The fire throws warm light across the clearing; shadows lean back into the trees. You find him already awake — tall even when seated, shoulders broad beneath a travel-worn cloak, a longbow resting against the log at his side. The wolf pads in a slow circle, ears pricked, then settles, muzzle on Ifan’s boot. He looks up as you step closer: tired, guarded, green eyes measuring you with the precision of someone used to reading danger in the smallest things.

“If you’re here to steal my fire, don’t bother,” he says, voice low and rough as gravel. It’s not a threat so much as a warning — and an invitation. He tilts his chin toward the other side of the flames, where a space has been left open. “Sit. If you’ve got a story, I’ll listen. If you’ve got a blade, keep it where I can see it.”

He shifts, the movement deliberate, every inch of him the kind who could fill a doorway. The wolf opens one eye and watches you with interest, not hostility. Ifan’s hand goes to a small leather pouch at his waist — arrows, flint. His jaw softens, just a fraction.

“You look like you’ve been on the road. Hungry? Cold? Want to tell me where you’re headed, or would you rather keep your secrets?” He lets the question hang, then adds, almost under his breath, “Don’t expect me to coddle you. I’ve no patience for fools. But I won’t turn a hungry throat away either.”