The Roaming Sea - 2. A Wary Travel Companion, Pt. 1

A sudden kick to Callum’s outstretched legs caused him to jerk awake. The pactrid stood there, glaring at him in the near dark. Morning had only just broken.

“Wake up, human. We’re leaving.”

The last night had lasted forever. It’d been impossible to get comfortable, and while it felt like he’d been awake all night, exhaustion must’ve finally taken over. To his surprise, Callum found himself untied—the rope now in his captor’s hands. Sitting upright all night had resulted in a numb butt, and yesterday’s fall through the trees had brought aching, tender bruises. His swollen and sore face—the result of the pactrid’s fist for trying to escape—only added to his pain. He felt like an old man trying to rise from bed. Using the tree for stability, he pulled himself up. A minor victory. Without a word, the pactrid wrapped the length of rope around Callum’s waist, then roughly turned him around to tie a knot at his back. Callum would’ve fallen over from the rough treatment had the pactrid not been keeping a tight hold on him.

“I won’t bind your hands since we’ll be travelling on uneven ground, but don’t you dare think of running,” the pactrid said.

Callum eyed his rucksack lying on the ground. “I’m thirsty. There’s a canteen of water in my sack.”

The pactrid retrieved the canteen, then rifled through his belongings, but found nothing that could aid Callum’s escape. He’d already taken Callum’s knife, but that was nowhere to be seen. Stuffing everything in again and strapping it closed—those curiously thick yet dexterous fingers continued to baffle Callum—he handed the sack for him to carry on his back, as well as the canteen.

“No need to ration what you have,” the pactrid said. “We will cross a stream soon.”

Taking his advice, Callum drank greedily, slaking his thirst. All the while, the pactrid watched and waited patiently for him to fasten the empty canteen to his belt. Callum nodded his thanks, to which the pactrid imparted a near imperceptible nod in return.

“Which way are we going?” Callum asked.

“The eastern path,” the pactrid replied, pointing at the forest.

“There’s a path there?”

“No more talk, human.”

Rope in hand, his captor took the lead with wide, heavy steps, forcing Callum to keep a pace slightly faster than a walk. Although the pactrid mentioned a path, Callum couldn’t see anything that resembled one. The brisk walk helped ease the tense ache in his legs, though—a minor triumph, despite the situation.

His captor was true to his word. A few hours into their trek, they came upon a rushing stream. While the pactrid filled his waterskin, Callum fell to his knees, huffing for breath. He’d worked up a sweat, causing the cuts on his face to sting. Dipping his hands into the cool water felt wonderful, and he splashed it onto his face, bringing grateful relief. He lay flat on his belly and submerged his head, welcoming the numbing water as it washed across his bruised face.

The idea of stripping down to bathe in the chilly water crossed his mind, but no doubt his captor wouldn’t approve of the wasted time. As though in response, Callum felt a tug on the rope, and he pulled his head out of the water.

“What are you doing?” the pactrid asked.

Callum ran a hand through his hair to wring the excess water away. “My face hurts. The water makes it feel a little better.”

“You shouldn’t have run from me,” the pactrid said with a frown. “You forced my hand.”

Callum scoffed. “Of course I ran. I thought you were going to kill me.”

“How did you cut your face? I didn’t do that.”

“I, uh—I fell through the trees.”

“You were climbing?”

“Not quite.”

Callum received a narrowed-eye stare. “Fill your canteen. We continue.”

While Callum did so, he glanced back up at the pactrid. “May I ask your name?”

“I see no point in giving it.”

“Well, my name is Callum.”

The pactrid took a moment to process the unfamiliar word before attempting to speak it aloud. “Cal’oom.”

“Close enough,” Callum muttered in his own tongue while capping his canteen.

“I don’t speak your language,” the pactrid said, tugging on the rope again. “Come, now. Let’s go.”

They crossed the stream and continued east toward the rising sun. Callum caught up to walk alongside the pactrid.

“You know my name. Why not tell me yours? What harm could come from it?”

