“Out? Feeling any better?” Nidhogg sat in the living room, pages whispering like leaves in wind; at the door’s click, she looked up to a sulky white puffball shuffling out.
Lilith sniffled; gloom came first, words refused to budge. The Little White Dragon nodded, plopped into the seat opposite, and stared at the Black Dragon girl like a winter cloud.
Nidhogg forced a gentle smile, closed her book, and set it on the table like a quiet stone. She cleared her throat, raised her right hand, and a pitch-black rune unfurled on her skin like a raven.
“This is that demon dragon’s trick, the chains that punched holes through you. Chain control is its core, no wonder it grew string-thin like a noodle. The weird miasma shrouding it felt pasted on later, like swamp fog. Maybe it’s a pitiful dragon too, steered by that blight.”
Nidhogg spoke to the Little White Dragon as if recounting weather after a storm. Heavy-hearted and silent, Lilith lifted her head and listened like a student before a brazier.
“You blacked out when the miasma wrapped you, and you shifted on the spot. Your body isn’t grown enough to bear full dragonform, so you stalled at half. I brought you back here first, then returned to deal with that dragon.”
“How did you deal with it?” Lilith asked, voice low and thick like rain through cotton. Curiosity pricked her; Vela had shot through most of its head, yet it still danced—dead, it shouldn’t be easy to handle.
“I dissected her on the spot. I ground the dragon bones to powder and sent them to a Silver Dragon friend. I packed the flesh, scales, and viscera to Lady Poseidon. Then I took dragon shape and ate the demon dragon’s heart, and I gained her ability.” Nidhogg said it plain, like moonlight over snow, while it sounded world-breaking to Lilith. The Little White Dragon couldn’t picture one girl cleaning a beast the size of a hill. Even as a dragon, that was a mountain of work. And if eating a heart grants a power, then bursting a heart with a sword—could she inlay that power into the blade?
“It’s not as hard as you think. I’m an adult dragon; our lessons are the hunt and the knife, like rivers learning to cut rock. In the entire Dragon Territory, aside from hatchlings who haven’t passed the shell-breaking rite, any dragon can dissect that demon dragon perfectly.” Nidhogg answered as if plucking thoughts like fruit, then frowned, puzzled, and went on. “Your idea’s interesting. Dragons usually take the hearts of dead kin. Only the killer or the closest kin get that privilege, like incense reserved for family. Other races, if they’re lucky enough to slay a dragon, have their finest smiths and mages shred the heart into threads, blend it with their best metals, and etch arrays so complex they make me ache. Only then can they wield a fraction of a dragon’s gift.”
“Sounds like a headache,” Lilith muttered, steam-soft and sharp. “Is a dragon’s power really that much trouble?”
“It isn’t trouble. The Dragon Gods don’t let other races steal their blessing like magpies. You pay a heavy price to glimpse even a sliver.” Nidhogg sounded matter-of-fact, like stone under moss. Dragons stand above other lives; paying much to use dragon might felt natural.
“Mm, okay.” Confusion came first; acceptance rustled after. Lilith still couldn’t think like a dragon, yet their strength towered over humans like mountains over huts.
“All right, now we deal with you. We have to undo your half-dragon state.” Nidhogg pointed at Lilith’s right hand. The Little White Dragon followed her gaze and saw white scales sheathing a claw, out of place like snow on a hearth. Hearing it said aloud made the urge to change back sprout like spring grass.
“What do I do?” Curiosity flared first; the question trailed after. “Do I eat something, or do some kind of ritual?”
“Do nothing. Usually, you just think it, and half-dragonform releases like fog in sun. I’m more curious why you haven’t undone it.” Nidhogg tapped her own temple, a knuckle rapping the door of thought.
Embarrassment stung first; action came late. The Little White Dragon pictured her arm returning to its familiar slender shape, not a dragon claw glazed in white scales.
Lilith shut her eyes, heart tight as a drum, and waited. Warm itch rose in her right hand, like ants marching through grass and nipping between breaths.
She endured for a long minute, teeth set like a dam, until the discomfort ebbed like tide. Relief loosened her chest, and she opened her eyes to look at her right hand.
The sight struck her like a mallet to the skull. Her hand had returned, just as she’d seen these three years: small and pale, a girl’s arm newly into second growth, unlike the boyish forearm she’d had for over a decade.
But crimson lines crawled there, eerie as blood-vines. They coiled like ivy on a trunk, climbing from her palm, twisting, shadowed, and creeping up the Little White Dragon’s arm toward her chest.
“W-what is this?” Panic fluttered first; words stumbled after. No wonder she’d fainted; so much miasma from that dragon had rushed into her arm like floodwater. Lucky for now, the pain stayed dull. Lilith shot a look to Nidhogg, hope clinging like dew.
“All right. Seems we have to head out.” Nidhogg stared at Lilith’s right hand, her face set like iron. She stood, took her book from the table like lifting a talisman, and walked to the door of Tartarus’s home.
“We’ll go find Lady Asterios. She’ll have a way.”
