"Wet. Frozen. They would have killed you." His speech is oddly formal, economical. "Drying by the fire."
I glance over and see my thermal layers spread on a chair near the hearth. This should reassure me, but instead, I find myself calculating escape routes. The door isn't far. If I wrapped myself in a fur and ran—
"The storm continues," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "Three days, at least, before it passes. You would freeze again in minutes."
Three days. I swallow hard, fighting rising panic. Árni will have reported me missing by now. Search parties will be looking. But if this storm is as bad as the one that nearly killed me...
I need to stay calm. Assess. Survive.
"You saved me," I say, making it half statement, half question.
Something flickers across his face—a complex emotion I can't read.
"Yes."
"Thank you." It seems inadequate, but necessary. "I would have died out there."
"Yes," he says again. Then after a pause: "You're welcome."
The exchange feels stilted, as though he's unaccustomed to conversation. Or gratitude.
I take the opportunity to scan the cabin more thoroughly. One room, sparse but not primitive. A fireplace, a table with two chairs, a small kitchenette with a propane stove, some shelves with books and supplies. No electricity that I can see—oil lamps provide the light. No phone, no radio. Nothing that would summon help.
"Are you..." I hesitate, not sure how to ask what I really want to know.Are you human? What were you doing in that storm?Why do you have antlers?Instead, I settle for: "Do you live here alone?"
"Yes." He moves to the kitchenette and pours water from a kettle into a mug. "Drink. You need hydration."
He offers the mug, and I notice he's careful not to let our fingers touch during the exchange. The water is cold despite coming from what looks like a hot kettle, but it soothes my parched throat.
"Thank you," I say again.
As I drink, I study him over the rim of the mug. He's wearing dark, fitted clothes that look both modern and somehow timeless. Simple design, quality material. His movements are graceful but occasionally strange—a fluidity that seems just slightly wrong for a human frame, like watching a dancer who knows steps from another century.
And those antlers. In the cabin's soft light, they look more like a silver-white crown than true deer antlers, rising perhaps four or five inches from his head in an elegant curve. If they're fake, they're the most convincing prosthetics I've ever seen.
"Did you undress me?" I ask, the question escaping before I can consider its wisdom.
His eyes meet mine directly, unflinching. "Yes. Your body temperature was dangerously low. Wet clothing accelerates heat loss."
No apology, no embarrassment. Just matter-of-fact survival logic. I should be outraged, but it's hard to work up proper indignation toward someone who saved your life. Besides, his clinical tone makes it clear it wasn't a sexual act.
Even if my current physical response to him is anything but clinical.
"How did you find me?" I ask, changing the subject before my thoughts wander into inappropriate territory.
"I didn't. You found me." Something in his tone suggests this isn't a good thing. "My storm. My territory."
My storm?What an odd way to phrase it.
"Lucky for me," I say, trying for a light tone.
His expression remains impassive. "Perhaps."
The single word holds an unmistakable warning. This man—Vidar—might have saved me, but he's not necessarily friendly. I need to tread carefully.
"Are there others nearby?" I ask. "Other cabins? A village?"
"No." He turns back toward the window. "Only wilderness for many miles."
