the cold. It is not safe here.”

I say nothing.

He smiles. “Might I have the pleasure of a name?”