His captor stared down at him. “Why is this important to you?”

“I might be your prisoner, but you have to admit this is a strange situation we’re in, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“If it wasn’t for this rope, we could just be travellers.”

“But we’re not travellers. We’re enemies. You’re my prisoner.”

Callum huffed in frustration. “Yes, we’re enemies. That’s understood. But we’re enemies because of this war. Do you want this war between our kind?”

The pactrid stopped and turned his full attention toward Callum. “No.”

Callum raised his hands in frustration. “I don’t want it, either. I never have.” It’s strangely liberating to say that aloud after all this time.

“You humans chose to invade our lands, take what was ours,” the pactrid said, gesturing to the trees.

“What are you talking about? You’re invading our lands! We’re trying to take back what belongs to us.”

The pactrid shook his head in frustration. “Our lands are separated by the Spine. Humans travelled south across it and began taking from us over one hundred cycles ago.”

“The Spine?”

“Yes, the mountain range that separates our lands,” he said, gesturing toward the north.

Callum frowned in confusion. “What mountains?”

The pactrid let out a contemptible sigh. “You really are an aljaru, aren’t you.”

“Aljaru? What is that?”

“An animal. Small, young, inexperienced.”

“What? Like a young dog? A pup?”

“Pup,” the pactrid said, seeming to derive enjoyment by repeating it a few times. “Yes. A pup.”

“I’m not that young.”

“To me, you are.”

“You can’t be much older than me,” Callum said. “I’m twenty-two.”

This fact caused the pactrid to chuckle—a subdued rumbling deep within his chest. “Come along, pup,” he said, tugging lightly on the rope, but Callum held his ground.

“What’s so funny? How old are you?”

The pactrid turned to give him a smirk. “I have lived one hundred and thirty-four cycles. So yes, you are a pup.”

Callum’s mouth stood agape as he stumbled along in the pactrid’s wake. “Are you saying you were alive before the war started?”

“Yes. Unlike you, I have witnessed how it began. No secondhand accounts. Humans provoked this war when they invaded our land.”

Callum had so many questions, but didn’t know where to start. Was this even true? Was the pactrid trying to deceive him? At least he’d managed to get his captor to speak more than a few sentences. No sense pushing the conversation any further and losing the few crumbs of cordiality he’d garnered, even if they were laced with mocking bitterness.

“My name is Rymolnd,” the pactrid stated after a moment of silence.

Callum repeated it out loud, finding it difficult to pronounce. This brought a grunt of displeasure from his captor, and he stopped to face him again.

“My friends call me Rym.”

“Are we friends?” Callum asked, glowering.

“No, but I’d rather you call me Rym than hear you disrespect my proper name.”

That said, he continued walking with another tug on the rope. Callum was growing weary of being led this way, but what troubled him more thoroughly was not knowing their destination. If he didn’t get answers by nightfall, he’d make his escape while the pactrid slept. Staying with Rym or setting out in unknown lands—both had their risks, but Callum knew he’d have a better chance of survival by fleeing.

Over the course of an hour, the forest changed dramatically. Thick, gnarled roots dug into the ground, holding up the ancient monolithic trees reaching for the sky. He felt incredibly tiny amid these giants. Moss and lichen adorned rough bark. Soft mist hung in the air, catching narrow beams of sunlight. Callum envisioned the awed faces of the woodcutters if they saw this, imagining the amount of wood they could harvest. But the idea of cutting down these trees struck him as profoundly wrong, giving Callum pause to understand why. This place felt sacred somehow.

Rym glanced up at the scenery, appreciating their surroundings as well. Callum’s curiosity almost had him ask about this part of the forest, but he kept his mouth shut. There was nothing to gain. Only Rym’s biting remarks to endure should Callum say the wrong thing. He supposed there was no point in trying to talk reason with his captor. One thing stood out to him, though. Rym didn’t want this war. That was one item of commonality between them. But if what Rym said was true—as hard as it was to believe Anberans were the cause of this century-long war—Callum felt vindicated to not want any part of it, either. Presumably other people like Callum existed—those who had no stomach for the fight—but given the danger of speaking such thoughts, it was impossible to know the truth.

