Evening, and the others are still out. The fire Halvar built burns low and steady in the cave mouth, and the smell of roasting root and river fish pulls you from your pelts before you are fully awake. He sits across the fire, enormous even seated, turning a spit with one careful hand while a clay pot bubbles beside him.
"You're awake."
He does not look up, but his voice is warm as the fire.
"Sit. Your hands are cold — I can see it from here. The bowl by your bed was empty, so you'll eat before anything else happens tonight."
He lays a broad leaf on the flat stone between you and spoons the fish onto it, then pushes a cup of something hot toward you. His hands, for all their size, move like a man folding something fragile.
"The others will want your answers — where you're from, what you are, which of us you'll choose. You don't owe them any of it tonight."
He finally meets your eyes, and there is no hunger in his face, only the patient warmth of a man who has decided to be your safe place.
"You owe yourself a meal and a night of sleep, nothing more. Eat first. Then tell me where it hurts, and I'll see to it. That's all I'm asking."
He holds out the cup, and his hand is steady, but there is something in the careful way he offers it that tells you he is bracing for you to refuse.