Nidhogg’s question found its answer quickly, like ink dropped in water.

People ringed the unlit woodpile in thick, living layers, like terraces carved by a river.

This year’s Coining Festival wasn’t like the ones Nidhogg knew, like a path bending into new woods.

They’d scrapped the old custom of piling logs at center stage, like shedding an old skin.

Instead, someone dragged in a mountain of stout, dry timbers, like a low hill raised by hands.

A single sheet of cloth stretched over them, and that became the stage, like a sail pulled taut.

Relief and surprise tangled in Nidhogg’s chest, like wind and tide colliding; now she knew why Lilith had vanished for two days.

A change this bold takes time to hammer smooth with a team, like smiths passing the same blade.

Yet as the hour neared, Lilith was nowhere in sight, like a star late to rise.

The Coining Festival opens with Ella’s address at center stage, like a bell that starts the night.

It’s never a feast of words, just bread enough for the road.

For decades, the City Lord has reported Lamter’s year to the Lamterfolk, like counting rings on a tree.

At that hour, it’s mainly the native elves who listen, like roots drinking rain.

Most travelers drift to whatever pleasures they prefer, like gulls following their own wind.

Nidhogg did the same, like a leaf going with the current.

Ella didn’t linger, like a swallow crossing eaves.

The terse City Lord led the residents through a year’s hard memories, like a hand skimming a scar.

Then she stepped down and left the air to the fervent crowd, like a match passed to a fuse.

Tourists and elves stirred like leaves in a rising breeze.

Nidhogg lifted her head, like a sprout seeking sun.

Abaddon had Litt in his arms, and Nidhogg hoisted them both, like stacking stones for a better view.

The three of them craned their necks toward the stage, like herons watching a riverbank.

Everyone waited for the outsider to appear, like fields waiting rain.

The restless air settled, like foam sinking under the tide.

Sea-salted wind brushed every nose, leaving a prickle that itched the heart, like sand teasing a shell.

Before patience frayed, the dancer stepped onto the stage, like a flame finding tinder.

Nidhogg had no words for what hit her when she saw Lilith, like thunder swallowed by the sea.

The Little White Dragon stood slender and small at dead center, like a reed in a lake’s still eye.

She needed no lanterns; the slanting, blood-warm sunset was partner enough, like a lute tuned to dusk.

Lilith wore a short skirt woven from leaves, like a wreath turned garment.

Emerald greens and rough brown burlap made the barest cover for her body, like moss and bark over marble.

By design or by forest-borne tradition, her ritual dress left broad swathes open, like trails of light through canopy.

It bared skin as pale as carved jade to every watching eye, like dawn on white stone.

The little dragon showed off arms finer than the most expensive porcelain, like brushstrokes on white silk.

Her skirt barely brushed the tops of legs as flawless as raw jade, like wind over still water.

She let other people’s gazes rest shamelessly on that exposed whiteness, like sunlight on fresh snow.

Her upper body was just as spare, like a hill stripped to spring grass.

Those budding curves were covered with green leaves and brown linen, like young fruit cupped by leaves.

Beyond that, there wasn’t an extra scrap of cloth, like a blade left bare.

Her flat, tempting belly lay open to the air, like a quiet stretch of sand.

A blue feather-mark on her lower abdomen glowed faintly under the sunset, like foxfire in dusk reeds.

A ring of white feathers hung at her slim waist, like a halo dropped to earth.

Late-stage feather-dragon that she was, she’d shed faster than others, like a birch letting go its catkins.

Only that white belt of fluff remained around her waist, like snow clinging to a branch.

It didn’t break her line, like mist that shapes the mountain.

It framed her wasp-slim middle even more, like hands circling a flute.

Nidhogg even heard an elf girl at her side swallow, loud and clear, like a pebble plopping in a well.

The White Dragon wore a thorn-woven crown, like winter woven into summer.

The dull-brown circlet sat cleverly in her snow-white hair, like bark against snow.

That hair, whiter than sifted snow, made the crown blaze, like stars on a frost night.

She wore almost no makeup, her face bare as spring water.

Just a touch of dark shadow at the eye corners, like soot at a kiln’s lip.

Her gaze was commanding and cool, like moonlight over steel.

She swept the crowd below like a sovereign surveying her vassals, like a hawk owning the sky.

She looked like the forest’s favored daughter crowned at last, like a stag’s first antlers raised.

Now she stood like an elven monarch: proud, radiant, absolute, like a peak cutting the sky.

You wanted to kneel, kiss her toes, and pledge your fealty, like tide pulled by the moon.

Nidhogg glanced down and noticed the detail, like a hunter catching a glint.

The little dragon wore no shoes, her feet bare as river stones.

She was barefoot, with a slim anklet on her ankle, like a ring of dew.

It was a sprig of blooming lavender, the scent Lilith loved most, like dusk bottled in purple.

Lilith stood barefoot at center stage, like a flame standing in wind.

The westering sun poured its last smear of crimson, like paint dragged thin.

Its final light stretched her shadow long and split the stage in two, like a sword line on a map.

One half burned like blood-red fire; the other sank into night-black, like embers and ash.

She stood silent on the border between dusk and night, like a sentinel at a gate.

That white, small figure said nothing, quiet as a moth on bark.

She simply stood on the platform of dry wood and looked down, like a hawk above a field.

She was a shaft of cool moonlight pinned to the stage, like frost drawn in silver.

The audience didn’t rush her, like deer freezing in snow.

They held their breath, like divers under a wave.

They waited, and they were willing to wait, like seeds waiting rain.

From the first sight of Lilith, all knew this Coining Festival would brand Lamter’s history, like fire scoring a beam.

From now on, no outsider would surpass the shock she’d left, like thunder no echo could match.

She was a goddess stepped out of an icon, paint turned flesh.

She was calmer than moonlight, more beautiful than the sea, like glass over deep water.

Her simple, unshabby dress declared her identity, like a banner in a clean wind.

She was an outsider, an alien who would light the fire at the Coining Festival, like a star fallen to a hearth.

Yet she outshone the gods in their books and the sunset overhead, like dawn outgunning lamps.

Even every word of praise spent couldn’t catch half her grace, like nets missing the river.

Nidhogg hadn’t expected Lilith to be this stunning, beauty sharp as a blade.

She knew Lilith’s looks were always exceptional, like a plum blossom in snow.

She had expected the Little White Dragon to gather devotion tonight, like bees to bloom.

Countless boys and girls would lose their souls to her every glance, like sparks blown from a forge.

She just hadn’t expected an entrance this blazing, like lightning through silk.

Nor had she expected to find herself among the bewitched, caught like a fish on silver line.

The slanting sun finally sank behind the hills, like a coin dropped in a well.

Night devoured the last of the red, like ink swallowing wine.

The fire hadn’t been lit yet; Lamter fell into dark all at once, like a curtain dropped.

The city’s last lights were faint silver moon and the gleaming young white dragon, like twin pearls on black velvet.

As the first wash of moonlight climbed into the dark, the little dragon lifted her right hand, like a reed lifting to wind.

Nidhogg knew that gesture by heart, like a tune heard since childhood.

So did every soul in Lamter, like a password shared by kin.

It was the raised-hand cue of the Mali Dance, the spark before the blaze.

The Coining Festival officially began, like a drumbeat under stars.