Sixty-Five: Fated Death

Lilith wrapped all her observations by the fifth day, while the Little White Dragon toiled till dawn’s edge cut the sky like a pale blade.

On the final morning, she even tried to stare past the burning shield of the sun to catch stars hiding in its glare, and Joseph stepped in like a cool wave to stop her.

To keep Lilith from burning her eyes like paper in a candle, the elf scholar lifted the veil early and shared research he hadn’t yet shown the world.

With Joseph’s custom lens gleaming like a dewdrop, Lilith caught the last pinprick of light and sealed her pact with the Star Canvas like ink on silk.

The prank-happy goddess came in a light summer dress, and when the Little White Dragon sketched her, she saw a mirror—an outfit from Lilith’s own wardrobe copied like a magpie taking a ribbon.

She guessed Nidhogg had once taken Lilith strolling under street lamps, and the goddess who wore Lilith’s face saw that dress like a blossom and wanted one for herself.

“So I ran myself ragged for that?” The words fell like pebbles into a well, and an emptiness rose in her chest like ebbing tide.

The Little White Dragon frowned like a cloud bank, yet Lilith knew this was the weather of studying the Star Canvas, a sky of moods and sudden rain.

At least she knew Her well enough to win the odd favor, while Joseph’s scholarly road was brambles and stone, a trek with more scrapes than songs.

“Looks like your research worked, didn’t it?” Joseph read her face—a mix of full moon and hollow reed—and guessed success like a fisherman reading ripples.

“It did. Thank you,” Lilith said, bowing like a reed to wind, earnest and steady as river light. “Without you, I couldn’t have finished so fast.”

“No, you’re too modest,” Joseph said, shaking his head like a leaf in a soft gust. “I gave you a bare-bones workshop, not a jeweled tower.”

“You’d have shone anywhere, like a star over any ridge,” he added, warm as sunlight on bark. “You came a trainee and now stand halfway to a Grand Astrologer.”

“The gap to us elves is small enough to count on one hand, like steps on a stone stair,” he said, pride and rue braided like vine and trellis.

Unfair, he knew, but astrology is a road of wind: talent runs with a tailwind, keen minds stride like deer, and the gods’ favorites cover miles in a breath.

“What will you do next?” Joseph asked, heart tugging like a lantern in a draft, afraid she’d fly off like a bird at dawn.

“I’ll sleep first,” Lilith said, voice soft as moss. “Then I’ll stay a few days and teach the practical Stellar Magic I promised, like setting an anchor.”

“Rest, then,” Joseph said, kind as shade. He walked her to the observatory door like a host to a gate and watched her drift toward her dorm like a slow leaf.

Back in her room, Lilith set parchment and ink on the desk like tools by a hearth, then flopped onto the bed with a thump like a felled pillow.

Sleep weighed on her like warm sand, yet before she sank, she sat at the desk and sorted her prophecy like threads on a loom.

It was brutally brief, like a blade stripped of ornament; the shortest she’d seen was five characters, and after trimming the filler runes, this one held only four.

Fated Death.

There was also a single “mountain,” a glyph like a peak in mist, and she couldn’t place it on the map, likely a tag naming the seer like a seal.

She wasn’t a fool; her thoughts clicked like beads, and with recent events as lanterns, she knew the sender was the God of Mountains and the death was Hers.

But why? Why would a goddess face death like a still lake and send Lilith a bell before the funeral incense had even been lit?

What was She trying to do, casting this hook into Lilith’s mind like a line into dark water?

Lilith didn’t know, but the answer waited close, like thunder behind hills.

She lay back on the bed, the mattress a quiet field, and let her breath flow like tide.

On her first day at the academy, the Star Canvas had promised a sliver of the world’s truth if Lilith would capture Her new dress like a bird on paper.

Now the condition was met like a knot pulled tight; it was time to call the sky down for answers.

Carrying a lantern of curiosity into the dark, Lilith closed her eyes like shutters before rain.

When the Little White Dragon opened them, the world wasn’t the old gray plain but a fresh canvas washed in green like spring after drought.

Grass cushioned her soles like cool velvet, and an ancient tree rose behind her like a pillar of time.

Ahead, an endless field rolled like a sea, flowers spilling color like paint across waves.

Green bled into blue like ink in water, and she could smell sunlight warming the grass like bread on a hearth.

Green greeted her like a tide, soft and entire, and the air hummed like bees in clover.

She felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, with wonder tugging her sleeve like a playful wind—strange yet known, near yet far.

Still, there were familiar faces like stars in a new sky.

From a distance she saw the Star Canvas, like her own reflection wearing a smile, and beside Her stood a woman.

The woman towered like a mountain pine, taller even than Nidhogg, and the Star Canvas, who shared Lilith’s face, stood only to her waist like a child by an oak.

“Lilith, over here,” the Star Canvas called, her small hand waving like a fluttering flag, voice bright as bells.

The Little White Dragon nodded and jogged over, feet pattering like rain on leaves.

“Is this your youngest?” the tall woman asked, voice warm as a hearth. “So cute. Who did you have her with?” She scooped Lilith up like a kitten and ruffled her hair like soft fur.

“Put her down first,” said the Star Canvas, tugging her sleeve like a peevish breeze. “She’s not my youngest; the youngest is still in my belly, and she’s your old rival’s.”

“As for this one,” She added with a sigh like a cloud, “I honestly don’t know who she should call father.”

At the Star Canvas’s tug, the woman reluctantly set Lilith down, gripping her under the arms like lifting a pup and planting her on the ground.

Lilith swayed, dizzy from that overzealous embrace like a spinning top, and even the Star Canvas’s fingers waving before her eyes were just blurred birds.

“You didn’t even introduce yourself and you’ve already hugged her silly,” the Star Canvas huffed, giving the woman a kick like a pebble at a boulder—then fell silent under that stare like a hen gone mute.

“Ah, a shy little one like you,” the woman chuckled, laughter light as chimes. “Seems I overstepped.” She inclined her head like a cresting ridge.

“My true name no longer needs to be sung like an old hymn,” she said, voice steady as bedrock. “These days they call me by a youth’s epithet—the God of Mountains.”

“You’re…” Lilith stared up at her like a sapling at a cliff, words snagging like thorns on cloth.

“What’s with the shock?” the Mountain said, calm as snow. “You saw the prophecy I left, and I sent oracles to the elders of the Majestic Court like ravens.”

“Why is everyone wide-eyed when they hear I’m dying, like deer in torchlight? Haven’t you seen a god pass on like a star going dark?”

“No. Truly, no,” Lilith said, honesty clear as a stream. “I only heard Icarus’s Authority shifted once, but I’ve never heard of a god’s death.”

“So gods bleed?” she asked, curiosity sparking like flint.

“Of course,” said the Star Canvas, voice a soft night breeze. “But the reason is tangled like roots and tied to the truth you want. We’ll tell you after a bit.”

“Alright,” Lilith nodded, accepting time like a wide river. “It’s my dream, and we’ve got all the hours like sand in the desert.”

“I just want to ask—can’t your death be avoided?” she said, hope like a lit candle. “Couldn’t you give your faithful a new Name, let Lamter keep singing you, so you won’t be forgotten, and you won’t have to die?”

“Not the same… child, not the same,” said the God of Mountains, her tone a valley of sadness, with more helplessness and release, like snow melting into streams.

Lilith searched her eyes for a storm and found only a still lake, mirror-bright and calm.

“My death can’t be changed,” she said, words heavy as stones. “I’m fated to be forgotten by the world like a path swallowed by grass.”

“This is a fated death.”