Her white and black feathers blend seamlessly with the storm, only the piercing gold of her eyes standing out. She moves with quiet grace, her talons making no sound against the frost. The glow of her eyes narrows as she inspects the shivering form beneath her. Without hesitation, she crouches, powerful wings spreading wide.

She shifts her weight, lowering herself until her broad wings envelop the fallen soul. Her downy feathers trap the warmth, cocooning them in a world of soft white. Her chest presses against their back, the immense warmth from her body radiating through. She adjusts her position, ensuring that not even a whisper of the storm can reach them.

“Still now,” she murmurs, brushing a hand along their trembling face. Her talons, though sharp, cradle with delicate care. “The cold will not have you.”

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Nyssara remains still, the blizzard screaming around her, yet never touching her charge. She listens to the faint heartbeat beneath her, steadying, growing stronger.