“Leave that old Gaia for later. Let’s talk about the Little White Dragon.” Star Canvas cut through the God of Mountains’ grumbling like a blade of moonlight. The white‑haired deity faced Lilith and said, “If I’m not wrong, you came to me for this world’s truth?”
“Yes. You said if I could paint your new dress, you’d tell me. I’ve done it. But this is my dream, so I can’t drag a star chart in.” Lilith nodded. The memory of her skirt, a twin to Star Canvas’s, swished up like a mirror ripple. She wondered what they were thinking, wearing the same style. Lucky there’s no faith for Star Canvas, or the Little White Dragon would be jailed for blasphemy.
“Of course. I know you finished it.” Star Canvas’s voice moved like cold starlight across water. “I don’t break my word. I’ll tell you what you want.”
They didn’t answer her question yet; they flicked their gaze toward Lilith. “Before I start, use your right as this dream’s host. Give us seats. Talking while standing is a slog, and I don’t like it.”
Lilith felt a small sigh flutter in her chest, like a moth to a lantern. She didn’t ask why Star Canvas didn’t just summon furniture. She had time to spare, so she helped. In her mind, a broad wooden table grew like a tree ring, and three chairs bloomed with soft cushions. She set them by the table and slipped into one, like a feather landing.
Star Canvas and the God of Mountains dragged chairs over, wood rasping like dry leaves, and sat. Lilith lifted her face, eager as dawn on glass. The blue in her eyes flashed so bright it could blind.
“Hold it. Don’t look at me with those puppy eyes like I’m a bone.” Star Canvas winced, a wry smile breaking like frost. “I’ll answer now.” They cleared their throat; the room fell still like snow. Then they spoke, solemn as a temple bell.
“You’ve heard the world’s birth story.” Their words paced like constellations crossing the night. “In formless dark, the first god opened their eyes and shaped the land under our feet.”
“They turned chaos into solid earth. They turned the drifting void into wide sky. Their left eye burned into the sun. Their right eye became a bright moon. Day and night became a single turn. Time began to flow like a river from that moment.”
Lilith finished the familiar cadence like a lullaby shared by embers. “Every child on this land knows that Genesis. Everyone keeps a copy by their pillow. If you can’t recite it, you barely dare claim a brain.”
“Sure,” Star Canvas said, the tone falling like a curtain. “But you can forget that story now.”
“Forget it,” they said, voice cold as starwind. “Forget a tiny lie the gods told to comfort those who walk the soil.”
“What?” Lilith’s eyes widened, her heartbeat quick as sparrow wings. She leaned forward, feeling the table planks steady like ground beneath fog.
“The world wasn’t born that way. The truth is far more tangled, like roots under rock.” Star Canvas shook their head, and their white hair drifted like drifting frost. They began to tell the deepest truth of this place.
“At first, it’s similar: this world was empty as a blank page. There was only one—mother of all life, Icarus.”
“Where Icarus dwelled couldn’t be called a world. Besides Icarus, there was nothing. Not a black expanse like stories tell, but true nothing—no wind, no dust, not even the idea called ‘existence.’ In that void, there wasn’t a thing to match it.”
No one knew how long they stayed in that silence. Time was a shadow that hadn’t learned to fall. “At last,” Star Canvas said, “Icarus decided to bring something new.”
“Icarus wanted land.” Their voice softened, as if brushing raw earth. “At first, she didn’t know how to make it. But the instant she thought it, a barren stretch of ground unfurled under her feet, like sand conjured by a breath.”
“Icarus was overjoyed. She ran to the highest point of that small continent, a figure on a newborn horizon.”
“She called for light, loud as dawn breaking. Sunlight poured onto the land like spilled gold.”
“She prayed for rain, devout as a seed in drought. The first dark clouds rolled, a slate cover over sky.”
“She felt sky and earth were too far apart, a hollow between ribs. So mountains thrust up like spears, piercing the clouds.”
“Icarus became the world’s sovereign. She created freely, like a painter on endless canvas, until loneliness settled on her shoulders like a winter shawl.”
“So she came down from the highest peak and walked the plain. Her voice fell gentle as dew: ‘I need someone to share my joy and mischief.’”
“So a new life appeared on the land, a second flame in the wind.”
“Icarus refused to name her. She wrote her down as ‘Nameless One.’ She was the second being to witness this world. Icarus loved her dearly, like a mother who sees the first laugh.”
“But unlike Icarus the maker, the Nameless One took to unmaking. From the day she arrived, she leaned toward dismantling—more skilled at taking than creating, like tide pulling sand.”
“One day, while Icarus tried to decorate a mountain that felt too bare, she found she couldn’t manifest thoughts as easily as before. The world resisted, like clay that had begun to set.”
“Icarus panicked. Fear gnawed like mice in the walls. If her power failed, she could no longer shape this place. So she sought the root of the change, patient as a star counting winters.”
