Noctyrr waited until she slept again.
Not because it mattered, but because it simplified things. Mortals were more manageable when unconscious. Fewer questions. Fewer expressions that lingered longer than they should.
When her breathing settled into a shallow rhythm, he moved.
Carefully, he lifted her once more. She did not wake this time. Her body yielded easily, light in a way that spoke of insufficient meals and shortened expectations. The warmth he allowed her was minimal, just enough to prevent immediate harm.
No more.
He stepped out of the cavern.
The descent was swift. Where a mortal would have struggled for days, Noctyrr crossed distance as if it were an inconvenience rather than a barrier. The mountain reshaped itself beneath his path, stone smoothing, wind parting.
Below, the air grew marginally warmer. Snow thinned. The world became louder.
He stopped on a wide ledge overlooking the lower slopes.
From here, signs of habitation were visible if one knew how to look. Faint trails. Smoke far in the distance. The subtle disturbance of land shaped by hands rather than erosion.
This was far enough.
Noctyrr lowered the child onto the ground. The stone here was cold, but not lethal. She would wake soon. She would walk, or crawl, or be found. Mortals were adept at surviving when survival was their only option.
He stepped back.
This was the correct outcome.
He had intervened once, and now he was correcting the mistake. The balance restored itself. No attachment formed. No responsibility taken.
The mountain would forget this moment.
So would he.
The child stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. Confusion followed, then recognition—not of him, but of absence. The cavern ceiling was gone. The air was different. Thinner. Sharper.
She pushed herself up with effort.
"...we're lower," she said.
Noctyrr did not respond.
She looked around, taking in the open sky, the slope stretching downward, the faint trace of paths that did not lead back up.
Understanding dawned.
"Oh," she said.
The word was quieter than before.
She did not cry.
She did not shout.
She sat there for a long moment, small against the vastness of the mountain, then drew her knees to her chest. The wind tugged at her hair. She shivered, though she did not complain.
Noctyrr turned away.
This was finished.
He rose, wings unfurling slightly as he prepared to leave the ledge behind. The mountain awaited his return. Silence would resume. Time would thin again.
Behind him, the child spoke.
"I'll try again," she said.
The words were not defiant.
They were exhausted.
Noctyrr paused, just long enough for the meaning to settle.
Then he left.
The wind closed over the ledge. Snow drifted down, already beginning to erase the marks of their presence.
Above, the mountain waited.
Below, a child sat alone, gathering what little strength remained, and began to move upward once more.