The day wore on, trudging along an invisible trail only Rym could recognise. Callum had surreptitiously pulled out his compass to keep track of their direction, which was generally east. Obstacles would sometimes force them to skirt around in a northern or southern fashion, but they always lined up back east as soon as they were able. Luckily, Rym hadn’t kept the rapid pace established at the start of the day, but now, Callum was feeling faint. His stomach growled, seemingly loud enough for Rym to notice.

“We stop for a rest?” the pactrid asked.

Callum nodded. “Please?”

Rym grunted in agreement and sat on the ground against a tree. They both drank their water and sat in silence to catch their breath.

“Do you have anything to eat?” Callum asked.

This earned him a stare of condescension. “What kind of scout carries such a large bag and doesn’t have food? A terrible one.”

“Who said I was a scout?”

Rym gestured at their surroundings. “A human this deep in our lands could only be a scout. It’s plenty obvious you’re no soldier.”

“I’m a field medic.”

“You . . . heal fields?” Rym asked, giving him a comical stare of confusion.

Callum realised the direct translation of those two words made little sense, and he couldn’t help cracking a smile. “I’m a medic who works on the battlefield.”

Rym stood unconvinced. “You’re remarkably far from any battlefield, medic Cal’oom. Tell me, what are you doing here?”

Maybe I can finally get some answers. “If you share with me where we’re headed, I’ll tell you how I got here.”

The pactrid stared at him. There was no malice or scorn, only assessment. Callum held his gaze. Not as an act of hostility, just to observe how he would react. A silver sheen in Rym’s eyes, sparkling in the dappled sunlight, held his attention.

“You’re a curious human,” Rym said. “I will admit, you are not what I expected.” He dug a hand into his satchel, pulled out something wrapped in cloth, broke off a piece, and handed it to Callum. It looked like hardtack. “Use water to soften it, unless you enjoy excessively crunchy food.”

What resembled a small portion held in Rym’s fingers was a sizeable, weighty mass in Callum’s hand. Callum gave it a cursory sniff, but it had no odour. Given its size, trying to take a bite out of it seemed unlikely, so he took Rym’s advice and poured a bit of water into the broken side. He waited a moment, allowing it to soften, and then took a bite. In any other situation, he would’ve spit it out—not because of the taste, but the mushy, slightly slimy texture. But he was too hungry to complain, and given his bruised jaw, the softness was appreciated. He swallowed and took another bite. It didn’t seem as bad this time.

“Thank you,” he said.

Rym, eating his own ration dry, followed by a slug of water, offered a nod in reply. While they continued to eat in silence, Callum was disappointed his ruse to extract information from Rym had failed. It doesn’t matter. I’ll escape tonight. Except how am I going to cut these ropes? He had no idea where his utility knife went. Rym had taken it, but was he carrying it in his satchel, or did he toss it? Strapped to Rym’s leg was his own knife, although the size was akin to a shortsword. That wasn’t an option, though. There was no chance Callum could slip it from its sheath and cut his bonds without Rym noticing.

Breaking his thoughts, Rym stood up and motioned for Callum to do the same. Their break was over, but that was fine. The chunk of hardtack had sated his hunger, hopefully enough to keep him going until nightfall. They continued east through the ancient, sacred forest for another few hours—Rym leading, with Callum in tow.

The biome changed gradually—rocky outcroppings replacing soft, mossy ground. The towering trees couldn’t grow in this region, allowing for smaller, more delicate flora to take root. And for the first time since his arrival, large patches of sunshine managed to reach the ground and touch his face. It was then he realised the forest had kept the temperature cool and comfortable. Out in the open air, the weather was warmer than expected. A few light clouds lingered, but the sky was otherwise clear.

