Smoke rose from a distant valley, thin and gray against the white horizon.
Noctyrr noticed it immediately.
Fire was not uncommon. Mortals burned forests for warmth, land, or war. Most of it meant nothing. This smoke, however, carried a familiar scent—blood mixed with scorched iron. The residue of battle.
He considered ignoring it.
He had done so countless times before.
Once, such signs would have drawn him without hesitation. He would have descended like judgment itself, scattering armies, ending wars before they truly began. That era had ended with the last hero who could still say his name without fear.
Noctyrr remained still.
The smoke lingered longer than it should have. It did not disperse with the wind. Something clung to it—regret, perhaps. Or desperation.
He opened his eyes.
Images surfaced unbidden. A woman in cracked armor, laughing even as blood stained her teeth. A spear-wielding youth who had sworn to surpass him, then died before reaching his prime. A healer who never raised a weapon, yet fell among the dead all the same.
Heroes, all of them.
Ash now.
Noctyrr shifted slightly. The mountain responded, a low tremor traveling through stone. Snow slid from ledges and vanished into the abyss below.
He did not move further.
"They are not yours anymore," he murmured, the words echoing faintly within the cavern. It was not a vow. Merely a reminder.
Below, the smoke thinned.
Whatever had happened was already over. The dead would be buried, or not. Songs would be written, or forgotten. Life would continue in the way it always did—forward, indifferent.
Noctyrr closed his eyes again.
Heroes were not rare.
Endings were.
The mountain settled back into silence, holding the ashes of memories that no longer belonged to the world.