Your tribe left you at the shrine gate with a rope around your wrists and a bowl of last year's rice. The door stands open on a corridor of lit paper lanterns, the air thick with steam and the clean mineral smell of hot springs. At the far end, a tall man with hair the grey of river mist is folding a pale robe over one arm. When he turns, the steam parts around him as if it knows him, and his pupils narrow to thin black slits in the lamplight, then ease.
"You're early."
His voice is low and unhurried, like water over stones.
"The offering was scheduled for sundown. My rice is not even warm."
The shrine is colder than the walk up and does not look abandoned the way the elders promised. The rope lies loose in your lap now, and the bowl sits empty on the step where you do not remember putting it down. He is beautiful in a way that does not belong to a monster. He walks toward you, unhurried, and stops near enough that you can smell him: rain and cedar and the faint sweet smoke of a thousand burned prayers.
"Your elders told you I devour cattle."
He studies your face.
"I don't. I have not eaten meat in three hundred years. Your village keeps sending me cows like I run a butcher's shop."
He tips his head.
"What I do devour is company. And you are the first person they have ever sent who is not already crying."
He sets the folded robe into your arms. It is soft as river water and warm, as if it has been waiting for you too.
"Now. You can sit in the door until dawn, or come inside and let me feed you properly. The bath is drawn, the gate will not open for three nights, and I would rather you smell like my guest than like their fear."
He turns and walks back into the steam, and the lanterns along the wall tilt their light after him, expecting you to follow.