The path Rym followed was more obvious to Callum now. It comprised of crushed rock and compressed dirt. He supposed the loam of the forest was spongy in comparison, masking the trail from his inexperienced eyes. A stone underfoot caught his attention—sharp-edged and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. But before he could consider making a move to grab it, he’d lost his chance, having already walked past it. Focusing beyond Rym, he spied another stone in the distance. He closed the space between them furtively, taking up the slack on the rope leash to give himself a few extra steps. But as he reached the stone, it was too rounded and didn’t have a cutting edge. He swore under his breath while searching for another potential candidate.

To his dismay, the rocky path gave way to pure dirt. His eyes darted about at the scant remaining rocks in hopes of finding something—anything—that could cut. To the right, he caught sight of something. It was small, but if it had a cutting edge, it’d be good enough. Deftly swapping the rope to his left hand, he leaned down, scooped up the stone, and slipped it into his right pocket.

As silent and perfect the manoeuvre had been, something had tipped Rym off. He stopped and turned suddenly to find Callum holding the rope, and his other hand still in his pocket.

“What are you doing, pup?”

Callum dropped the rope and the extra slack hit the ground. “What? Nothing,” he blurted out, feeling his face redden.

Rym stared at him—a look that bore right through him. Callum tried to return the intense stare, but found the silver, penetrating eyes too much to withstand and he lowered his gaze.

“Don’t touch the rope,” Rym said, his voice rumbling in warning.

“It was, um . . . dragging,” Callum replied lamely.

“Touch it again, and I’ll have it leashed around your neck like an actual aljaru.”

This was the first time Rym’s voice had risen in anger. Callum flinched, then lifted his hands to show he understood the consequences. Night can’t come soon enough. I gotta get away from him. The pactrid exhaled a huff from his trunk, then gave the rope a harsh yank, causing Callum to nearly fall over.

Rym hastened the pace, forcing Callum to a plodding jog in order to keep up. After a few minutes, Callum risked pulling the stone free from his pocket to give it a closer inspection. While it wasn’t like the slim, sharp rock he’d seen before, this one still had an edge. It’d take longer to cut, but he felt confident it’d do the job.

The pactrid’s angry gait eased off after half an hour. No doubt he heard Callum being short of breath. Despite Rym’s warning that morning, it was unlikely he wanted to waste his energy by literally dragging him. Regardless of the reason, Callum was thankful, but didn’t hazard saying a word. There was no point in strengthening his captor’s ire any further.

With the setting sun at their back, Rym’s momentum eased while he scouted left and right. He continued on the path a few minutes longer, then led Callum through a gap in the thicket.

“We’ll make camp here,” Rym announced as they came upon a negligible clearing amid the trees. He knelt down and gestured for Callum to approach, but as soon as he was within reach, Rym turned him around and pulled his rucksack off. “Give me your hands.”

Callum turned his head in confusion. “What? Why?”

That earned him a tug on his arm. “You ask too many questions, pup.” Rym grabbed Callum’s other arm and roughly lashed them together behind his back.

“Please,” Callum pleaded, “you don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I’m going to hunt for our supper, but I can’t do that and watch you at the same time.” He pulled him backward toward the nearest tree. “Sit!”

Callum obeyed, and Rym tied the remaining length of rope to the tree, making sure to keep the knot out of reach on the far side.

“But I’m defenceless,” Callum said. “Are their preying animals here?”

Rym inspected the knots again before replying. “Yes, but—”

“You can’t leave me here,” Callum cried.

“The wolves won’t be out yet. It’s too early still.”

“Rym . . . please.”

His captor stood and scanned the area before turning his attention back to Callum. “I won’t be long, pup—”

“Don’t call me that!” Callum said through bared teeth.

Rym ignored the outburst and headed into the brush, beyond Callum’s vision. Once the heavy footfalls were no longer audible, Callum tugged and twisted at the bonds around his wrists. The rope burnt against his skin, but he didn’t care. Profanities tumbled from his lips as he continued to push and pull, trying to create a modicum of slack or to loosen his bindings, but it made no difference.

