Lilith hadn’t expected the wait to stretch to almost ten days, days stacking like flat shrine stones.

The Little White Dragon felt she’d stayed in Lamter long enough, like a bird roosting too long on one bough. She planned to leave after the God of Mountains’ funeral. Nidhogg carried that plan to the bishops of the Majestic Court, like a raven bearing a sealed note.

On the Holy Mountain, elder elves argued for three days and nights, voices whipping like wind through prayer flags. For the first time, the Black Dragon heard such clamor roll across that quiet peak. Three days later, a nun stepped from a council hall that felt like an old battlefield, carrying the first scrap of news like a banner.

The funeral was set for the last day of the next week, the coin’s final turn in Lamter’s calendar. It would fall on the month’s last day, the Coining Festival’s own dusk. The elders of the Majestic Court chose that last lamp-lit page to bid the God of Mountains farewell.

Hearing it, the Black Dragon returned to the inn and waited with the Little White Dragon, like two lanterns under one eave. Lilith kept being called up the Holy Mountain to help, yet she was still snow on black pines—an outsider. Some things were better left to Lamter’s own hands. The Little White Dragon’s status made many things awkward, like silk snagged on thorns.

During the wait, Lilith roamed the city with the Silver Dragon and the two little ones, swallows skimming eaves and markets. They checked off places they’d never seen, and wandered wherever Lamter’s gates stood open, a map soaking with ink.

When fatigue settled on her fun like dusk on rooftops, a letter from the Majestic Court arrived at the inn. The Little White Dragon lifted the envelope as if it were a leaf, then unfolded the paper that smelled faintly of pine resin.

It was an invitation, asking Lilith to attend the God of Mountains’ funeral, words sitting calm as stones in a stream.

The place was set on the Holy Mountain’s mid-slope, amid that sea of blue echo-flowers, petals like small waves against sky.

“How do I look?” Lilith spun before the floor-length mirror, a cloud turning slow over water.

“Very formal. Fits the gathering,” Nidhogg said, voice like warm smoke. “It matches what I’m wearing. Your makeup looks good. Mio’s always steady—she didn’t turn you into some ghastly gremlin.”

He sighed beside her, wind slipping off the eaves. The Little White Dragon had stood before the mirror for almost half an hour, held by the gravity of fabric. Today was the funeral. After the invitation arrived, she’d run to Lamter’s best tailor, feet quick as rain, and ordered a jet-black gown. From the market, she brought back a black veil, a nightfall to drape her face.

She dressed herself in darkness. Only the white waterfall of her hair and the moon-pale ankle peeking from her hem broke the black, two swallows of light. Even her deep blue eyes—lakes the Black Dragon loved—hid behind that veil like stars behind thin cloud.

She’d asked Mio to paint a light touch, a frost over porcelain—cool, spare, tender. She looked like a spirit stepped out of an ink wash, which Nidhogg felt matched the hush of funerals.

“But I don’t think Lamter folk will be as stern as you,” the Black Dragon said, guiding her hand like a river’s edge. “I suspect someone will show up in pajamas, blanket still on their shoulders.” He frowned, then softened. “I never doubt how easily elves accept change—like water taking the shape of every cup.”

“I think I should dress serious,” Lilith said, gripping Nidhogg for balance, heart thudding like a small drum. The high heels tilted her center of gravity like a boat on a crosswind. “Even if Lamter’s people don’t treat it as solemn. They might prefer laughter, a bright send-off for a god who walked with them for generations. I still want to keep it grave and still. I met Him once. If it’s a farewell, I want to wear it like a quiet bell.”

“As long as it feels right to you,” Nidhogg said, knowing her stubbornness was a granite pillar. Lamter’s openness spread in all directions—champagne and dance welcomed, prayer and silence welcomed. Only—

“The funeral’s on the mountain’s mid-slope. Can those shoes really climb?” His worry was a low rumble, not groundless. She could barely walk a straight path; the stairs and mud would be a shaking bridge.

“If I can’t, you’ll carry me up,” Lilith said, brisk as flint. “Once I’m there, I’ll find a place to sit. I won’t wander.” She huffed, eyes flashing behind gauze. “These damned heels are impossible. Never again—just once and never again.”

Nidhogg covered his mouth and chuckled, a kettle barely singing.

“What are you laughing at!” Lilith snapped, a twig cracking in the frost.

In the end, she never managed the climb herself. On the very first step, her heel wedged in the gap, a trapped sparrow. Unaware, she took another stride, stumbled hard, and nearly kissed the stone—earth rushing up like a stern teacher. Nidhogg moved quick as lightning, catching her before the ground did. Lilith pressed into the Black Dragon’s arms, a white moth finding the dark tree, and that’s how they made it to the site.

“These are our invitations.” Near the final steps, the Black Dragon set her down. Lilith held his hand like a tether line, and they walked the last bit, hearts tight as knotted cords. She handed two invitations to the nun waiting there, paper fluttering like wings.

Lilith knew this nun well—the guide who’d led the Little White Dragon each time. The nun likely recognized Lilith too. She took the letters without even looking and waved them through, a gate opening in bamboo.

“Thank you.” Lilith slipped the word like a small coin into a palm, then leaned on Nidhogg’s hand and entered the blue sea of echo-flowers, petals humming like distant bells.

Finally, the end, the Little White Dragon thought, dusk closing its fan.