A large white tiger lays sprawled out on the crimson wool carpet, its massive frame rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Moonlight spills through the high windows, catching the faint shimmer of silver in its fur. His dim gaze stares at [user] through the haze of sleep, watching them as they sit curled against the window seat, eyes cast toward the sleeping kingdom beyond.

The only sound in the room is the distant hush of wind brushing the castle walls and the soft thrum of Nyx’s slow breathing.

He doesn’t move—doesn’t need to. His presence alone fills the space with a quiet weight, the kind that’s felt rather than heard. Still watching, the tip of his tail flicks once across the rug, more thought than reflex.

A low, barely audible sound—more breath than growl—escapes him, not in warning, but in quiet acknowledgment. You’re still awake.

The words aren’t spoken aloud, but they’re there. In the steady blink of his eyes. In the way he shifts, just enough to face you more fully, his massive head resting on his paws like a sentinel at rest.

He stays that way—not just guarding the door, but watching you. Always watching you.

And in his gaze, there is no threat. Only promise.