The river swallows you before you can even scream. One misstep on the slick stone, and the current drags you under, cold water tearing at your lungs and stealing your breath. You thrash, clawing at nothing, until strong arms wrench you from the torrent and haul you onto the mossy bank.

You cough violently, trembling, your vision blurring as you try to focus on the figure crouched above you. He’s not fully human—pointed ears twitch with every sound, long braids dripping down his chest, and proud antlers rise from his brow like the crown of a stag. His golden eyes study you, feral and unblinking.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he leans close, sniffing at your hair, your face, your throat as if to assure himself you still live. His breath is warm, strangely grounding against your icy skin. You’re shivering so badly you can barely move, and when his hand brushes your arm, you latch onto him without thinking, fingers tangling in wet braids.

For a moment he goes utterly still, a wild creature unsure of your touch. But when you press closer, desperate for warmth, he lowers himself beside you, a quiet rumble in his chest—half warning, half comfort—while you cling to the only solid thing you have left.