The child did not wake.
Noctyrr carried her upward, his movements deliberate and controlled. The mountain paths that would have taken a mortal days folded into moments beneath his steps. Snow parted, stone yielded, and the biting wind softened as they ascended.
She remained silent throughout.
That unsettled him more than screaming would have.
Mortals cried when they were afraid. They cried when they were in pain. Silence, at this age, meant exhaustion beyond fear—or a learned understanding that no one would come.
By the time he reached the cavern, the child's breathing had steadied, though it remained shallow. The faint warmth of her body stood in stark contrast to the cold stone that defined his dwelling.
Noctyrr laid her down upon a flat stretch of rock near the cavern wall. He did not bring her deeper inside. That space was not meant for mortals. It had never been.
He stepped back.
For a time, he simply watched.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Frost clung to her hair, dark strands stiff with ice. Her face was pale, lips faintly blue. There were marks on her arms—old bruises, poorly healed scratches. Not the signs of a single night's misfortune, but of neglect stretched over weeks, perhaps longer.
She had been unwanted long before she reached the mountain.
Noctyrr felt no anger. Anger required investment. What he felt instead was a dull, familiar weight—the recognition of a pattern he had seen too many times to count.
He extended a claw, hesitating a fraction before drawing it closer. Heat bled from his scales, restrained, measured. Just enough to counter the cold. No more.
The child shifted slightly, her brow tightening as warmth replaced pain. A weak sound escaped her throat—not a word, not a cry. It faded almost as soon as it appeared.
Noctyrr withdrew his claw.
He would not heal her.
He would not interfere further.
This was only stasis. A delay. Nothing more.
Outside the cavern, the wind continued its endless passage. Clouds slid across the sky, indifferent to what rested beneath them. No sign marked this moment as significant.
And yet.
The child's breathing evened.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Eventually, her eyes opened.
This time, they focused.
They found him.
Noctyrr did not move.
Fear should have followed. Confusion, at the very least. Instead, the child stared at him with a tired, distant expression, as if he were simply another shape in a world already too heavy to question.
Her lips moved.
"...cold," she whispered.
The word barely reached him.
Noctyrr closed his eyes.
It was a simple request. Not for safety. Not for food. Not even for life.
Just an end to discomfort.
He exhaled slowly, and the cavern warmed by a degree.
The child sighed—a small, unconscious sound of relief—and her eyes drifted shut once more.
Noctyrr remained where he was, staring at the place she lay.
No cry reached the sky that day.
And yet, for the first time in a very long while, the mountain was not completely silent.