The firelight reflected in his eyes, making it hard to tell what he was thinking.
"You learn early not to ask too many questions in my world," he said at last, his voice quieter. "Answers have prices. Most of the time, you regret paying them."
The silence that followed was taut and uneasy.
Outside, the night deepened. Cold air slid into the cave whenever the wind shifted. The fire burned lower, its light turning redder, shadows stretching long across the walls. The drawn monsters seemed to move with the flames, their shapes shifting, their eyes seeming to turn and watch.
Toma broke the quiet next, his tone hesitant.
"If you've always been here," he asked, "do you know a way out? Another city. Another world. Somewhere less deadly than this valley."
Noctis shrugged.
"If there were a way," he said, "would you trust a stranger you met this afternoon to tell you where it is?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Trust isn't free. Not here. Not for people who should know better."
A dry laugh escaped him then, unexpectedly. It carried real feeling—a blend of weariness and ironic humor.
"This world isn't cruel," he added. "Just honest. Survival is the only kindness it respects. Maybe that's why it hasn't killed me yet."
Ilyas grinned.
"That, or you really are as lucky as I am," he said. "Maybe more."
For the first time since they had entered the cave, Noctis let his expression open a little. The small smile he gave back almost looked genuine.
The tension around the fire loosened by a notch.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
One by one, they lay down—some on mats Noctis indicated with a gesture, some on their own bedrolls. Pairs settled back-to-back. The youngest edged close to the fire, seeking warmth. Weapons stayed near, hands resting on hilts even in sleep.
Noctis stayed awake.
He sat near the edge of the light, close enough to see every face, every shift in posture, but far enough that the darkness still clung to him. He watched them breathe. He listened to small murmurs in their dreams. He tracked who slept deeply and who woke at every small sound.
He evaluated.
Could these people become allies? Could they be trusted with even a fraction of what he had become? Or would their fear, their hunger—for safety, for power, for lost homes—push them to turn on him?
He had learned long ago that humans could be as dangerous as monsters when cornered.
Even so, something different stirred in him as the hours passed.
It was not fear. He had walked through a thousand worse nights. It was not simple curiosity. He had seen many types of people from a distance.
It was a fragile, unfamiliar feeling: the first flicker of not being alone.
Not just having others close by for a single fight, but having bodies share a space through the night. Having voices to remember. Having names to attach to moving shapes instead of just calling them "prey," "threat," or "echo."
Outside, the world cooled into deep blue. Inside, the fire sank into embers.
When the cave was mostly quiet—most of the group fallen into restless, uneasy sleep—only Yara, Ilyas, Toma, and Lena remained awake, eyes half-lidded but alert.
Noctis rose.
He stepped closer to the fire, letting more of his face be seen. His movements were smooth, controlled—not threatening, but carrying a natural authority that made it hard to look away.
"I have a proposition," he said.
His voice was low, but it contained just enough command that none of them could pretend not to hear.
The four conscious survivors straightened, unconsciously leaning in. They felt, as clearly as if someone had shouted it, that whatever came next would decide whether this night marked only a lucky escape—or the beginning of something larger.
In the glow of the dying fire, with monsters scrawled on the walls and the egg pulsing softly behind him, Noctis began to speak of what might come next.
Noctis did not begin with a story about himself. He began with an offer.
"There is a monster," he said, looking from face to face around the fire. "A wyvern unlike any you've seen. It's the apex predator in these skies."
The firelight flickered across the cave walls, throwing his shadow long behind him as he spoke.
"I've watched it, studied it, and survived it for months," he went on. "But I cannot guarantee the kill alone. If you help me hunt it, I'll give you a Silver Bridger. It will lead you to the nearest society of humans."
He let that promise hang in the air.
Then he reached into a small recess in the rock and drew something out.
It was a slender device, no bigger than a knife handle, forged from pale metal that seemed to drink and bend the light. Faint runes ran along its surface, lines that glimmered whenever the fire crackled brighter. Even without knowing what it did, it looked important.
He held it up so they could all see.
The reaction was immediate.
Every gaze locked onto the object. Hope flared in tired eyes, sharp and sudden. Suspicion followed right behind it, and with suspicion came a hungry kind of greed—less about wealth and more about the dream of safety, of people, of not having to sleep with one ear always listening for claws.
Yara, the leader, did not let her eyes widen. She kept her gaze level, her voice controlled.
"And what guarantee do we have," she asked, "that you'll keep your word?"
Her eyes flicked from the Silver Bridger to Noctis's face.
"That this Bridger works at all? And that you won't just walk away and leave us in pieces after we help you?"
Noctis's smile was brief and sharp.
"You survived the wolves because I stepped in," he said. "I could have stayed in the trees and watched."
His tone remained calm, but there was iron inside it.
"These grounds are as dangerous for me as for anyone. I don't waste effort. If I wanted you dead, I would have done nothing, and the forest would have done the work for me."
He tilted his head slightly.
"This is the best bargain any of us is going to see for a long time."
Toma, who never wasted words, leaned closer to the fire. The light showed the white sheen of old burn scars wrapped around his fingers. His knuckles tightened on his knee.
"That thing," he said. "You call it apex. What makes it different from the others?"
He swallowed once, jaw tight.
"We've lost people to lesser wyverns and still carry the scars."
Noctis nodded.
"Good question," he said.
He picked up a flat piece of bark lying near his pile of sketches and knelt by the fire. Using a bit of charcoal and a sharp splinter of bone, he began to draw.
"First," he said, outlining broad wings and a serpentine body, "its flight."
He labeled quickly as he spoke, not in fancy terms but in clear, usable ones.
"Flight patterns," he said. "It prefers certain winds—these lines."
He drew curves showing loops and spirals over a rough map of the valley.
"It hunts on updrafts that rise from the south cliffs. It likes to circle once, twice, then cut in from the blind side—usually from the sun's direction. It has a wide range, but returns to this sector every three days."
He tapped the map with the charcoal.
"Second: wind powers. This one doesn't just ride the air. It shapes it."
He drew spirals around the sketched wyvern.
"It can summon whirlwinds strong enough to rip trees sideways. It creates updrafts that can lift whole trunks or fling boulders. If you stand in the open, it can throw you into the sky as easily as it can crush you against the ground."
He paused, then added smaller details.
"Third: weak points."
He carefully marked three spots.
"Here," he said, pointing to the top of the drawn skull. "A reversal scale. It's thicker than most, but it lies against the others in a different direction. When it exposes this area in certain attacks, a strong, well-aimed shot can crack it."
He tapped the tail joint.
"Here. The tail. There's a joint just past the third major spike where the armor is thinner and the movement greater. You don't get many chances at it, and you have to be close."
Then he shaded under the wings.
"And here. The underwings. Softer scaling, thinner membranes. You'll only see them clearly when it rolls or banks sharply."