Lilith and her party left the Holy Mountain in short order, their shadows threading down white slopes like ink lines on snow.

Going down took less time than climbing. Little White Dragon pushed her pace, and after a day on the glacier, Lilith had learned to plant her feet in the narrow seams between snow and stone, like stepping stones hidden under frost.

Without the Little White Dragon dawdling behind them, everyone moved faster. They reached Lamter before the sun dipped like a copper coin into the horizon.

Aila hadn’t assigned guides. Nidhogg, who’d been to Lamter many times, took the role. Once inside the city, the Black Dragon led Lilith southwest, her finger tracing streets like lines on a map.

“I’m not seeing any inns near the center,” Lilith said, eyes roaming the shopfronts. Strange storefronts lined the avenue, with eateries wedged between them like warm lanterns in a market sea.

“Because this is the commercial district.” Nidhogg stopped at a crossroads, her boots set on stone like anchors. She pointed to a signboard that hung like a wooden pennant. “See? We’re in Lamter’s heart, on the street that links the north and south markets. No lodgings here. If you want an inn, cross this avenue. Inns sit on the edge of the residential zone.”

“Wait, Lamter’s zoning is that strict?” Lilith tilted her head, thoughts buzzing like bees. It felt like an old ward-market model wrapped around the city; with a cage like that, how do you let trade breathe?

“It’s strict. In areas designed for commerce, you can’t build anything except statues of Mali.” Nidhogg glanced up at a sky pale as parchment. “Other zones are looser, but the commercial district must stay pure. That’s mostly Mali’s demand. He doesn’t like his market stained.”

“Is Mali that strict a god?” Lilith asked, a soft frown clouding like mist. The gods she’d met were easygoing—Lord Icarus was gentleness itself, and as for the Grim Reaper, the Nameless One… she wouldn’t speak ill.

“Not especially,” Nidhogg said, tone calm as river glass. “Mali’s tolerant most of the time.” She lifted a shoulder. “The Mali Canon is a thin booklet. The first page sets a few trade maxims. The rest records common methods and rules of commerce.”

“So the theologians say the Mali Canon functions more like a trade textbook than a religious scripture.” Nidhogg rummaged in her bag, parchment whispering like dry leaves, and pulled out a small booklet. “See? I carry one. About ten years old. It shouldn’t differ much from the current edition.”

“Oh.” Lilith took the booklet. The sheepskin cover felt smooth, like cool skin under snowlight. No title on the cover; if there was one, it hid behind the first page. She tucked the booklet away, like stowing a coin in a sleeve, saving it for the inn.

“Then why won’t Mali let Lamter build other things in the commercial district?” Lilith came back to her first question, curiosity pricking like falling sleet.

“Because…” Nidhogg hesitated, words hovering like birds on a wire.

Lilith stared—hard. Her gaze pressed like a hand on a door.

Nidhogg coughed, turning aside, a small flutter in her throat. “Mainly, Mali’s a bit of a neat freak.”

“Huh?” Lilith’s eyes widened, bright as river pearls.

“Yes. It’s in Lamter’s chronicles.” Nidhogg cleared her throat and began, her voice steady as a drumbeat. “A thousand years ago, when Lamter was first founded, plant magic hadn’t sprouted yet. Elves knew only what they were born with. Children of the forest held longbows instead of staffs; bowstrings sang wind, not runes.”

“Lamter formed when an expedition from Kuri settled here. Back then, this was land that once belonged to the God of Mountains, whose true name was lost. Lamter folks hadn’t begun trading.”

“About two hundred years ago, a traveler from afar brought a small doll and set it in Lamter’s center. The next day, a werewolf who lived here took it apart and found twenty-three sheets of sheepskin parchment inside. When he started reading, his spirit got swept into a strange space, like a leaf caught by a whirlpool.”

“There, he met a god. Humanoid in shape, with three arms and three eyes, pointed ears like knife-peaks, and four pairs of wings folded like shutters. The god gave the werewolf a bronze cauldron and warned him: coins forged in that cauldron would carry divine power.”

“At first, no one believed the werewolf. Folks thought he’d gone mad. They sought priests and bards to treat him. When nothing worked, they didn’t exile him. They locked him in a Lamter house, shutters closed like eyelids.”

“Two months later, he died. Before he passed, he left one parchment recording every word between him and Mali, making twenty-four in total. With the original twenty-three from the doll, that’s the origin of the Mali Canon.”

“Years later, Mediwen published a paper that reshaped Kuri like a flood reshapes a riverbed. Lamter rose fast thanks to the precious plants on the Selnos Mountains, mountains like green apothecaries lining the sky.”

“As Lamter expanded, the werewolf’s friend and his descendants started preaching Mali’s faith. Coins forged with the sacred cauldron truly bore Mali’s blessing, and trade surged at a pace ordinary minds couldn’t picture. The Mali Church blossomed, replacing the God of Mountains as Lamter’s main faith.”

“Then, a hundred and fifty years ago, at the first Coining Festival, Mali descended to earth. He spoke to the Archbishop for five minutes, then left the final parchment. Forty-eight sheets made the Mali Canon—the booklet I gave you. Mali’s commercial-district rule sits on the last page.”

Nidhogg finished her long tale, the words settling like snow on still water. Lilith rarely heard the history of a city’s rise and drift. Listening now felt fresh and bright, like finding a warm window in winter.

Wonder pricked her chest first, then thought. How did this Black Dragon girl—just barely adult—know so much? Little White Dragon felt like Nidhogg had walked the continent for centuries. Whatever Lilith asked, Nidhogg had an answer ready, like pulling tools from a tidy chest.

“You really know a lot,” Lilith breathed, admiration curling like steam.

“Just skin-deep,” Nidhogg said, modest as dusk. “I’ve come to Lamter many times. Swap the city, and I might not do as well.” She reached out to rub Lilith’s head, fingers gentle as wind over reeds.

Lilith tilted fast to dodge, but Nidhogg caught her horn and pressed her back, laughter in her grip. The Little White Dragon became the helpless prey of the Black Dragon’s claws, fluff under a paw.

“You’re too young,” Nidhogg said, voice warm as embers. “In the Dragon Territory, a little dragon like you isn’t just underage—you’re a fresh hatchling.”

“Besides, you’re not a pureborn dragon. You transformed from human into a White Dragon. Your body’s started to develop, sure, but to dragons you’re still an infant. Don’t worry. Demon dragons live long. You’ve got years to stack knowledge like stones. Someday, you’ll be the one who knows much.”

“Mm.” Lilith wriggled free of Nidhogg’s fidgeting. She wasn’t a child—being patted like one soured her mood like rain on coals. She huffed, cheeks puffing like a pufferfish, and glared. “I’m not a kid. I may not be that smart, and I don’t know that much, but I’m already a mature big dragon!”

“But you only reach my waist,” Nidhogg said, pricking the bubble with a needle of truth.

“You look about my size too,” Abaddon murmured aside, words smooth as slate. “Lord Satan says I’m still growing. When I talk to others, I can’t call myself a mature adult. I can only call myself Lord Abaddon.”

“You two—!” Lilith sputtered, heat rising to her face like sunrise. “Then—then—I’m a young dragon in a full-on growth spurt! Almost an adult! I just look a bit silly. I’m not some know-nothing hatchling.”

“All right, all right.” Nidhogg soothed her, hand gliding down Lilith’s white hair. She stroked her like a cat, smoothing the bristle. The puffed-up Little White Dragon deflated, calm stealing back like tide.

Nidhogg thought, a dry smile in her chest: Better a clueless hatchling, or a clumsy, silly maiden?

Silly loli indeed.