Seventy-Four: Long-Awaited Reunion

Lilith’s voice cracked like ice: How did you get here?

The Little White Dragon hadn’t expected the Silver Dragon in Lamter; surprise flared like dawn.

She sprang from the bed like a startled sparrow and crushed Typhon in a sun-warm hug.

The Little White Dragon had lived with Typhon in the Dragon Territory, their days braided like vines.

Lilith’s nature ran quiet, like moss clinging to a shaded corner, happy to nest and study.

Typhon was restless, like wind that refused to sleep, itching to run at any hour.

Give her a minute of stillness, and it felt like a cage closing.

Different as frost and fire, their bond had bloomed like twin lotuses.

Typhon’s warmth ran high; she often hauled Lilith along to barrel through the Dragon Territory like a storm.

The Little White Dragon disliked moving, but once swept into play, her heart opened like a kite, and she followed.

The White Dragon and the Silver Dragon got scolded by Tartarus more than once, thunder rumbling over their pranks.

After many rounds, closeness settled like warm embers; Lilith clung to Typhon like a shadow.

Seeing the Silver Dragon in Lamter felt like a star returning after long clouds.

Typhon laughed, a breeze through leaves. What, I’m not allowed to visit?

She looked Lilith over, eyes glinting like moonlight, and patted her shoulder.

A year apart, and you’ve passed the Feather-Drake phase like a swan shedding down.

I told Mom you’d grow into a beauty; she didn’t believe me.

What did Mom say about how I look? Lilith lifted her face like a white lotus.

Mom said you’re not just pretty; you’re the kind who could topple kingdoms, like a moon pulling tides.

She’s never praised me as well-shaped; she practically sang you into the sky like a lark.

I sulked then, thinking Mom played favorites, new flame eclipsing the old like a solar ring.

Seeing you now—yeah, beauty sharp as frost, bright as starlight.

Typhon smacked Nidhogg’s back, a quick drumbeat; the Black Dragon stayed cool as midnight stone.

You did alright—out the door and you won Lilith, like netting a comet mid-flight.

Rumors stormed the Dragon Territory like wind through pines.

Asterios and Lady Fafnir have argued plenty over you two, like thunderheads colliding.

Lilith’s worry rose like mist from a river. They argued because of us?

She didn’t want her two teachers at odds; she tugged Typhon’s leg like a child and asked for details.

It’s not a big storm. Fafnir heard Nidhogg won you and strutted like a peacock.

She bragged to Asterios that her pupil beat his pupil, so he should concede like tossing down a gauntlet.

You know them—years of tussle, thunder but no rain, still bickering.

Asterios answered that you’re also Fafnir’s pupil; if she wants a concession, she can grant it to herself like arguing with a mirror.

Then words clashed like blades, and off they went again.

Lilith sighed, amusement and helplessness swirling like tea. Sounds wild, but with that not-so-serious Black Dragon, it tracks.

Speaking of them, I did come for real business. Typhon’s tone settled like evening.

She moved to the rack, rustling cloth like reeds, and fished out an oiled-paper parcel.

She placed it in Lilith’s hands, cool as river stone.

This is a set of notes Asterios sorted for you; he said you might need them like a lamp in fog.

Lilith tore the wrapper; inside lay neat stacks of parchment like layered snow.

They covered common astrological principles, annotated with tiny script packed like ant trails—pure Asterios.

Thank him for me; this helps a lot. Gratitude warmed her chest like a hearth.

She set the parchments on the long table in the inn room, staking it like a flag.

From now on, that’s my desk; Nidhogg loses his perch like a crow shooed from a rail.

Though honestly, I might barely use it. Her voice trailed like a wisp.

I’ll tell Teacher. Typhon nodded, the gesture crisp as bamboo.

Besides that, I came for your body. She sat beside Lilith, concern pooling like rain.

Nidhogg wrote that you’ve got a serious issue. Her gaze sharpened like a blade.

Not that serious—just a fever, thirty-nine degrees or so. Lilith’s protest fluttered like a weak moth.

Seeing their faces go stone-cold, she closed her mouth like a clasp.

It’s a big problem. Typhon’s voice turned firm, like iron hammered flat.

For dragons, sickness is dangerous, a cliff edge in fog.

Our bodies run with vitality, like rivers in flood.

We can fend off any pathogen or miasma, like fire clearing thorns.

As for star-sense—we are the Star Canvas itself, night stitched into our bones.

So, in general, dragons don’t get sick.

Lilith tapped herself, a small gesture like a raindrop. Yet I got sick.

Right, that’s why it’s serious. Typhon frowned, lines like ripples.

Dragons fall ill only when the inner balance breaks, like a scale tipping hard.

She pointed at Lilith’s lower belly, finger steady as a blade.

You’re a White Dragon, trained in Stellar Magic, with frost as your aid.

As a daughter of the Star Canvas, your body’s remade—ice and starlight woven with fragile flesh.

When that balance shifts, flesh echoes it—pain like knives, or a fever burning like a red moon.

I remember the Star Canvas Academy’s med team said my balance broke—Nidhogg told me.

Is that kind of break truly dangerous? Her question hovered like mist.

Not always. Typhon shook her head, motion gentle as grass.

Usually a break brings chaos—energy whipping like a storm, even forming a vortex.

It can tear you apart from within, like glass under a hammer.

But sometimes it means one ability surged, like spring swelling a river, and the balance must rebuild.

I can’t conclude more right now. She sighed, breath cool as fog.

Typhon took out a small notebook, then a half-transparent crystal lens that caught the light like ice.

I need to examine you. Her tone settled like snow.

She turned to Nidhogg, flicked her hand like a fan, and ushered her out.

Family, please clear the room!