7: It’s Only Natural to Run Out of Titles

“Mmm-hmph…” Lilith settled opposite Ayla’s desk, steam from the red tea unfurling like silk, while an elf maid in a black-and-white British uniform set down cups and, for Lilith, an extra plate of cookies.

Warmth first, then habit kicked in—she snagged a cookie and popped it into Litt’s waiting mouth behind her; his eyes were wide as baby birds, his hunger a small, chirping void.

Order restored, she fed Abaddon another cookie too, like tossing calm into a pair of tiny, stormy ponds, and both “kids” finally went placid with crumbs on their lips.

Irritation still buzzed under her ribs, so Lilith clamped a buttery shortbread between her teeth like a hoarding hamster, puffed her cheeks like a prickly little pufferfish, and stared daggers at Nidhogg.

She felt wronged, stung like a palm scraped on gravel; the Black Dragon girl had toyed with her, so the Little White Dragon swore she’d ignore her for the next two hours, cold as frost.

Silence alone wouldn’t do; if she said nothing, Nidhogg would drift toward Ayla, and Lilith would be stuck gnawing cookies in bored, lonely exile like a winter squirrel.

So she decided to put pressure on Nidhogg, simple and vicious as a pin—too wicked: she prepared her ultimate move, The Stare.jpg.

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Nidhogg read it all in her face, as easy as reading ink on fresh snow; Lilith never managed her expressions, and time together had taught Nidhogg each twitch of that fair little face.

Cookie clenched, wordless and swollen-cheeked—yeah, that meant real anger, a tiny stormcloud; maybe that joke earlier had gone a touch over the line.

Lilith’s skin was thin as rice paper; she couldn’t take that kind of public sting without crumpling.

Nidhogg had her remedies ready; she flicked Ayla a look, a black-feather signal, and the elf caught it like a practiced archer catching wind.

Ayla sighed, held up three fingers like a quiet bargain struck, then, under Nidhogg’s reluctant gaze, coughed softly and let her voice fall like warm rain. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the Lilith Nidhogg mentioned, right?”

“That’s me.” The Little White Dragon nodded, tail flicking like a white ribbon; she ignored Nidhogg and met Ayla’s eyes instead.

“Good. Then you probably know why I invited you to Lamter,” Ayla said, smile smooth as lake glass and just as deceptive—elf grace hides cracks well, and the poor Little White Dragon didn’t see a thing.

“I know. Lamter’s biggest festival of the year—the Coining Festival.” Lilith’s tail swayed like a metronome. “You invited an outsider like me to lay the first fire under Lamter’s boiler.”

“Not exactly a boiler, strictly speaking, but your understanding works.” Ayla’s tone was warm, a candle shielding its flame with a hand.

Nidhogg gave her teammate a silent thumbs-up in her heart; the best way to soothe the Little White Dragon wasn’t balm, but bait—something she liked, bright as a new toy.

Give her one thread and she’d follow it, single-minded as a kitten after yarn, and forget the thorn she’d been nursing beneath her scales.

Nidhogg exhaled, long as smoke; the slightly older little girl had been coaxed back from the ledge.

“So, are there any precautions when I light it?” Lilith led with honesty, like opening a window before the incense. “Heads up, I’m a White Dragon. I don’t know fire magic at all. If I’m lighting it, you’ll need to give me a spark.”

She wasn’t helpless—there were flints and clink-clank tricks—but for a ceremony’s first flame, scrabbling with stones felt shabby, like wearing rain boots to a coronation.

“That’s fine. We’ve used electric braziers before for people who can’t do magic,” Ayla said, calm as a steward counting ledgers. “It’s mostly symbolic for you two. The elves will stack the kindling so it catches at once. If you need, we’ll make the fire flare right on cue, and it’ll look like you lit it.”

“How convenient.” Awe softened Lilith’s voice, like honey melting in tea. “You elves really think of everything.”

“Of course. It’s Lamter’s most important festival.” Pride gleamed in Ayla’s eyes like minted coin.

“Picture it: citizens pouring out like a tide, tossing a year’s hoarded coins into the roaring fire, while tens of thousands of outsiders arrive before and after, turning their gold into offerings to Mali—pouring it all into our soil.”

“I can’t even imagine what the train tickets alone will rake in,” she breathed, a fever brightening her like forge heat. “Lodging, food, the peddlers with goods from everywhere, and the tourists who drift like dandelion fluff… ha…”

That sudden fervor burned hot; Lilith flinched and, like a cautious fawn, put a step of polite distance between herself and Lamter’s elven lord.

“Well—since it’s like that, I’ll wait for your notice,” she said, smoothing the moment like hands over rumpled cloth. “Tell me when the Coining Festival draws near. I’ll come early for a rehearsal.”

“Good, good—so you agree?” Ayla’s eyes lit up like lanterns at dusk.

“Yes. No reason to refuse.” Lilith nodded. She’d always liked Lamter; Ayla’s request was easy as a spring errand. As long as they didn’t make her do a public dance number, she was fine.

“Perfect. You can move into Lamter now. I’ll arrange the best room, unless you already have a place you prefer.” Ayla slid a slim black card into the Little White Dragon’s palm, light as a whisper. “This is a spending card. It waives your food, lodging, and transport in Lamter, and it carries a daily allowance.”

“It’s just that the price of the new-model Mali isn’t settled yet, so, until that’s fixed, you can’t use the card to buy goods. But the daily quota will accrue. No waste.”

“Oh.” Lilith turned the thin card between her fingers, black gleam like night water.

For a heartbeat, a word flashed through her mind like a shooting star: the legendary black card?