1 A New Journey
“Why are we in a carriage, anyway?” Lilith’s voice drooped like rain-beaten grass, the carriage swaying like a small boat on a slow, stubborn tide.
On the tenth day after leaving Morris, she slumped on three stacked cushions, and the Little White Dragon sprawled like a lazy cat on a sun-warmed ledge. It wasn’t boredom gnawing at her ribs; it was the dull churn of motion sickness, a sea inside a box.
She was carriage-sick. Of all things, carriage-sick.
“Because dragons can’t just stroll into Holy Loertada in broad daylight,” Nidhogg said, breath steady as a thread of incense, fingers absently rubbing the Little White Dragon’s horns like polishing moonstone. Lilith, breath thin as a hanging thread, had no strength to swat her hands away, so she let the tide wash over the rocks. “If a dragon wants to visit, we have to submit a month in advance—purpose of travel, length of stay, number of companions, the whole river of details—then wait for an embassy elsewhere to approve. Otherwise, it stirs up a storm of diplomacy.” She tapped lightly. “You looped through the no-man’s land to reach Morris, so you never felt that gate.”
“Then why can’t we go through the no-man’s land again…” Lilith’s grievance welled up like a brimming pond, her body feeling borrowed and bone-light, eyes pearled with tears as she looked at Nidhogg like a cub in the rain.
“Because Lady Lanni, city lord of Lamter, is an old friend,” Nidhogg said, voice as calm as dusk on a lake. “When she learned I meant to head for Kuri, she sent me an invitation stamped warm as a fresh seal. One week from now is Lamter’s most important festival of the year—the Coining Festival. On that day, all of Lamter gathers like swallows returning, tips their prepared metal into one great cauldron, melts it like a river of light, and casts it into currency, which they hand out to everyone who joins the rite.”
“And someone has to light the bonfire under the cauldron,” she went on, eyes glinting like coals in a brazier. “By tradition, that person is chosen from outlanders, and the stranger the spark, the richer the blessing the Lamter folk expect to receive. So we have to reach Lamter before the flames leap.”
Usually, the Little White Dragon would have perked up like a sparrow at dawn. Today, nausea dragged like wet clothes, and she wanted to just keel over and let the current take her. She only managed a threadbare whisper, air trembling on her lips.
“Then why don’t you fly there alone? Why drag me into a carriage too? We can fly; can’t we just fly over that Holy… Kagilda or whatever?” Lilith grumbled, voice thick as fog, hugging her own tail like a lifeline.
“Holy Loertada,” Nidhogg corrected gently, like setting a cup straight on a table. “If you fly over their skies, they’ll call it trespass, and their national defenses might blast you from the clouds like a thunderhead swatting a bird. As for why I don’t go alone—it’s because Lanni invited you, not me.”
“Me?” Lilith tilted her head, ears pricking like a fawn’s in tall grass.
“Think about it. I’m a dragon too, but just a Black Dragon—maybe not that ordinary, but still a Black Dragon,” Nidhogg smiled, light as a moth’s wing. “I visited Lamter years ago. I lit that year’s Coining fire. Do it twice, and the blessing thins like watered wine.”
“So you’ve set your sights on me?” Lilith pointed at herself with a small, pale finger, her tail flicking in limp protest like a tired cow swatting flies, weak enough to make you want to catch it in your hands. Nidhogg laughed, the sound a bell in the wind, and cleared her throat under Lilith’s plaintive stare.
“Yes. White Dragons are rare as snow in summer. Lanni might live her whole life never hearing of another White Dragon but you, so of course she’ll seize the chance.” Nidhogg leaned back, easy as shade. “As for me, I’m going as her friend, privately. I don’t need to show my face during the Coining Festival.”
Lilith rolled on the cushions and stared up at the carriage’s rounded ceiling, like watching a pale moon through a paper lantern. A sigh slipped out, light as smoke. “Can I refuse?”
“You can.” Nidhogg didn’t hesitate; her nod was clean as a falling leaf. “If you’re unwilling, I’ll tell Lanni. She can pick another outlander to kindle the fire. Or I can do it again; thin blessing is still warm bread. It’s her request to you; refusing carries no sin.”
“Forget it. It’s just lighting a fire. Lady Lilith will be magnanimous and help them,” she declared, chin lifting like a proud crane. “Remember to tell that Lanni she should be grateful.”
She’d been around Abaddon too much; that proud little-demon lilt had crept into her like spice into broth. Ruder said, she was a bratty imp. Still cute, though, so the world could forgive it.
“Alright, I’ll pass it on,” Nidhogg said, already tucking away a secret smile like a ribbon. She meant to join her old friend and prepare a grand surprise. “She’ll make you feel like an honored guest in your own home.”
“That’s more like it. Ahem—behold, the great Lady Lilith descends upon her loyal Lamter—ugh!” Her nose tilted skyward like a tiny emperor’s, but her face went sea-green in a heartbeat, and she rolled off the cushions like a toppled bun.
Nidhogg moved with practiced ease, setting a white clay jar by Lilith’s lips, steady as a rock on a riverbank. The Little White Dragon retched straight into the jar. Abaddon had made it special, a pocket of void added to the bottom—originally to handle Litt’s vomit—and she’d crafted an extra for Lilith.
By the way, Litt is the one who nearly didn’t make it; Lilith disliked calling her “the stillborn,” so she gave the child that name instead. The little girl takes after her mother, and she gets carriage-sick too; these last days have wrung her out, with Abaddon nursing her like a lantern-keeper through long night.
The Little White Dragon heaved until the meager breakfast she’d forced down was gone, until even half-digested scraps surrendered like leaves in a gutter. Not done, her stomach’s sour water came up in waves, mouth stinging like bitten citrus. She remembered her past life’s stomach illness—the same bitter tide—wondering if this cursed motion sickness had followed her across the river of lives.
The thought blurred, and another swell rose; she only had time to breathe like a fish in shallow water.
Nidhogg soothed her, palm steady as a metronome on her back, patting out a rhythm that smoothed the chop on the lake of her gut.
“Ugh…” After what felt like an age, Lilith lifted her small face from the jar, eyes dull as a winter sky, and flopped onto the floorboards like a salted fish. “Nidhogg, I think I see my uncle waving at me again.”
“I know,” Nidhogg said dryly, a smile hiding like a fox in reeds. “I’ve never even heard of an uncle of yours named Maenna.” She scooped Lilith up; when she felt awful, the White Dragon would curl like a cat into a tight, snowy ball, a big white fluff that sat on the cushions like an extra pillow delivered by the clouds.
Nidhogg wondered, not for the first time, how Lilith folded herself so small—flexible as willow, soft as milk foam.
Feeling the floor was no nest, she pulled a blanket from her luggage, warm as bread from an oven. She set Lilith on her lap and draped the blanket over the small, yielding body like a gentle snowfall.
“Mmph…” Lilith knit her brows and let out a thin hum, then clutched Nidhogg’s shirt with pale knuckles, burrowing her head into the Black Dragon’s stomach like a kitten nosing into a warm den.
Nidhogg eyed the new wrinkle in her clothes with helpless fondness, fingers stroking Lilith’s hair like combing silk. She bent low and whispered in her ear, voice soft as night rain, “Sleep. Sleep, and it’ll pass.”
Lilith nodded, hazy as mist, and sank her cheek into that warm, living softness. Bit by bit, her thoughts loosened like knots undone, and she let sleep wrap her like a quiet tide.
