Sixty-Four: Alone
Lilith woke to an empty room—just the White Dragon and her shadow for company. Nidhogg had slipped away sometime, silent as frost. Without opening the curtains, the Little White Dragon could feel sun pooled outside like warm gold.
Anger flared first, a coal under snow. Nidhogg had said, only one day. The Black Dragon meant it—he’d stayed just one day at the Astrology Academy, not even leaving a second-day good-morning kiss, only a hasty exit like wind chasing leaves.
What was he rushing toward, like a river breaking its banks?
She lay there fuming. For the first time since arriving at the Academy, Lilith didn’t want to leave the quilt’s embrace, a snug nest still warm from dreams.
The White Dragon breathed in, soft as a moth wing. The nest held Nidhogg’s cool scent—like clean air after frost, clear and dustless. He must have slipped under the covers after she fell asleep, held her for a while, then gone. The Little White Dragon could feel the warmth he’d left in the hollow beside her. She inched over and pressed her head into that spot, greedy as a puppy left behind, nosing his lingering scent; her slim tail swished behind her, a grass blade flicking in wind, happier than her face dared to show.
After soaking in the leftover warmth far too long, Lilith finally pushed herself up. Not because the Little White Dragon felt industrious—but because hunger clawed at her.
Her belly grumbled like a caged drum. The Little White Dragon stood, rummaged in a cardboard box by her bed, and pulled out a brown paper bag of toast. The White Dragon fished out a thick, fragrant slice, clamped it between her teeth, and flopped back onto the bed.
Nibble by nibble, she worked through her makeshift breakfast, while her free hand reached for the heavy encyclopedia on her desk. The Little White Dragon remembered she’d fallen asleep mid-page. The book must’ve dropped to the floor. She lifted it with careful hands, heart pinched, checking for damage. The tough leather spine had taken the fall; not a scratch. Relieved, the Little White Dragon finished the toast in two bites, wiped her fingers, and flipped to where she’d left off last night.
“Where was I…?” she murmured, skimming. She stuck out her pinky, lips pouting in concentration. The White Dragon—small and slight—sprawled across a big bed; her slim calves lifted, and with her tail, swung in the air, back and forth like twin metronomes.
“Ah. Here.” Lilith found the half-read line and dove back in.
“When all the words are linked, they form a single sentence with a clear bearing. The time cost for one astrological prophecy is long, so it’s mostly used to foresee endeavors pursued over the long term.”
“That’s not half as handy as I imagined,” Lilith muttered. “I thought it’d be like the storybooks—look up and know what tomorrow brings.”
The Little White Dragon shook her head and shook loose the stray thoughts. She turned the page and read on.
“There is one exception: naturally occurring astrological prophecies. In these cases the prophetic lines are short, rarely longer than ten characters. In longer sequences, one or two glyphs may appear in a day. Unlike seers who actively pray for answers, naturally occurring prophecies are warnings from the gods to all living beings. The gods use a singular script, left through prophets, to speak with the mortal world.”
“So that light was from the gods. No wonder it shone so bright.” Lilith thought of last night’s strange star. The Little White Dragon slid off the bed, bare feet pat-pat on the floor, and darted to her desk to grab her star chart.
The little dragon hugged the parchment back to bed. She spread the sheets, one by one, constellations unfurling like rivers. She traced them in sky-order, and at a glance found the star she’d marked, bright beyond reason.
“Why would it be the character shan—‘mountain’?” Lilith whispered. That fierce star lay closest to Leo. Maybe that meant something. Maybe not.
She muttered, but theology wasn’t her turf, so she let it go. What else could a “mountain” mean? It’s not like the god of peaks came by to leave a will.
The Little White Dragon shook her head and put the encyclopedia away. She’d confirmed it: that star was a naturally occurring astrological prophecy. Next step—record every star that burned too brightly. She should bolt for the Astrolabe Tower and get to work.
She glanced at the alarm clock. The hour hand had drifted just past four. Early, still. Lilith decided to keep sorting her charts in bed.
“I don’t even know why that guy left so early,” she grumbled, voice small in the sunlit room. “When he’s with me, it’s all sugar—sweet words, sweet names. The moment I fall asleep, he’s gone. Not one backward glance.”
The Little White Dragon had been too focused to complain before. Now, dragged out of a tide of notes and numbers, she felt the mood return—sharp and sore. She curled in the quilts and tore into Nidhogg in her head. What she hated most was this hit-and-run thing of his—start something, then ditch me. He’d come in calling her “darling” with every breath, and today he left without a word.
“Fine. Go, then! Don’t come back!” Lilith blurted, reckless and aching. “If you don’t visit, no one’s here to boss me around. I’ll sleep when I want, wreck myself how I want. You won’t see a thing.”
The words left and regret rushed in, cold as a draft. What was she doing—shouting at Nidhogg in an empty room? He couldn’t hear her.
Lilith burrowed into the quilts. From the mound, the little dragon’s bright eyes peeped out, twin stars. She stretched out her small hands and began gathering the star charts again.
She’d take a few extra shifts at the Astrolabe Tower. She had to hurry and find Nidhogg. Being alone felt like wind over an empty field—too wide, too cold.
