Chapter Six: City Lord’s Manor

Lilith and her companions left the flower fields, petals drifting behind them like a fading lake of blue.

The first stab of feeling was anxiety, sharp as cracked ice. Litt woke as the Little White Dragon was about to depart, the small shard thrown into an unfamiliar world and crying in panic.

Lilith had to stop, fumbling to soothe the tiny one curled inside her hood, that hood like a snug burrow in winter frost.

Her awkward cooing did nothing. Snot and tears painted her blue-and-white cloak; the Holy light on the fabric shed the grime like husks onto the snow, only for Litt to smear a fresh layer in a blink.

Abaddon finally plucked a small cluster of echo flowers and pressed it into Litt’s hand, and the storm of crying ceased as if a wind had changed.

With the tears gone, Litt gripped the echo flower and giggled, rolling within the dragon’s hood like a happy pebble; Lilith’s strength was never much, and she nearly got yanked off her feet.

A cool hand from Nidhogg steadied her, a quiet rock under wave, and Lilith didn’t flop backward onto the stone.

A bit miffed, the Little White Dragon sternly taught Litt not to wriggle in her hood; the obedient shard bobbed a tiny nod and stilled, like a chick tucked under wing.

Then came chatter. Litt, all baby-soft vowels, held a one-person conversation with the echo flower; the blossom only repeated his words, yet he laughed like bells, the sound too bright for snowy silence.

Thank the Holy Mountain’s emptiness—no crowds to hear—yet even without ears around, Lilith’s patience thinned like frost under noon sun.

It was just too noisy.

One dinner’s threat did the trick. The shard promised not to wriggle or babble, then hid inside Lilith’s hood and peeked with half a white head—like a marmot from soil.

But Lilith herself was a white blur, snow-bright; so he was a snow rabbit poking up from drifted white.

After that small interlude, Lilith matched Nidhogg’s steps and left the azure field behind, blue fading into white like dusk swallowing a lake.

Beyond lay only endless purity. That field seemed the last living mark on this small mountain; once they bade farewell to the sea of echoing blooms, the Holy Mountain held only silent snow and mute stone.

Even Nidhogg seemed caught by the chill around them, turning back into that cold, distant presence Lilith met at the start, a glacier with a heartbeat.

Boredom pricked first, then a timid call; Lilith tried calling the Black Dragon, but the other didn’t stir, like rock under snow.

Disappointed, the Little White Dragon let her head droop and shuffled forward. She chose the only game every schoolkid knew—stones are safe, step off and the world is lava.

Perfect terrain. On the Holy Mountain, aside from the exposed black slate road, all else was quilted in heavy snow; one misstep meant icy soak, a cold dagger through the bones Lilith refused to test.

So she trailed Nidhogg, eyes locked on the slabs, hopping from one dark rise to the next like a bright sparrow skimming stepping-stones.

Behind her, Litt got jostled at first and winced, but soon found the rhythm; he raised his tiny hand and echo flower high, cheering like a small banner in wind.

One dragon and one shard, a bargain-bin mother-daughter pair, bounced along the Holy Mountain without a shred of pilgrimage solemnity, their feet tapping the black stones like a drumline.

Lilith even started doubting herself—why disguise like this just to come up the mountain? The thought drifted in, then slipped away like breath in cold air.

The ice-slick slabs made hopping far harder than she’d imagined; keeping up with Nidhogg demanded full focus, a tightrope over glass.

She shelved her daydreams and sunk into the childhood don’t-touch-the-lines game, heartbeat syncing with stone.

“Ah!” Joy broke—and then soft impact above. Lilith felt a cushion against her head and realized she’d bumped someone; Nidhogg had stopped, and she had rammed straight into her back.

“Ow… why’d you stop?” She rubbed her reddened forehead, little whine curling like steam, sidled past the Black Dragon’s back, and lifted her gaze.

A manor stood ahead, still and dignified, like a hearth-lit island in a white sea.

Not large, not lavish, yet it matched every stereotype in her head of a Western noble’s home: a wide yard, a three-story main house, and a lower side house like a stout barn for storage.

Windows thick, glass layered like ice; the walls looked heavy as winter coats—fair, the Holy Mountain gnawed with cold, the outside buried under snow.

The walls were gray-brown, so the place looked more like northern poor folk’s cabins than a noble’s mansion; yet gems hung on the front door like frost-lit beads—no commoner could afford this roof.

Beside the door hung a plaque. The Elvish script meant nothing to Lilith, but the translation told the story clear.

In Common and Old Draconic, it read: City Lord’s Manor. Lilith didn’t know Elvish, sure, but she wasn’t a little illiterate.

