Mornings in Tartarus’s home were still as a lake under frost, sound tucked away like birds in winter reeds.

Typhon was a Silver Dragon; her kind trained under moonlight, so dawn to her was a quilted cave, a time to sink and sleep.

Tartarus wasn’t a talker; for dragons, being alert without pause was smoke that rarely rose, a rare ember in a cold hearth.

If Lilith hadn’t come these past days, you might not see Tartarus for several sunsets, like a mountain lost in fog for days.

So Lilith enjoyed two silent mornings, peace pooling like clear tea, no ripples, no dust.

By afternoon, when Typhon woke, Lilith trailed the little Silver Dragon through the Dragon Territory, circling like swallows over fields.

They wandered twice around the lands, and her two days of leave melted like sugar in warm water.

On the last day, Lilith finally wanted to sleep in, heart soft as steamed bread, no alarms, no chores.

She sprawled on her small, soft bed, hugged her pillow like a cloud, and drooled a silver thread across the cotton.

Half-dreaming, the Little White Dragon caught a strange scent at her door, a smear of ink at the edge of snow.

Since becoming a dragon, her nose was a bell in a still hall; every local smell was shelved in her mind like jars.

This dark, uncanny breath had brushed her before, a shadow on a wall, yet she couldn’t fish out where it came from.

“Lilith? Are you awake?” Tartarus’s voice came like warm tea through the door, and her plan to laze died in its cradle.

Grumpy first, action later—she sat up with a stormy face, then cracked the door like a gritted smile.

“Looks like you didn’t sleep well.” Tartarus chuckled, a low fire, and rubbed the Little White Dragon’s gloomy cheek like a mother smoothing frost.

“Sorry, there’s a guest today, so I can’t let you cuddle the morning like a cat.”

“I know…” Lilith answered, voice flat as a slate in rain.

Tartarus stepped aside, a curtain drawn with one hand, and revealed the guest who’d stood in her shadow.

Lilith had seen this one at Fafnir’s place, a Black Dragon who stayed beside Master Fafnir like a night-guard star.

Her name was a stone under moss—dark, familiar, and almost lost.

“Nidhogg?” Lilith slapped her forehead, a crisp clap of bamboo, and blurted, “Why are you here? Does Master Fafnir need me?”

“No. Master left two days ago to settle accounts with Miss Asterios, and she hasn’t returned,” the black-haired girl said, voice clear as a spring.

“I came for something else. It’s a personal request. You have every right to refuse,” she added, eyes steady as a well.

Lilith’s tail curled into a question mark, a hook snagging her thoughts; who asks for help by offering the door out first?

She hadn’t been ground by the world either; her heart was a soft plum bun, and she usually said yes.

“No need. Just tell me what to do. If it’s within reach, I’ll help,” she said, offering her palm like a clean plate.

After all, she was only a hatchling fresh from the shell; no one should ask for a mountain when a pebble would do.

“Let’s sit and talk. Nidhogg, living room or Lilith’s room?” Tartarus slid in, voice a red ember, neat and practical.

Why was my room getting drafted without my vote, Lilith thought, a tiny puff of steam rising as she remembered mothers of old friends.

“I’d like to talk in Miss Lilith’s room, if she doesn’t mind,” Nidhogg said, peering past Lilith like a swift hawk over a hedge.

That gaze combed her room like fingers through straw, and Lilith’s heart sank; the quilt lay kicked, the floor was a storm’s aftermath.

Mortification rose like a tidal blush; she’d just rolled out of bed, and not a thing was folded or fine.

“N-no, my room’s a mess. I can’t seat a guest in there. That’s too rude,” she babbled, shaking her head like a rattle.

“At least let me tidy first?” Her tail flicked, a white whip, and the door closed with a hush like a paper fan.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind. Messy is cute, Miss Lilith,” Nidhogg said, smiling, an ice beauty thawed by a small sun.

Lilith had no heart to admire; a sting of being looked down on pricked like a thorn under skin.

She dropped her tail and pressed herself to the door, a small dam barring a dark river.

The Black Dragon tilted her head, raven hair a falling stream, and said softly, “‘Please,’ Miss Lilith, let me in.”

“O-okay.” The word slipped out like a fish; a haze crossed her mind, and her body moved like a puppet on silk threads.

She stepped aside and opened the door, a mouth of wood yielding; Nidhogg walked in, smooth as a shadow crossing snow.

Nidhogg traded a few polite words with Tartarus, bows like cranes in a reedbed, and the Red Dragon waved them on with a warm “Have fun.”

They entered together, two shapes into one room, like dusk slipping into a lantern-lit lane.

Only inside did Lilith’s mind snap back like a bent twig, pain and fear flapping in her chest like a trapped bird.

What just happened to me? Why didn’t my body belong to me? Did Nidhogg do something, or did my own scales misfire again?

“Miss Lilith? You look confused,” Nidhogg said, picking up the quilt Lilith had kicked down, a fallen cloud returned to the sky.

She cleared a spot and sat, one leg over the other, a cat on a warm stone, and let a wicked crescent smile show.

“Don’t worry. After I make my request, I’ll explain what was done to you,” she said, voice a velvet ribbon.

“I hope you’ll come with me to a place. It won’t take long—one or two days, two sunsets at most.”

“Don’t worry. There’s no real danger. I just need a White Dragon to show a face, like a seal on a door.”

“Follow me, show your face to open a gate, that’s it. I may need a few drops of your blood, just a pricked finger’s dew.”

Lilith barely heard a third of it; dread pooled first, and then thoughts came late, like rain after thunder.

Why did I open the door? That helplessness was a cold chain; I don’t want it on me again.

“Miss Lilith isn’t listening,” Nidhogg said, a strand of impatience like a sharp reed in clear water.

Her eyes flickered; black pupils turned into golden vertical slits, a candle lit in ink, and she spoke softly.

“‘Please,’ Miss Lilith, come here.”

Lilith walked without will, feet marching like tethered dolls, heart thumping like a drum in fog.

She stumbled into Nidhogg’s arms, a net drawn close, and the Black Dragon rolled with her, pinning her to the bed like fresh snow pressed flat.

Nidhogg’s long dark hair spilled down, a waterfall at night; the tips tickled Lilith’s cheek, ants of sensation making her squirm.

She didn’t dare meet that gaze; her eyes slipped away like minnows dodging a heron’s beak.

From above, the Black Dragon stroked Lilith’s cheek, fingers cool as moonlight, and smiled.

“‘Please,’ Miss Lilith, don’t move. Sit quiet as moss and listen till I’m done.”