He was undoubtedly trapped here, and despite everything he’d gone through before—forced into the academy, forced to take part in this damned war—never had he felt so powerless. His throat tightened, as though the rope was around his neck. He found it difficult to catch his breath. What if Rym loses track of where I am? I’ll die like this. Callum screamed out his captor’s name, but there was no reply, nor any sign of the pactrid. Prickling sweat beaded on his face as he screamed again, making himself hoarse. Still no response. He gasped, but no amount of air pulled into his lungs helped. White spots flashed before his eyes. Blinking did nothing. His hands turned numb, tingling. Lightheaded and confused, he felt he might faint.

Something thrashed from the bushes toward him. He shut his eyes, flinching away as best he could, still fighting against the bonds.

“What’s wrong, Cal’oom?” Rym’s voice carried a legitimate air of concern, but Callum could only barely register that. “You’re pale,” Rym continued. “What happened?”

Callum refused to open his eyes. The heavy pulse throbbing in his ears abated, and he managed to control his breathing. Having not received a response, Rym crouched before him. Using a thumb, he nudged the sweat-soaked hair from Callum’s eyes.

“Don’t touch me!” Callum cried, turning his head away from Rym’s touch. “Please. Untie me.”

Without a word, Rym set himself to action, untying the knot from the tree and then freeing Callum’s hands. The rope around his waist remained, but Callum wasn’t about to complain about that. He tried to stand, but found his legs unable to support his weight and crumpled to the ground.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rym asked.

“I don’t know . . .” Callum wiped the sweat from his face. “I was worried you’d forget where I was. You left me defenceless against the wolves.”

Rym let out a long sigh and shook his head with a smirk. “I’m a scout and tracker. I would have never lost your location. And I told you, they come out later to hunt. At dusk.”

“It’s pretty damn close to dusk,” Callum said, gesturing at the golden light through the canopy.

Rym glanced at the sunlight for a moment, then dismissed his concern with a wave of the hand. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Just let me go,” Callum replied scant above a whisper. “I’m no threat to you, or any pactrid.”

“No, you’re not, but that’s no reason to free you.”

Callum shot Rym an angry glare. “Why?”

“You are my enemy, thus my prisoner.”

“So, where are you taking me?”

Rym considered the question—those scrutinising eyes digging deep into Callum’s being. “I’m taking you to a gotachi.”

Yet another word Callum had never heard, let alone understood. “What is that?”

“Not what. Who. A gotachi asks questions and can read one’s intent.”

“Like an inquisitor?” Callum’s stomach turned speaking that word aloud, even in the pactrid’s language.

“They sense a person’s true motives.”

Callum held out his hands in pleading. “My motives? I’ve already told you I want nothing to do with his war.”

“That may be true. It may not. Words can be deceitful.” Rym gently poked Callum’s chest. “The truth comes from here.”

Callum couldn’t fault him on that, but the prospect of being on the receiving side of an interrogator left him anxious. “Then what happens?”

Rym shrugged. “That all depends on you, I suppose.” The tone of his voice, as well as the vagueness of his words, brought an icy shiver up Callum’s spine. “Now, will you allow me to finish what I started without you alerting all the animals?”

The idea of being tied to the tree again had Callum sink his head pitifully. “Let me come with you. I’ll be quiet.”

“You mistook my meaning. I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

“Fine, but just . . . don’t tie my hands?”

Rym gave him a dark stare. “Do you think me a fool?”

“No, I only—”

With a tug on the rope, Rym pulled him close and bound his hands again. As soon as Callum voiced his discontent, Rym asked, “Do I need to gag you as well?”

Callum shook his head apprehensively, allowing Rym to tie him back to the tree. Once finished, Rym crouched before him again.

“Don’t panic, Cal’oom. I will not leave you here forgotten, nor will I lose your position.”

Callum cast his eyes down. A wave of exhaustion suddenly took over. Perhaps it was a culmination of poor sleep, walking all day, and now this sudden anxiety. Rym held there a moment, waiting for some kind of reply, but after realising he wouldn’t get one, uttered a grunt and left the campsite.

