“What did Tiamat mean by that? System, got any take?” Lilith asked in her head, wind peeling past like cold silk as she rode Typhon’s back.

Confusion pressed first, like fog on the heart; the thought followed, sharp as a pin. Tiamat had called her “a Saint blessed by the power of stars, stained with death.” Saint she could swallow as her role; but death and stars felt like two stray comets smashing into her calm. She wasn’t planning some Egyptian crusade, either.

“Death should mean the power of Taint,” the System said, a tiny blue head popping up like a will-o’-the-wisp over dark water. “Taint rots life, so it spreads death. You’re the White Holy Maiden who absorbed all Taint. Calling you a Saint touched by death fits.”

“Then what about the star stuff? Don’t tell me the Hero’s power drops from some specific star up there.” Lilith lifted her right hand, teasing, and pointed at the mark on her own skin like a moon-tip.

“Of course not. Hero power is a miracle born from people’s resolve to purge Taint, a hearth-fire in the chest, not a lantern hung in the sky,” the System snapped, the blue figure’s tone as flat as still water. “If you’re guessing star-power, you might as well say I, the System, fell out of the stars.”

“Hey, that actually tracks. So you really are star-born?” Her mood sparked like dry tinder; Lilith leaned in on the little azure figure, eyes bright as dew. “Look, look. You’re a helper the goddess made for me. The goddess lives in the sky. If the ‘sky-dwellers’ these folks call stars are actually her, doesn’t that make you star-power?”

“What are you even spinning.” The System couldn’t keep a straight face; the blue little person rolled its eyes, the gesture drifting like a lazy wave. Exasperation leaked off it like steam. “Stop dragging your past-life logic into this life. You changed gender and species. Why cling to the idea that goddesses live in the sky?”

“Then what, they live underground? Ow!” A knuckle landed on her head, a quick tap like a pebble flicked at a lake. Lilith hugged her small aching skull and sulked in silence.

The System shot her one last helpless glare, then dove back into the Little White Dragon’s not-so-bright head like a fish slipping into a reedbed. “I’ll check your body again, see what we both missed. Stop woolgathering. Better think what Fafnir can offer you.”

“Got it…” Lilith answered small, the word a leaf on the wind. No reply came; the System was already busy. Bored, the Little White Dragon cuddled the Silver Dragon beneath her like a warm pillow and peered at the scenery like a cat at a window.

Fafnir’s lair, Typhon had said, sat on Gaia’s neck. After leaving Tiamat’s place, Typhon beat his wings straight up, each stroke like a bellows in a forge, until a pure-black dragon nest loomed like a moonless egg.

She’d gotten used to lairs that looked like Christmas ornaments hung on a cosmic tree; this one was a Christmas ball disguised as an Easter egg, glossy and dark as pitch. Lilith pushed open the lacquer-black door, night pooled on its surface like oil, and found a short-haired black girl standing there with eyes closed like a blade in a sheath.

One lid lifted, a single glance like frost on steel; the cold stare pinned the Little White Dragon in place.

“Lilith Absolut?” The short-haired Black Dragon carried pressure like a thunderhead; Lilith bobbed her head so fast it was a sparrow pecking seeds, even forgetting to question the bizarre surname.

“Come in. Teacher’s been waiting.” The Black Dragon stepped aside like a door of obsidian. When Typhon tried to enter, she swung the door shut with a thud like a guillotine, splatting the poor Silver Dragon flat against it like a sticker. Lilith trotted after the imposing Black Dragon girl, keeping small, a shadow tucked behind a taller shadow.

“Nidhogg,” the black-haired girl said suddenly, her voice a drop in still water.

“W-what?” Lilith blinked, the words sounding unmoored.

“My name. You may call me that.” Nidhogg tapped her chest, the gesture neat as a stamp. “Teacher hopes you’ll call her Fafnir-sis. Remember it.”

“Y-yes?” The Little White Dragon gave a wobbly answer and lifted her face to the cool, unreadable Black Dragon. Nidhogg said no more, only led Lilith deeper, their steps quiet as falling ash.

A not-very-tall black-haired girl sat at the room’s far end, book in hand like a candle in a cave. When Lilith entered, the woman closed it with a soft sigh, lifted her head, and sent over a gentle smile like a warm lamp.

“Now what’s proper here—good evening?” She waved kindly, a breeze through paper screens. She rose from the chair, and stacked fabric slid off her like a small avalanche, pooling around legs that weren’t long. Only then did Lilith notice the outfit: mature nightwear, the kind you’d see in some special shop, riding the line between moonlight and mischief. Her slim body couldn’t fill it; the loose cloth draped her like a child swimming in her mother’s clothes, comic as a sparrow in a swan’s robe. “Ahem. I am mentor of the Black Dragons, the spell-dragon Fafnir with boundless might. All right, let’s begin the inheritance rite.”

