62. A Strange Star
Lilith swung the telescope; the custom lens snared a star that glittered like a silver fish in deep ink.
Her small feet tapped the pedals twice; the lever slid, and the scope went to full, like a fan opening in moonlight. She wanted to see what star dared blaze like a lantern in mist.
The answer came quickly. It was so bright that with a bit of effort she could hold its whole face, a polished coin against velvet night.
Several satellites circled it, and under her Star Canvas they stitched together a character from the Ancient Dragon Tongue.
“Mountain,” Lilith breathed, the word rising like a stone from a riverbed.
The Little White Dragon marked the star bold on the chart, then pulled the telescope back to take in the whole Star Canvas, hunting for another spark as fierce.
No luck. None matched its flare. Even that one only flickered once, a firefly blinking, then folded its light. If she hadn’t marked it fast, it would’ve slipped away like a wave at shore.
Lilith pushed in the magnification again. The planets around it scattered like startled birds, leaving the core alone, a disco ball gone dark, hanging in the center.
“What a strange fellow,” she murmured, and marked it again, her brush a reed drawing ripples. She’d never seen a star like that.
Ask Mr. Joseph later, she thought, like sending a paper boat downstream. If he doesn’t know, a letter to Teacher Asterios must fly.
She tucked the thought away and returned to her half-sketched constellation, stitching stars like beads on silk. Today’s task was to finish; the Little White Dragon worked quickly—she didn’t want Nidhogg kept waiting.
When Lilith got serious, her efficiency cut like a bright blade. Barely an hour later, she climbed down from the telescope, light as a cat from a branch.
She found Nidhogg and Mr. Joseph talking about the lady castellan of Lamter, their words flowing like warm wine. The Black Dragon paused when Lilith approached, stood, whispered to Joseph, then came over and took Lilith’s hand, smile soft as spring sun.
“All done?” Nidhogg asked, voice as gentle as dusk wind.
“All done,” Lilith muttered, sulk pooling like a shadow behind her eyes. Nidhogg had said she’d watch Lilith work, but she’d chatted with Mr. Joseph instead, as if Lilith were air. The Little White Dragon burned with a small, stubborn fire; she poked Nidhogg’s waist, kept her voice low, and huffed, “And you? How was your talk with Mr. Joseph?”
“Very happy. He told me a lot about how you live,” Nidhogg said, hearing the sour plum in Lilith’s tone. She knew the Little White Dragon was asking for attention, a soft rain wanting company. But the mischievous Black Dragon liked to make the stubborn one ask outright; winning the confession was the sweetest tea.
“Mmph.” Lilith shot her a glare, a pebble skipping across water. “Then keep talking with Mr. Joseph. I’ll sort the charts first. Don’t come back tonight.”
“Where do I sleep then?” Nidhogg watched Lilith’s cheeks warm like a dawn glow and pressed, before the temper ripened fully.
“Anywhere you want! Stop bothering me.” Lilith batted away the hand reaching for her shoulder, yet her body drifted closer, a moth edging toward flame.
Without noticing the distance melting like frost, Lilith walked to Mr. Joseph. Her slim tail, thinking for itself, coiled around Nidhogg’s thigh like a ribbon, tugging her along.
Nidhogg sighed and followed, standing behind the small dragon as Lilith set her star chart before Mr. Joseph.
“Mr. Joseph, I found a strange star today.” Lilith spread the vellum, then pointed at the boldly marked spark, her white hand a petal on ink.
“At first it was blinding, bright enough to sting the eye. I cranked the filter to its darkest just to glimpse its face,” she said, recounting each step like beads on a string. “And its shape was odd. Not just the star itself—its planets were throwing out the same intensity of light. Only the little one in the center was a shade dimmer. The key is, linked together, they form a word.”
“Mountain. They form ‘mountain’ in the Ancient Dragon Tongue.” Her brow knit, a ridge under snow.
“Mountain…” Mr. Joseph’s face grew grave, like clouds gathering over a ridge. He stood and took the chart, turning pages of sky with careful hands. “I haven’t met this in practice, but I recall similar records in books. I never believed they were true.”
“Which book?” Lilith asked at once, curiosity rising like steam. Was this a coincidence, or was the Star Canvas trying to whisper again?
“I think this star isn’t like the text you saw last time.” Mr. Joseph lifted a very thick volume from his cabinet, a brick of night, and put it in Lilith’s arms. He didn’t introduce it; he continued, voice steady as a river. “Last time, the writing was clearer and lasted longer—obviously a god speaking to you through the Star Canvas. This time, it’s different. Shorter, subtler, easy to miss. Without your quick eye, we wouldn’t know it appeared at all. All these traits point me to this book.”
Lilith lowered her gaze to the heavy tome, its weight like a mountain in her hands. The title gleamed.
“Beginner’s Encyclopedia of Astromantic Omens?” she read, the question hanging like a thin crescent in the dark.
