The child did not sleep for long.
When she woke again, the light outside the cavern had shifted, thinning into a pale gray that barely reached the stone floor. Time had moved forward without ceremony. It always did.
She stirred, slower than before, then stopped as awareness returned.
Her eyes found Noctyrr almost immediately.
He had not changed position.
That, too, unsettled her—though she did not yet understand why. Mortals expected movement. Proof that time was passing for others as it did for them.
She swallowed.
"Are you… going to eat me?" she asked.
The question was quiet. Not trembling. Not brave. Simply practical.
Noctyrr looked at her.
"No."
The answer was immediate. Flat. Final.
She nodded once, accepting it with surprising ease. Whatever fear she had learned had already exhausted itself elsewhere.
Another pause followed.
"Then… can I stay?" she asked.
There it was.
Noctyrr felt the weight settle fully this time. Not the abstract burden he had sensed before, but something sharper—an expectation taking shape. A future implied by a single, careful question.
He did not answer at once.
The cavern breathed with silence. Outside, the wind dragged ice across stone, patient and indifferent.
"You cannot," he said.
The refusal was not cruel. It was precise.
This place was not meant for mortals. The cold would return the moment he withdrew his warmth. Hunger would follow. Injury. Illness. Time. He would either intervene again and again—or watch her fail despite it.
Both outcomes were familiar.
The child's fingers tightened slightly against the stone.
"Oh," she said.
She did not argue.
She did not plead.
She only looked down at her hands, as if weighing something unseen.
Noctyrr turned away, satisfied that the boundary had been drawn. Refusal, clearly stated, was a kindness. It prevented misunderstanding. Prevented hope.
"I will take you down the mountain," he continued. "There are settlements below. People who—"
"I tried," she interrupted.
The words were small, but they stopped him all the same.
She lifted her head. Her eyes were dull, but steady.
"They didn't want me."
The statement was not an accusation. It carried no expectation of correction. It was merely a fact she had already lived with long enough to accept.
Noctyrr was silent.
He could sense no deception. No exaggeration. Just memory.
"That is not my concern," he said at last.
It should have ended there.
The child nodded again, slower this time. She shifted, then carefully pushed herself upright. Her movements were deliberate, conserving strength she did not have.
"If you're taking me away," she said, "can it be later?"
"Why?"
She hesitated.
"I'm still warm."
The words struck deeper than they should have.
Noctyrr said nothing.
He watched her lie back down, curling inward once more, as if she had already learned how to make herself smaller when space was not hers.
The refusal still stood.
He told himself that.
And yet, he did not move.
Not yet.