Just a few hours. Once he’s asleep, I’ll cut the rope and get out of here. These were the only thoughts granting Callum any hope. Escape felt doubly important now. Knowledge that Rym was taking him to some kind of inquisitor brought on a wave of nausea. Who knew what terrible methods of torture they used to get answers. What was worse, Callum had nothing useful to tell. Would they believe him? And if not, would they keep hurting him until he succumbed to his wounds?

He hoped Rym would leave his hands free like the night before. Everything hinged on that tiny concession. But after witnessing Rym’s anger from asking that request—do you think me a fool?—Callum was deeply concerned his chance at escape would be impossible. To dissuade Rym’s lack of trust, Callum had to be as agreeable as possible. That was a fine thread to weave, though. It would be easy to push too far, causing the pactrid to grow suspicious.

Rym’s responses left Callum perplexed. One minute, disdain and irritability. The next, fragments of empathy. Both felt genuine. As much as he hated to admit it, Rym’s instances of kindness felt good. Was he so starved for an emotional connection that he’d accept it from an abusive pactrid?

The sun had fallen too low beyond the trees to know its true location, but night would be upon him soon. Callum could only trust Rym would find the camp. The panic from before felt like a distant memory, though. Now, acceptance washed over him. He had no control over his situation, and curiously, that truth acted as a balm for his nerves.

Muted footfalls—a ponderous rhythm Callum was growing accustomed to—announced Rym’s arrival. The pactrid held four fish skewered on a roughly made spear. Callum’s hunger suddenly came to the forefront. It’s time to put on a show.

“I’m sorry about before,” Callum said.

Rym rested the spear against a tree trunk, then moved to untie Callum’s hands from his back. “I apologise as well, Cal’oom. This situation we find ourselves in is not ideal for either of us.”

Callum was taken aback by the apology, but did his best to hide it. He didn’t want to push his luck, so he silently watched Rym scour the immediate area for wood and kindling. The pactrid retrieved a flint and steel set from his satchel and soon had the beginnings of a fire started. He continued to gather more sticks and small fallen branches, adding them leisurely until the fire grew hot enough to cook.

“Earlier, you asked how I got here,” Callum said while Rym fetched the fish-laden spear and held it over the flames. “I offered to share that in exchange for information: where you’re taking me. You’ve told me we’re going to see a gotachi, so I’ll tell my story.”

Rym’s focus shifted between the fish and Callum, but judging by his inquisitive eyes, his curiosity was piqued. He nodded for Callum to begin.

“As I said before, I’m a medic. I’d just finished my shift and . . .” He realised pactrids might not have any knowledge of transporters. Was he about to share military secrets with the enemy? Do I even care if they know?

“And?” Rym prompted.

Callum sighed—he was in too deep to back away now. “Do you know how humans travel long distances?”

The pactrid gave him a peculiar look. “You walk?”

“No. We rely on people who have a special, innate talent. We call them transporters. I don’t know if you have this word in your language.”

Rym shrugged. “What do they do?”

“They move people great distances”—Callum snapped his fingers—“that quickly.”

It took a moment for the idea to sink in, but even then, Rym appeared confused. “How?”

“I’ll be honest. I have no idea.”

“And you can do this?”

A laugh escaped Callum’s lips. “No, they’re exceedingly rare. For every ten thousand humans, only one has the ability. I told you, I’m just a medic.”

There was another moment of contemplation before Rym asked, “They can move humans anywhere?” The concept concerned him.

“No. They need to have been there physically first. I think they thoroughly study the location and then recall it in their mind.”

“You were moved by a . . . tramspurter?”

Callum hid a smile at his attempt to say the word, but wasn’t about to try correcting his pronunciation. “Yes, but it failed. He was interrupted. When that happens, those who are moved get sent to random locations. I was delivered to the sky above this forest. I fell, but the trees stopped my fall enough that it didn’t kill me.”

