Chapter Fifty-Four: Preparations Before the Interrogation
Lilith and a knot of Vampires stacked the Void Sect cultists together like damp firewood, ropes running short like a drying riverbed. A few got trussed up with their own robes.
Elasha slid her saber back to her waist like moonlight sheathing into cloud, folded her arms, and watched the work with cool eyes. Princess blood runs like a clear spring; she’ll lead the fight, but she won’t wade into grime.
The Little White Dragon tied knots with bright delight, at first fumbling like a fledgling in wind. It took her half a day to bind one man. By dusk, under a Vampire woman whose hands moved like swift swallows, she learned to wrap them fast.
How did the little dragon spot someone with binding experience at a glance? Vampire skin is pale as winter bone, so any other color—especially red—blooms like berries on snow. Their clothes are pure black, night draped on night, so marks on skin glare like embers in ash.
Get tied often and you learn the ropes; scars map craft like rings on a tree. So Little White Dragon could see it in one heartbeat.
Speaking of looks, Lilith herself wore a getup made for over-the-top play, a cloak like midnight that hides secrets under a blue-white cape like frost. Her backless sweater alone felt scandalous, a spark in dry grass; if anyone saw, Lilith would die of embarrassment on the spot.
The little dragon shook her head, flicking messy thoughts away like rain off feathers. She rose and drifted to Elasha’s side, her voice a ripple on still water. “They’re all tied up. What now? Wake one or two and squeeze them?”
“No need.” Elasha’s answer was steady as a stone lantern in fog. “They’re believers. Let their lord speak. That’s more efficient.” She nodded toward Abaddon, who stood in the back like a gray moth at a lamplight.
The Demon girl stared, dazed, as Vampires kicked and piled the dark‑purple hooded figures, rope biting like vines. Her small face held a pensive hush, thoughts moving like clouds over a cliff.
“Abaddon.” Lilith caught Elasha’s meaning like a spark catching tinder. Better than a dragon and a Vampire interrogating, a Demon who can wear the mask of their god will meet less resistance. No—if Abaddon goes, it isn’t an interrogation at all. It’s the Great Lord descending on lost sheep, taking the shape of a gentle girl, and soothing them with warm words like tea on a cold night. “Can you help us with a small favor?”
“Huh?” The Demon girl lifted her head, eyes wide like a startled doe. She looked at Lilith, blank as fresh snow. “What do you require of me?”
“You’re the lord the Void Sect worships, right?” Lilith remembered their first meeting like a lantern remembering its first flame. The girl wore a wide black hood, voice disguised as an adult, smoke over water. Anyone who didn’t know might picture a goat‑headed elder from old tales, a demon etched in human myth. Even Lilith might have believed she was a creed’s carved horror.
“They do call me that,” Abaddon nodded, her words slow as moss. Then she added, “But I don’t know what they’re after. Every time they seek me, they just keep asking for power, a buzzing gnat at the ear. I found them terribly annoying, and finally handed them a small thread of Lord Abaddon’s might.”
“It’s fine.” Lilith’s hand rose like a calming breeze. “You don’t need to know. Just stand before them. I’ll cue what to ask. Only Lord Abaddon can do this.”
“Really?” Abaddon’s eyes lit like a puppy spotting a bone, tail almost wagging in the mind’s eye. If Lilith hadn’t held her, she would’ve leapt like a spring.
“Wait, wait.” Lilith caught her like a kite string. “Mask yourself as you used to. Don’t let them see a little girl under that hood.” Little White Dragon pressed the Demon’s head down gently, using all her strength like rowing against current, until Abaddon settled.
“Oh. I know.” Abaddon pulled her hood on, night falling over her face. She coughed twice—cough, cough—and cleared her throat, like gravel sliding in a dry creek. “How’s this?”
The voice from under the hood wasn’t a child’s bell anymore. It rasped like an old chimney, decades of smoke grinding lung and throat to cinders, a bonfire burned down to sickly ash.
“You can do that?” Elasha’s eyes widened like frost crystals catching sun. “There are plenty of ways to alter a voice in this world. Most are magic, or tiny tricks useful only in narrow lanes. How did you manage this?”
Lilith felt no ripple of mana from the girl, not even a bead of dew. No magic, yet the sound bent like reed and river. Strange as a stone floating.
“Heh.” Abaddon puffed out her chest like a swelling pufferfish, pride bright as a lantern. “It’s Lord Abaddon’s power. Well? Will you submit?” If she spoke with her own voice, Lilith had to admit the pose was adorable, a little fish ballooning in a clear pond.
But this was a dying old man’s croak, a scarecrow speaking in winter wind. In that tone, the image curdled into a weird dream.
Stop. Lilith refused to let the picture form, driving it away like shooing bats from a cave. Otherwise, she’d be in nightmares all night.
“Alright. Let’s get to the questions.” Lilith wiped cold sweat like dew from her brow and caught Abaddon’s hand, warm as bread. “Elasha, can you wake one?”
“Your frost magic would be faster,” Elasha said, a thin smile like a knife’s edge. “But sure.”
