Morning did not truly come to the mountain.
The light merely shifted, thinning the shadows enough to reveal what the night had concealed. Frost still clung to the stone, unmoved by the passing hours. The wind continued its slow, patient work, erasing footprints that had never been meant to last.
The sound was still there.
Weaker now.
Noctyrr opened his eyes once more.
He had not descended. He had not intervened. He had done exactly what he had always done—nothing. And yet the presence below had not vanished as it should have. Cold and height were usually decisive. Mortals did not linger here.
This one did.
With restrained annoyance, Noctyrr rose. His movement was silent despite his size, the cavern responding to him as if it had long since learned his shape. He stepped into the open air, wings folding close to his body as his gaze drifted downward.
Far below, at the edge of a broken path where stone gave way to snow, something lay motionless.
Not a body.
Not yet.
He descended without spectacle, the mountain parting for him as easily as mist. When he reached the ledge, he stopped several paces away. Distance mattered. It always had.
The child was small—far too small to have climbed this high by intention. Her clothes were thin, torn in places, stiff with frost. One shoe was missing. Her hands were curled inward, fingers red and trembling despite their stillness.
She was breathing.
Barely.
Noctyrr watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
There were no signs of pursuit. No tracks beyond her own half-buried trail. No lingering scent of battle, beasts, or magic. Whatever had brought her here had already left—or never existed at all.
Abandoned, then.
The conclusion settled heavily, not because it was rare, but because it was familiar.
He had seen cities discard their weak. He had seen heroes justify it. He had seen parents make the calculation between survival and mercy. The result was always the same, even if the reasons differed.
The child stirred, a shallow breath hitching painfully before evening out again.
Noctyrr felt no urgency.
Urgency led to mistakes.
He crouched, lowering himself until his shadow fell across her. Only then did she react. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dull with cold. They did not widen in fear. They did not recognize him at all.
She was too far gone for that.
Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no sound came out. The effort alone seemed to cost her strength she did not have.
Noctyrr straightened.
This was not his responsibility.
He had not summoned her. He had not invited her. The mountain owed her nothing, and neither did he. To act now would be to involve himself in a life already measured in borrowed moments.
He turned away.
Behind him, the child's breathing stuttered.
It was not a cry. Not a plea.
Just the quiet sound of something being left behind.
Noctyrr stopped.
He remained still for a long time, the wind passing between him and the small, fragile warmth at his back. The world waited, indifferent as ever.
Slowly, with visible reluctance, the dragon exhaled.
He turned back.
"Foolish," he said softly—to the mountain, or to himself.
He reached down, carefully, and lifted the child from the stone. She was lighter than he expected. Lighter than she should have been.
The mountain did not resist.
And somewhere deep within its silence, time began to move again.