“City Lord’s Manor. We’re here? I thought it’d take longer.” Wonder came first, then a prickle of disbelief; the mountain’s foot had been almost sweltering, and here the cold bit like iron.

It was colder than southern winter, for sure.

“We did spend a lot of time. You just didn’t notice.” Nidhogg raised a finger toward the pale sun overhead, and Lilith saw it—once west, now east, a day flipped like a page.

“When did that happen?” Shock widened her eyes; she’d felt like they walked an hour. Travel taught her to sense time, yet time had slipped like sand.

“The God of Mountains’ blessing,” Nidhogg said, voice like smoke over snow. “A merciful deity shelters every creature that steps upon Her body.”

“Otherwise, how do those pilgrims in single shirts, fasting, reach the summit alive? The God of Mountains dulls time’s bite and softens fatigue’s claw, or they’d die halfway up.”

“For those who kowtow every three steps, or little kids like you hopping along, She’ll even restore strength so you won’t feel too tired.” Nidhogg’s sigh carried old ash. “If not for that war thousands of years ago, She’d have more faithful. The Mother of Mountains is a gentle god.”

“Mm.” Lilith nodded, accepting the measure, though the “kid” label pricked like a thorn. She didn’t argue; not cowardice, just odds—she couldn’t out-talk Nidhogg, and a quarrel would earn her another string of strange nicknames.

“Shall we go in?” She pointed at the front gate, a small white finger against black iron. “Your city-lord friend’s inside, right? How do we get in? Does the manor even allow Demons?”

“Of course. Didn’t I say Lamter’s faith is free? Only the Holy Mountain bans heretics.” Nidhogg strode up and thumped the iron gate twice, metal ringing like dull bells.

“What’s the point? If you can’t climb the Holy Mountain, how do you enter the lord’s house?” Lilith muttered, rules scratching her head like dry twigs. “Weird rules.”

“Don’t ask so much. You’ll get used to it.” The gate opened slowly under the Black Dragon’s shadow. Nidhogg set Abaddon down at last; the little Demon, carried like a sack along the road, stretched long like a cat in sun.

“I know,” Abaddon chimed, voice smug as a spark. “Lord Satan told me. This is what they call formalism.”

“That’s not how you use that word.” Lilith tried to correct, then realized the meaning wasn’t wrong; she swallowed the lecture like lukewarm tea.

“No real difference.” Nidhogg shrugged and led them inside, steps steady as a metronome.

To Lilith’s surprise, two Elves in thick fur coats had been waiting behind the gate, still as pine trunks. When the group entered, the woman on the left bowed slightly, then turned and guided them toward the house.

They stepped into the spacious manor, and warm air pushed back the knife-cold wind like a tide. Lilith liked cool places, yet the rush from frost to fire felt delicious, like hands wrapped around a cup.

Their guide shifted—no more fur, now a maid’s dress on an Elf. She led them upstairs to a long corridor on the second floor, then stopped, voice polished.

“Lady Nidhogg, please.” She stepped aside, arm curving like a ribbon.

How does she know Nidhogg’s name? A chill crawled up Lilith’s spine first, then suspicion; she felt like a fish already in a net.

“I know.” Nidhogg nodded, walked straight to the closed door at the end, laid her hand on the handle, turned, and pushed in without knocking.

Lilith darted after her, slipping through the doorway like a quick shadow.

Inside, a desk drowned under files—stacks higher than a person, paper cliffs in lamplight. The sight snapped her mind to the Vampire Princess’s office; that ceiling had been torn off like a lid—where was Elasha working now?

The Elf behind the desk looked nothing like Elasha’s ease. Her dark circles were bigger than her eyes, a crescent of night under each lid; Lilith didn’t dare guess how many days she hadn’t slept.

“I knew it’d be you,” the Elf—Aila—said, voice flat with fatigue. “Only you would walk the Holy Mountain wearing that mask. And you brought a poor kid roped up here. She’s the Lilith you mentioned?”

“That’s her,” Nidhogg said, shameless as midwinter sky. “And I don’t see a problem. I’ve done this for over ten years. No guard has dared come catch me.”

“Of course. You’re a noble Black Dragon. As long as you don’t blow up the Holy Mountain, no one will touch you.” Aila rolled her eyes, the motion dry as paper. “But could you wear a different god’s symbol next time? I’m begging you. Stop wearing Mali’s mask.”

“Mali’s mask?” Lilith couldn’t help taking the bait; a bad premonition rose like fog. “Isn’t that for disguising as a Demon?”

Aila stared at Lilith in silence, then turned to Nidhogg. “Has she always been this easy to fool?”

Nidhogg slid Lilith a side glance and nodded. “Always.”

“Nidhogg!”

Lilith let out a sharp pop, a little firecracker of outrage snapping in the room.