105. Flowers, Wind, Flute, a Funeral
The Archbishop spoke at length; Lilith caught a few threads and let the rest blow past like petals on a breeze.
The Little White Dragon’s gaze fixed on a broad stone dais in the sea of blossoms, a slab she hadn’t seen when she arrived, a question set in rock.
“On the day the God of Mountains is about to depart, we finally found a way to speak with Him one last time,” the Archbishop said, voice gentle as dusk, as if she’d heard the question fluttering in a young dragon’s head.
The Little White Dragon looked at the dais and decided this was the bridge she meant.
“We were lucky enough to gain a scrap of an oracle He once sent down,” the Archbishop went on, rising like a reed in wind and facing all who stood amid the flowers.
“Through it, we can weave our faith into a bridge to Him. So remember, in your heart, how that great God helped the Lamter people. Then paint Him with your words. Praise Him with your voice. Any form is fine, any tongue is welcome, any deed of His will do. Piety isn’t trapped in form. What matters is the heart within.”
She closed her eyes on that final word.
The elf pressed her palms together and knelt in the flowered field, laying down a devotion bright as morning frost.
The others followed, each in their own way, like streams joining a river.
Ella and Mio stood shoulder to shoulder and began a song; the Little White Dragon didn’t know the words, but the bright, simple tune felt like a nursery rhyme wandering Lamter streets in spring.
Mr. Joseph murmured the names of constellations, and in Lilith’s mind those names stitched into a star map, mountains and plains sketched in silver light.
Hidden in that scholar’s calm voice was a quiet romance, like a lantern cupped against night.
Only Nidhogg at Lilith’s side stayed still, a Black Dragon paused at the edge of the current.
As an outsider, she weighed how to speak at a funeral without stepping on the wrong stone.
“Remember when we were in the Dragon Territory?” the Little White Dragon whispered, her voice a leaf kept between the two of them.
“What?” The Black Dragon frowned, not catching Lilith’s drift, like a hunter hearing snow but not seeing tracks.
“Under the Star Canvas, when you held me and listened to me sing—did you forget?” Lilith arched a brow and turned to face her, eyes bright as lake ice.
“I sang for you every time. Let me hear you, just once.”
“I don’t sing well.” Nidhogg lowered her head to meet the smaller dragon’s gaze.
Lilith’s blue eyes shimmered, gems outshining the world, and regret pricked Nidhogg like a thorn. She knew nothing of song—but how could she refuse those eyes?
“It’s fine. If it’s bad, only I will know. And I won’t make you sing alone.”
The Little White Dragon lifted her right hand, and cold breathed out from her palm.
Ice gathered, inch by inch, a long flute forming like a winter branch growing in clear air.
She gripped the crystal-blue instrument, its shine echoing the ice-crystals at her ears.
Under hair whiter than snow, it looked like an angel’s feather, and the Black Dragon’s focus slipped like a foot on frost.
“I’ll play. You sing. Hum it soft if you want—just let it out,” Lilith said, smiling with a warmth that rippled like light on water.
Nidhogg always remembered Lilith’s smiles.
When she played, she laughed like a child chasing fireflies.
When sleep still clung to her, she gave the Black Dragon a lazy, sun-drenched smile.
After a breakthrough, she wore pride and confidence like a crown.
There were so many smiles that Nidhogg lost count—yet her favorite was Lilith’s quiet, gentle one.
In that moment, the playful Little White Dragon fell away, and Nidhogg remembered: she truly was the daughter of a god.
“All right,” Nidhogg whispered, holding that smile as if it could leave a footprint in her mind. “But I warned you. I’m not good.”
“It’s okay. I’m not a great player either.” Lilith lifted the flute to her lips.
In a field buzzing with the tiniest sounds, she sent out a long, clear note, a thread of light through leaves.
The hush broke like thin ice.
Nidhogg didn’t know the tune. She had never heard it in the Dragon Territory.
It felt like it came from Lilith’s distant home, a wind crossing seas she had never seen.
The flute sang like a narrow stream, but it carried more strength than any brook.
Nidhogg hunted for the right word and found only a shore of white sand on endless plains, a brightness that went on and on.
The Little Dragon became a feather again, a scrap of white borne on wind.
She was a white bird riding the current, a silhouette so light it might slip away the next heartbeat.
Nidhogg began to sing without thinking, a children’s song from the Dragon Territory.
They sang it at every birth, a chorus welcoming a new star to the dragons’ arms.
The song and the melody didn’t match, but no one cared; mismatched threads can still make a banner in wind.
Every gaze fastened to the small figure with a flute, and lips forgot what they chanted or praised.
Under that attention, Lilith stepped forward, feet light as petals, path straight as a beam of dawn.
She walked toward the stone dais at the heart of the flowers, her flute lilt rising and falling, tugging every eye like a tide.
The instant she set foot on the steps, the flower sea stirred.
All the echo-flowers woke at once, thrilled as birds at first light; they drank in every sound, and the world went quiet.
Only Lilith kept playing.
Her music could no longer reach any ear, but her hands didn’t falter.
Notes poured out like clear water and were swallowed by the blossoms, one by one.
She played as if no one watched.
When the piece ended, the flute softened, melted, and ran as cold water between her fingers.
Only then did the world give sound back to the field.
A figure rose behind Lilith’s small back, a presence few had ever seen and none would doubt.
The God of Mountains.
