When I emerge, he's stoked the fire higher than it was yesterday. The gesture isn't lost on me—he's making the cabin warmer for my comfort, despite his obvious discomfort with heat.
"Thank you," I say, gesturing toward the fire.
He inclines his head slightly, a formal acknowledgment. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving, actually."
He moves to the kitchen area, retrieving more of the dried meat and root vegetables. I notice he keeps his distance from me, careful not to come too close after the intimacy of our waking position.
"I can help," I offer, approaching the small counter where he works.
"If you wish."
We prepare breakfast together in silence. I'm hyperaware of every movement, every near-touch as we navigate the small space. The tension between us has shifted from fear to something equally dangerous but far more enticing.
"The radio," I say suddenly, remembering. "Can we try it again? See if there's news?"
He nods toward where my emergency radio sits on the shelf. "You may try."
I cross to it, turning dials with hope I don't entirely feel. Static hisses, then a voice breaks through—the same weather report, the same mention of search parties unable to operate in severe conditions.
"They won't be able to look until the storm breaks," I say, disappointment settling in my stomach.
"No."
"And you control the storm."
"Yes."
I look up at him, a new understanding forming. "You're keeping them away."
He doesn't deny it. "Yes."
"Why?"
He places a bowl of food on the table, his movements precise, controlled. "I value my solitude."
"You could have left me to die if you wanted to be alone."
"As I said before—I don't know why I saved you." His eyes meet mine, that unnatural blue momentarily brightening. "I'm... still trying to understand that myself."
The honesty disarms me again. There's no threat in his words, only genuine confusion. Whatever is happening between us, it's as unexpected for him as it is for me.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the howling wind outside and the occasional crackle from the fire. I watch him over my bowl—the careful way he holds his spoon, the way his eyes occasionally drift to the windows and the storm beyond, as if checking on it like a pet.
"What is it like?" I ask suddenly. "Controlling the weather?"
He considers the question longer than I expect. "It's... like breathing. Natural. The storm is an extension of myself."
"Can you control other things? Besides storms?"
"Cold. Ice. Winter itself, to some extent."
I should be skeptical, demanding proof. But after what I've seen, his words simply fill in pieces of a puzzle I'm still assembling.
"And the antlers? The..." I gesture vaguely at my own face, unable to find the right word for the skull-like mask I'd seen.
"My true form," he says quietly. "What you saw this morning was... partial. Uncontrolled."