“After long study, Icarus found the cause that dulled her free hand.”
“The Nameless One.”
“Not her actions, but her existence itself bent the world’s rule, like weight on a reed.”
“Icarus discovered the world could change with the wishes of all who lived on it. But the requirement was harsh, like a gate of iron: more than half of everyone needed to believe a wish could stand.”
“This world is a massive wish‑engine,” Star Canvas said, and their words clicked like gears. “You make a wish, and the outcome follows. That’s the truth of this place.”
“A wish‑engine…?” Lilith hadn’t expected that shape under the fog. Surprise flickered in her chest like a candle catching. “So every change needs all lives to support it together, or the rules won’t shift?”
“Not all, not anymore,” Star Canvas said, shaking their head like leaves loosening rain. They glanced at Nidhogg’s shadow as if naming a witness. “In Icarus’s era, altering the world needed at least half to agree. So for a long time, Icarus kept company with the Grim Reaper alone, two figures walking a silent shore.”
“Later, Icarus created a divine realm, a home for gods to roost like birds above storms.”
“Then she began making new gods of heart and mind. These godlings weren’t like the Nameless One. They didn’t swallow half the world’s authority in a single bite.”
“As more gods arrived, the rules shifted, like a river finding new banks.”
“When something new arises, it no longer needs everyone’s faith. It needs only a portion to believe you hold a certain power. Then the world grants that power the way soil yields to a seed.”
“It sounds twisty,” Star Canvas said, tapping the table like rain. “Let me say it in a shape you know. Think of religion. Why are the lands covered in temples of every stripe? Because only if many believers hold that a god has this or that authority can that god repay their devotion.”
“I see.” Lilith nodded, a thread of clarity pulling taut like a bowstring. “No wonder magic needs unwavering faith. It’s baked into the world’s bedrock.”
“So this is a world where thought becomes real: if enough believe, truth condenses like mist into rain.”
“Exactly.” Star Canvas’s smile was thin as a crescent moon. “Just like her.”
They lifted a pale finger and pointed at the God of Mountains. The tall deity, resting like a cliff under cloud, blinked when the topic turned. She looked back, puzzled, eyes deep as shadowed valleys.
“Her true name isn’t forgotten by all,” Star Canvas said, voice level as stone. “But most Lamter folk firmly believe it’s buried in the long river of history. So even if we remember it, from now on she has no true name.”
“This death follows the same current,” the God of Mountains said, picking up the thread like a weaver. Her tone was calm as dusk; sorrow hid in it like a blue reed. “Most Lamter have become followers of Mali. Even if they won’t admit it, in their hearts they think Mali brings more happiness and prosperity to Lamter than I do. And outside Lamter, Kuri never held many faithful for me. Fewer and fewer believe I should remain. So I must meet the death already waiting on my path.”
Her voice stayed even, a flat lake at night, but Lilith tasted a thin sadness running under it like a cold spring. The mood seeped into her, and her brow folded like a closing wing.
“Is there no way to change it?” she asked, anger and helplessness clutching her ribs like brambles. “Beyond the Majestic Court, many Lamter still hold faith in the God of Mountains.”
“No way, child.” The tall goddess shook her head, gentle as pine in wind. “My death won’t stop. Lamter’s people will take a new road. Elves shouldn’t cling to my mountains alone. The Kuri folk shouldn’t have me guarding only their forests.”
“People need to walk farther, see wider.” She chuckled, warm as firelight. “Mali’s lead in Lamter isn’t necessarily bad. They’ll bring new drive, though I don’t know how they weave it.”
She turned to the Little White Dragon, eyes kind as moss on stone. “So I’ll ask more of you for my funeral, little one.”
“I understand.” Lilith nodded, the word falling like a small stone into still water.
Lilith parted from Star Canvas and the God of Mountains, her mind buzzing like a hive under summer sun. Tonight’s truths had poured in like a flood. She needed time to let them settle like silt.
She told Star Canvas she’d think first, then come back to dream and ask what remained. Star Canvas agreed with a wave like starlight scattering, kind as a soft night. They sent her out of the dream, a door opening into dark.
Lilith woke on her soft bed, the quilt hugging her like cloud. Her thoughts churned, whitecaps under moon, searching for words to tell the Grand Elder of the Majestic Court.
The truth Star Canvas gave wasn’t complicated. The world’s base rules bend with the crowd’s thoughts and understanding, like iron warmed in a forge.
The God of Mountains’s waiting funeral was because most Lamter no longer trusted her and turned to Mali, who helps Lamter more, like a fresh wind pushing sails.
Lilith couldn’t figure out how to tell the Majestic Court. How do you say a god dies because most Lamter insist on it, hearts aligned like geese in flight?
Lilith didn’t know.