Rym’s silver eyes glittered in the firelight, staring into space as he imagined it.

“I was never supposed to be here,” Callum continued. “It was an accident. I knew home was north, so I headed that way until I found your camp. You know the rest of the story.”

“The scratches on your face,” Rym said as he turned his attention back to the fish. “You got those from the fall through the trees.”

“Yes, but those pale in comparison to the punch you gave me.”

This time, instead of a frown, Rym gave him a remorseful look. “I’m sorry, Cal’oom.”

Another apology. “Let’s call it a misunderstanding?”

A hint of a smile crossed Rym’s lips, and he nodded. Callum found it curious how easy it was to get the pactrid into an agreeable mood. He needed to be careful, though. One wrong word could set the pactrid off and destroy the advancement he’d made so far. He decided to remain silent and let Rym take control of the conversation, but Rym seemed content in the silence, turning the fish over the fire to cook them evenly.

By the time their supper was ready, the sun was well below the horizon—the patches of sky visible through the trees were a deep blue. The rope around Callum’s chest was much less aggressively wrapped compared to the night before, and with his arms and hands free, eating the hot fish was a simple task. Rym ate the other three, which, given his size, was appropriate.

After he’d finished eating, Callum watched Rym from the corner of his eye, trying to decide the best time to ask for leniency about the rope. Perhaps he could take a different tack instead of asking outright.

“Rym, I slept really poorly last night. I understand you need to keep me tied up, but if you could keep my arms and hands free, and only have the rope across my chest—”

“No. I cannot risk you escaping.”

Callum could feel his ploy unravelling with each passing second. “I’ll admit when you first captured me, the thought of escape was on my mind. But now, I realise if I tried, I’d end up getting lost in this forest and probably die trying.”

The pactrid rose from his spot by the fire and approached him. “I have another idea.” He knelt before him and carefully laid his massive palm on Callum’s head. His warmth seeped into his skin, and Callum couldn’t deny the pleasure it brought.

“What are you doing?” Callum asked.

“I cannot leave your hands untied, but I can help you be more comfortable.”

Callum’s vision blurred a moment, and he blinked it clear again. “How?”

“Shh. Close your eyes. Don’t fight it,” Rym said as he stroked his head.

Callum ignored his words, mentally struggling against whatever was happening. His vision blurred again—eyelids fluttering in an attempt to remain alert, but whatever the pactrid was doing overpowered his ability to keep his eyes open. Breathing slowed, deepened. Rym’s warm hand stilled but remained resting on his head. The air changed—cooler, moist, earthy. Where Rym’s hand had been resting felt cold now. The weight of it, gone.

Callum opened his eyes. Rym sat cross-legged a few metres away, whittling a stick with his knife. Hints of sunlight weaved through the trees, but now coming from the east.

“What happened?” Callum’s voice cracked, as though he hadn’t spoken for days.

Rym glanced up and gave him a faint smile. “You’re awake. Good.” After tossing aside the stick and sheathing his knife, he untied Callum from the tree.

With every passing moment, Callum’s mind became more alert. Never had he felt this way before, like he could take on the world. “I don’t understand. What did you do to me?”

Rym helped him stand and then freed his hands from behind his back. “I helped you to sleep.”

“But it’s only been a few minutes.”

Rym scoffed. “For you, perhaps.”

“It’s morning.” He felt silly stating the obvious, but the loss of time was disorienting.

“Yes.” Rym tossed Callum’s rucksack at his feet. “Drink some water, then we go.”

It was at that moment Callum realised he’d lost his chance to escape. Damn it! Another day stuck on a leash. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Rym’s eyes lit up in surprise, seemingly injured by Callum’s curt words, but it lasted only a moment before his features hardened to stare him down. “I was trying to help you. I’ll make sure to not repeat that mistake.”

Callum silently swore between his teeth. He needed Rym on his side if he was ever going to get a chance to sneak away. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I just—”

Rym pulled on the rope. “Let’s go, pup.”