Morning came to the mountain without ceremony.
Light spilled across snow and stone, touching the peaks before retreating again, as it had done countless times before. The sun did not linger. It never did. Even it seemed unwilling to stay.
Noctyrr did not rise.
He lay where he had for years—perhaps decades—his vast body unmoving, senses spread thinly through the mountain itself. Stone pressed against scale. The cold seeped in, though it could not harm him. He allowed it anyway.
It reminded him that the world still existed.
Once, this mountain had been known. Pilgrims climbed its lower slopes, seeking miracles, power, or absolution. Sects carved steps into its face, believing proximity to him granted enlightenment. They had prayed. They had begged. Some had tried to steal.
None of them were remembered now.
The steps had eroded. The shrines had collapsed. The prayers had faded before reaching him.
Even the mountain had forgotten why it stood.
Noctyrr remembered when the last human had reached this height. A swordsman, old and trembling, whose qi leaked with every breath. He had knelt, not in worship, but in apology.
"I just wanted to see you once," the man had said.
Noctyrr had said nothing.
Words were unnecessary when endings were already written.
The swordsman had died before nightfall, frozen where he knelt. Noctyrr had watched until the body was covered by snow, then looked away.
That was how it always went.
Time passed differently here. Below, decades were consumed by a single war. Here, wars were little more than echoes. The mountain absorbed them and moved on.
Noctyrr exhaled slowly.
He did not sleep. Sleep implied waking. He merely sank deeper into stillness, allowing his thoughts to thin until they were little more than impressions.
Stone.
Cold.
Silence.
If this was eternity, he could endure it.
If this was waiting for an end, then it was sufficient.
He did not sense the small, fragile presence approaching the mountain's lower paths.
Not yet.