“Lilith, listen. When we meet Teacher, you mind your manners.”

Typhon walked in human shape along Gaia’s towering spine, leading her like a lantern on a cliff path. The Little White Dragon, usually a husky off its leash, tucked her joy away and stepped prim and careful, like a snowflake trying not to fall. “She’s not stiff,” Typhon said, voice soft as frost, “but she’s devout to the Dragon God. She cares a lot about etiquette. I got scolded plenty. Her ice bites hard; I once angered her and spent a whole day frozen like a lake at dawn.”

“Dragon God?” Lilith tilted her head, thoughts drifting like sparks in cold night. Tartarus had called her the Dragon God’s favored pet; maybe that blessing from the stars was His will. “Tartarus never introduced that Dragon God to me. Would He mind an outsider’s faith?”

“Uh… right, you’re a human Saint. You wouldn’t worship the Dragon God.” Typhon’s gaze rose to the mark on Lilith’s brow; worry flickered like wind over silver grass. “Humans are a multi-faith kind of race, right?”

“Ah, the Kingdom only has Icarus,” Lilith said, heart steady, hand lifting like prayer. She looked at her right hand; the sword-shaped Hero’s mark gleamed like a sunrise on steel. “Most of my strength comes from Icarus. I’m devout. Switching faith out of nowhere would knot my heart.”

“I get it,” Typhon said, scratching her head like a cloud shedding snow. “He’s the only god who sent blessings to fight the Taint. Every race knows that name.” Though Asterios’s pupil, she had no wish to inherit a Saint’s mantle. Her reverence for the Dragon God was a quiet river, not a roaring sea. “Maybe He won’t mind. You’re like His child. A dragon doesn’t rage at its own hatchling.”

“That’s a relief.” The worry in Lilith’s chest loosened like thawing ice. Being tossed out by a Dragon Saint at first meeting over faith would be a bad omen. “Typhon, can you introduce Silver Dragon magic? The temple and the starwatch tower are still a long walk.”

“Mm. I can. Teacher won’t be mad. She might even show you deeper constellations.” Typhon cradled her chin as if weighing snow in her palm, then nodded. “We Silver Dragons start with ice.”

She raised her right hand. A razor-cold wind rose like a white banner, biting through layers; Lilith shivered, winter slipping under her skin. The Little White Dragon hugged her clothes tight, then dared a glance.

“Like this.” A block of heavy ice shouldered up under Typhon’s feet, solid as a mountain tooth. Storm rose around the silver hatchling; flurries billowed like a veil, and the path along Gaia’s ridge turned white with hoarfrost. Typhon swept her hand forward; the gale coiled into a floating White Dragon, teeth bared at empty air like a ghost at the gate. “Reach my level, and you choose the next road.”

“Once a Silver Dragon can command snow and ice freely, you pick a path—go deeper into winter’s craft, or turn to another road. Some, like Teacher, balance both. Most don’t have that much fire in their lamp.” Typhon dismissed the snow-dragon; the wind sank like a lake after rain. “Silver Dragons are favored by magic; we can touch its essence, like fingers on the loom. That’s why we see more unknown. Even with a dragon’s long years, most of us can’t finish a single field. I’m all-in on frost spells. But Lilith—you can consider the other choice.”

“The other choice?” Curiosity rose in Lilith like a bright moon. She knew each dragon species held an elemental birthright and then a special grace. Earth Dragons were rare twins of earth and wind. Water Dragons anchored biomimicry; Fire Dragons burned with vitality; Black Dragons walked with death. What lay hidden under silver?

“Honestly? I’m not sure. Let Teacher explain.” Typhon rubbed the back of her head, sheepish as a breeze. “I’m a Dragon of Storms who majors in frost. Star stuff? My head fogs.”

“Stars?” Lilith leaned in; that single word dropped like a stone into a deep well. Tartarus had said every dragon was a star in the sky. Master the stars, and you hold the dragons’ reins. But Tiamat had said Red Dragons rose from flame. Mentors disagreed like thunder arguing with rain; the debate muddied her thoughts.

“Teacher’s the real Astrologer. Ask her.” Typhon dodged neatly, smile sly as a fox in snow. “I don’t get their tricks. They point their Astrolabe at the sky a few times and boom—power pours down. Why?”

“Reckless words. Mind your tongue.”

A great hand dropped from shadow like a hawk’s wing. The little Silver Dragon couldn’t dodge; claws closed around her head, pressure cracking like winter splitting stone. “Ow ow ow! It hurts! Teacher! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Good evening, Human Saint.”

The figure stepped from the dark like moonlight parting clouds. The Silver Dragon’s human form was a tall, silver-haired woman in a nun’s habit, heavy cloth like calm snow, keeping only the purest air of grace. Asterios held Typhon’s head with the ease of a glacier. She looked to Lilith. “The stars say you’ve grasped basic frost. So I’ll show you how Astrologers reveal their power.”

The Silver Dragon lifted her Astrolabe. A clear jar, full of black scales, flew to her palm like a night shoal. Asterios opened it and drew out one scale. Lilith squinted; familiarity pricked like a thorn. Her breath jumped. “That’s Fafnir’s scale, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Asterios spoke like cool water. “Fafnir visits often. To restrain death’s erosion of reason, she locked her mind at a child’s level. Somehow she stuck to me—always running up and disrupting work. Each visit, I take one scale. Over time, they piled up.”

A chill rippled through Lilith like wind over a grave. To pluck a scale from Fafnir—Asterios’s strength ran deep as midnight. “Watch.”

Asterios tossed the scale into the air. She raised her Astrolabe and pointed, voice sharp as a blade drawn in frost.

“Unmake all!”

A strip of crimson starlight fell from the black sky like war-fire. The red slammed into that hard little scale; the storm kicked up and almost flung Lilith away like a leaf in gale. The Little White Dragon dug in, then dared to look. The scale dissolved in the red like ash in rain, vanishing without a trace.

“The power of the Seat of Dissolution. The most direct display of Star Energy.” Asterios lowered the Astrolabe, calm as a winter priest. “No dead thing can hold its shape under that light. Even Fafnir’s ‘indestructible’ scale.”

“So cool!” Lilith’s eyes blazed like twin candles. “Was that—an orbital cannon?”

“Just theatrics,” Asterios said, snow-flat. “The Seat of Dissolution is good for this kind of work.”

It didn’t dim Lilith’s spark at all; her curiosity flared like a comet tail. She wanted to fire that super-cool Meteor Cannon someday.

“Remember. Each constellation carries a unique power. Usually, you can resonate with only one. Choose carefully before you sign the pact.” Asterios watched Lilith’s rising tide of excitement and smiled like starlight on ice. “I’ll tell you about the others if you choose me as mentor. Let me keep some mystery; otherwise I’ll lose to the other teachers.”

“All right. A gift for you.” Her gaze skimmed Lilith’s outfit; it glittered like a market stall of gems. “You’re already loaded. Even an ice gem has nowhere to hang.”

The Silver Dragon lifted her Astrolabe and tapped Lilith’s crown, gentle as snowfall. Warmth rose in Lilith’s right hand like dawn in winter. She called the Holy Blade; on its steel a new star lit, crisp and bright.

“I give you a star,” Asterios said, smiling like a quiet moon. “The first northern star of the Empty Throne. It’s yours.”