“Teacher, until Lilith meets every mentor and makes her choice, you have no right to perform an inheritance,” Nidhogg murmured at Fafnir’s side, her whisper a thread of smoke. “Right now you may introduce Black Dragon magic and display your strength.”

“Ah? Fine.” Fafnir’s head drooped like a flower in rain. The girl—no, Lilith felt her mind was that of a child—puffed her cheeks, sulking, then fished a scale from her clothes and set it in Lilith’s hands like a star placed in a bowl. “I wanted this to be your entrance gift. Guess it’ll be bait to lure you into becoming my disciple instead! So annoying!”

“Uh… Fafnir… sis? What is this?” Lilith studied the scale, black as deep water, magic thick on it like lacquer. She wasn’t sure her strength could scratch it.

“Oh! You called me sis! Perfect!” Fafnir lit up, bouncing on the chair like a springy branch. Nidhogg grabbed her by the scruff and set her back down with the care of a cat-mother, but Fafnir didn’t mind the “rudeness.” She beamed at the Little White Dragon. “This is my scale. In the whole Dragon Territory, unless you dig up what Gaia left behind when she still lived, you won’t find anything harder. With it, any dragon you pass will know you’re under Lady Fafnir’s wing. No one will dare bully you. Just steer wide of that old woman Asterios!”

“Thanks.” Fafnir looked anything but proper, yet her gift was solid as bedrock. The girl who’d once decked Ofira knew Red Dragon scales were terrifyingly tough; Fafnir was a Black Dragon whose flesh beat even a Red’s. Who knew how hard her scales ran.

“Heh! Now you see Lady Fafnir’s might. If you like, you can bow to me as teacher right now.” The Black Dragon girl drew herself up, tiny chest proud as a pebble on a pedestal, hands on a willow-slim waist. “I’m the strongest Black Dragon. No one beats me in strength or defense. Even in magic, I’m at Red Dragon level.”

“Teacher, you still haven’t explained Black Dragon magic,” Nidhogg added, cool as a shaded stream. “She doesn’t have a basic picture yet.”

“Fine, such a hassle.” Fafnir stuck out her tongue like a mischievous fox. She raised her right hand, and a lick of pitch-black flame bloomed there like ink spilling, gulping down the light at her side.

“Look. This is our kind’s most common magic. Black Dragons wield shadow and death. The devouring black flame is our bedrock skill. But newborn Black Dragons shouldn’t start with it.”

She shook her hand, and the ebon fire shattered like soot and crawled up her arm like ants. Lilith’s forearm twinged in sympathy, a ghost pain, though Fafnir’s face stayed calm as still snow.

“Like this. Without a body forged hard as steel, a Black Dragon gets torn by her own spell. So we start by training the flesh. You’re the rare exception—no one’s foolish enough to make a White Dragon do body training.” Fafnir crooked a finger, and the fire nearing her shoulder peeled off like old paint. “Unlike a Red Dragon’s, this fire has no heat. It’s darkness repurposed, a night you can hold. Once your understanding deepens, you can lace in other things. Like this.”

The black flame turned a wan gray, limp as ash in winter air. It barely burned at all, yet in that colorless curl Lilith smelled the same death-scent as the Taint on her own skin, a chill like a grave wind. The danger spiked a whole tier, quiet and absolute.

“That’s as much as you’re allowed to know.” Fafnir clapped, sound neat as two stones, and drew the pale fire back into the floor like a tide. Tired, the Black Dragon studied Lilith. “Death is the most fearsome force in this world. Before you inherit my power, I won’t teach you how to use it, even if you wear more of death’s scent than I do.”

“Mm. I really don’t want to let you go, since next you’ll see that old woman Asterios, but there’s no help for it.” Fafnir glanced to Nidhogg, eyes like embers. “Nidhogg, escort our dear White Dragon so she doesn’t get lost… Wait. Why do I smell Tiamat’s flame?”

“Uh… Tiamat gave it to me.” Lilith pulled a tiny flame from her sleeve, a red sprout like a cherry ember, and passed it to the little Black Dragon. “He said you’d know what to do.”

“Hm… I do.” Fafnir rubbed her chin like a thoughtful cat. “Young Little White Dragon, go see that old woman first. I’ll reshape this ember into something that suits you, then send it to Tartarus’s place.”

“Really? Thank you, Fafnir-sis.”

“Heh, bow before Lady Fafnir’s power!”