5. The Flower Field

The Holy Mountain sits east of Lamter, a white blade rising into cloud. A sea of fog swallows the summit, and even Lilith’s sharp eyes drown in that white ocean.

“How tall is it, really?” She tilts her head, staring at a peak lost in the cloud-sea. The Little White Dragon can only see a pale glow climbing from mid-slope upward, and a ghost-blue gleam scattered below.

“No one knows for sure. Numbers and rulers are called blasphemy on the mountains.” Nidhogg stands beside her, the Black Dragon’s dark hair like night against snow. “A thousand years ago, in Kuri’s founding war, the God of Mountains lost its name. Since then, its faith demands a harsh purity.” She looks up at the peak that seems to pierce the sky. “Even if its true form still lingers in this world, without its true name it can’t restore its old power. It has to rely on believers to keep its creed clean.”

“But when Mali muscled into Lamter, the God of Mountains lost its last foothold.” Her voice is cool, the snow-breath steady. “Most Lamter folk now worship Mali, the god of trade. Mountain-faith survives among centenarian relics and a few contrarian youths who hate the mainstream. They gather on the Holy Mountain and hold the last thread that keeps the deity here.”

“As for height, we only have a legend passed mouth-to-mouth among dragons.” Nidhogg pulls out the book she’s always reading, pages smelling of dust and pine. “Back when the Mother of Earth still walked the land, she once brought the Dragon God Tartarus before this peak. The dragon bowed and kissed the mountain’s crown. From then on, the summit was lit by the stars, and the dragon bloodline carried the strength of stone.” She opens to an inked page and shows Lilith the picture.

A crimson dragon bows its great head, all flame and gravity. Lilith knows her at a glance—Gaia, the Mother of Earth—whom she’s only seen as bone, never as living truth. In the Dragon Territory, most places sit above the clouds; if this mountain reaches half of Gaia’s height, it deserves the word “soaring.”

“It looks impossibly high. My legs already ache at the thought.” She stares at the sketch, then blurts it out, shy and honest.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be climbing to the top.” Nidhogg rubs her small head, a warm touch in cold air.

“The City Lord’s Manor is on the mid-slope. That’s where we’re headed. Lannie isn’t a believer in the God of Mountains. In fact, as a normal human who can’t use magic, she’s basically an atheist.” Snow crunches under boots as Nidhogg starts talking up her old friend, a smile with a hint of shameless spin.

“Still, the God of Mountains was Kuri’s patron in its early rise. Elves have to show at least the bare minimum of respect. So the manor sits on the Holy Mountain. No big deal—just a small headache.” She manages a wry smile, winter light on her face.

“What kind of headache?” Lilith tilts her head, curiosity bright as frost.

“We’re heretics, in a sense. Strictly speaking, we’re not allowed on the Holy Mountain.” Nidhogg leans close to whisper, her breath a soft wind at Lilith’s ear. “Which means we slip in quietly.”

“Infiltrate?” Lilith lifts an eyebrow, then remembers to school her face, cold as ice on stone.

“Mm-hmm.” Nidhogg nods, calm as deep snow.

Abaddon ends up tucked under Nidhogg’s arm, the tall Black Dragon carrying her like a piece of luggage. The little demon princess takes the rough handling without a fuss, one violet eye wide, curious as a cat in a new city.

Litt rests in Lilith’s arms. Or rather, in the blue-and-white hood of the Holy Cloak, which she’s turned into a tiny sling, and she’s slipped the Divine Fragment inside like a glowing pebble in a nest.

With the two little ones secured, they set off, a small caravan climbing into the white.

Lilith had expected clever tricks for a stealthy entry. Instead, they only put on masks that barely cover the face. Their horns gleam bare in the cold light as they walk straight up the Holy Mountain.

“Do we really not need to hide our horns? And what’s with the mask?” Lilith fidgets, tugging her white mask to shield her ghost-blue eyes. Without a hood, the Little White Dragon can’t cover more than her nose. She pulls too hard—the mask snaps back and smacks her face. She lets out two indignant little hmphs, then gives up on hiding.

“No need. Wrap up too tight, and you look suspicious.” Nidhogg never glances away from the snowbound trail. Her eyes are steady, pilgrim-calm. “Besides, we’re pretending to be Demons. The horns should show.”

“Pretending to be Demons?” Lilith keeps her ice-face on, though confusion pricks like sleet. “Dragons are heretics. Demons—former Necromancer Cultists—are heretics too, right?”

“Demons aren’t just cultists. The Nameless One clashes with the God of Mountains—sworn enemies, oil and fire.” Nidhogg’s tone is perfectly serious. “Demons who climb wearing white masks are seen as converting to the God of Mountains. To Lamter folk, that’s a stray lamb coming home. No one will trouble us.”

“Oh.” Lilith nods, half convinced. Her gut hums like a taut string—she suspects a lie, but can’t find the knot.

Silly or not, the Little White Dragon swallows the feeling. She follows, obedient as a lantern shielding its flame from wind.

Nidhogg carries Abaddon ahead. Lilith patters behind in small steps, the cloak’s hood cradling a quiet fragment. Litt barely moves, which makes walking easier; still, fear brushes her neck—if it squirms, the cloak might pull tight around her throat.

The lower half of the Holy Mountain is gentle. A stone path threads upward, and ghost-blue leaves grow along both sides, like water-plants leaning toward a river. They tickle Lilith’s ankles, and she shortens her stride so she doesn’t giggle out loud.

She isn’t tall, and her careful steps slow her more. Nidhogg has to stop now and then, waiting for the Little White Dragon to catch up, patience warm as a hand on the shoulder.

One black, one white, they climb in stop-and-go rhythm, until the mid-slope opens into a field of ghost-blue blossoms. Flowers that brushed her ankles now shoot up like spears of light, almost as tall as she is.

“What are these? Why are there so many up here?” Lilith brushes a blue bloom taller than herself, eyes shining like dew.

“Echo Flowers—also called Life Flowers, because their seeds are the Life Fruit.” Nidhogg picks one, the petals cool as evening. “They brim with life force, cleanse your heart, and record voices. They showed up before Kuri—maybe older than elves.” She holds the blossom to her lips and whispers. Lilith can’t catch the words. The flower flickers, a tiny star, and Nidhogg hands it over.

Lilith gets it. She lifts the blue blossom to her ear. The petals unfurl like a shell opening, and Nidhogg’s voice rises from within.

“Lilith.”

The husky edge of the Black Dragon’s voice blooms at her ear. Warm honey in winter. The call pierces to the center of her chest. Her cheeks blaze tomato-red, and even her pale ears flush rosy.

She tosses the flower into the bordering blooms and hurries on, wanting to leave this heart-pricking moment behind like footprints wiped by wind.

“Easy.” Nidhogg catches her gently. Somehow she has an Echo Flower made into a hairpin. While Lilith lifts her little face, dazed as a fawn, Nidhogg clips it into her hair.

“There. Just right.” She adjusts it with careful fingers, then grins. “Beautiful.”

Heat floods Lilith’s face. She ignores a certain dragon’s smile, steam almost rising from her head, and turns uphill, the path a white ribbon pulling her on.

She leaves behind Nidhogg’s soft chuckle and Abaddon’s puzzled stare, both fading like sounds swallowed by snow.

Back in the Dragon Territory, that Black Dragon wasn’t this clingy. What changed?

Lilith drifts into thought, mind a slow river under ice. She can’t figure out what’s different about Nidhogg—she also forgets to listen to what the Echo Flower recorded.

On her head, the blue blossom flickers, a bright ghost-light dancing in the cold.