The first time Miala encountered Iychronil - the ice-blood phoenix, eternally-reborn savior of all realms and dominions - he lay huddled beneath an overhang on the verge of death, frantically channeling his magic into intermittent bursts of frost-white healing light while from above a madly-cackling cultist fired bolts of rust-hued fire down upon the blood-soaked man. It was obvious he wouldn’t last much longer. His blood drenched the ground around him and his clothes had been torn to shreds. He must have been holding on for long minutes, his power just enough to stave off death a little longer.

Miala crouched lower into the shadows, smoothly drawing her bow and sighting at the mad cultist. He wore the mottled brown robes of Vethys, the many-faced god of decay and destruction, wielding his unholy flames to burn any who crossed his path. Vethys did nothing to rein in his followers, leaving them to rampage across the world as they saw fit, bringing death wantonly and without reason.

Miala hated them. But she also feared them. While the blood-soaked stranger had magic to heal himself, she had no such ability. Once she attracted the cultist’s attention she’d become a target.

She moved as quickly as she dared, wanting to save the poor victim, but unwilling to risk her own life. After all, it wouldn’t help anyone if they were both dead.

The cultist paused after every fifth bolt, taking three breaths to replenish his own power before launching a new barrage. These pauses also gave the dying man a chance to recover his own energy, probably the only reason he hadn’t already succumbed.

But more importantly, it was predictable. The cultist would straighten slightly as he readied himself to attack, then lean forward to target his cowering victim.

She lined up her shot, waited for just the right moment, then released. The arrow flew true, skewering the cultist through the eye. As he screamed and flailed back, Miala fired again. This time, the arrow bit deep into the cultist’s chest, and he dropped to the ground, convulsing as he tried in vain to call on his destructive god for healing. He hadn’t sufficient strength to draw on a power so opposite his own alignment, and soon expired.

Grinning with relief, Miala jumped down and ran to the injured man.

“Are you alright?” she asked, though she could see he was. His frost-white healing power covered him entirely, renewing his body until it was a picture of health.

She held out a hand to help him up, but he glared at her and leapt to his feet, then punched her in the face.

Miala reeled back, shocked.

“What did you do that for?” the stranger demanded.

“That’s what I should say! I just saved your life!” She held a hand to her smarting face. He was strong. She was lucky he hadn’t broken her nose or cheekbone with that hit.

“You ruined everything! Do you know how hard it is to find someone just the right strength, who’s crazy enough to stand shooting senseless attacks for days on end?”

Miala gaped at him in disbelief. “What.”

He threw his hands in the air, then spun away without answering.

“Wait, what?” Miala only stood shocked for a moment, then ran after him. “Wait, you should come back to the village. Even if you’re healed, you need clothing. Food.”

“No, I’m fine. At least as fine as I can be after you just ruined half a day’s work and weeks of preparation.”

“It almost sounds like you wanted that cultist to murder you,” Miala snapped, her temper finally overriding her confusion.

The stranger scoffed dismissively. “Please. I was doing just fine. He couldn’t have hurt me unless I let him.”

“You… you let him keep burning you? On purpose?”

“Well, how else am I going to train Healing Frost?”

Miala stopped walking and stared after the strange man, as he strode firmly away from her. She’d entirely forgotten to ask his name, but decided she didn’t need to bother. Clearly he was completely insane, and would get himself killed sooner or later no matter how she tried to help him. Her thoughts lingered on him for a long minute, torn between trying to force him to come back to the village with her, or just walk away and leave the idiot to his idiocy.

In the end, she realized that she probably couldn’t force him to do anything if she tried. He was larger than her, stronger than her, and had magic powerful enough to heal himself fully within a minute after being on the brink of death. So, reluctantly, she turned away and returned to her hunt.

The second time Miala met Iychronil, she didn’t recognize him as the same strange madman. This time he wore frost-white plate armor, alight with green and gold symbols of power, and strode into their village leading a horse burdened with more bulging sacks, armor sets, and sundry other goods strapped to its sides than Miala had ever seen in one place. He stopped briefly to speak with each citizen, asking if they were interested in purchasing any goods, leading Miala to believe he was some traveling merchant.

“And you, young woman, would you care to—“ the merchant broke off, tilting his head. “Wait. You’re that stupid hunter girl!”

Miala recoiled. “Excuse me? I am not stupid.”

“No, you’re definitely the one who mucked up my healing training.” He shook his head. “But, whatever. I better get a discount for it. Want to buy anything?”

“No, thank you,” Miala said stiffly, still offended.

“Oh, come on. You owe me.” He leaned forward, amethyst necklace glinting. “Just buy one thing. Anything you want.”

Miala couldn’t shake the sudden deep certainty that he was right. Even if her interpretation of events didn't match up with his, she had interfered with his life. “I think I have a few gold saved up,” she said, eying his collection of goods. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

And suddenly, he was taking off his helmet and smiling at her like they were old friends, and she knew everything was forgiven. She led the way to her house, where she collected her savings and then they spent hours going over everything in his inventory, haggling over costs. She had some possessions he was interested in, it turned out, so they bartered back and forth a while over a few of her trophies and other miscellaneous goods she had around the place.

When he finally left, she blinked at the collection of pots and baskets she’d somehow traded everything she owned for with the uncertainty of one shocked to sobriety after a hazy night of drinking.

She still didn’t even know whose name she should be cursing for all eternity by gods above and below.

Nor would she learn it until their third encounter; the encounter when it was his turn to save her life, where everything truly began.