10. A Strange New Lodging

Nidhogg led a certain clueless loli like a shepherd with a stray lamb. Abaddon trailed the Black Dragon girl, a shadow under street lanterns. Litt sprawled on the Little White Dragon’s back, a sleepy cat on warm stone.

They slid through Lamter’s streets like a silver fish through reeds, and every passerby turned their heads like flowers tracking the sun.

It wasn’t hard to see why, the reason bright as a banner. Lilith and Nidhogg hadn’t hidden their draconic traits, scales and aura like moonlight on armor.

Lamter drew travelers from every corner like wind to a crossroads, and most had heard dragon tales, old as mountains and sharp as blades.

Two dragons walking a city street looked like myth stepping out of fog, so eyes gathered like crows on a cornfield.

The savvy made way like water parting around a rock, wary of sparks near powder. The less savvy drifted closer like moths to a lamp, curiosity tugging like tide on ankles.

No one was brave enough to stick a face in front of theirs, so the Black Dragon girl spoke, her words like warm smoke. She told the Little White Dragon a small story like beads sliding on a string.

Lilith lifted her chin like a sprout reaching for light, listening with star-bright focus. She’d poke back now and then like a fox testing a snare, or puff her cheeks in a small storm.

They walked and chatted like two bells answering each other, and the foot traffic of Lamter flowed around them like a river around a bridge.

Lamter wasn’t wide, a town cupped like a coin in a palm, and the market sat tight in the center like a heart. Soon they reached the edge of the homes, the place Aira had arranged, like a pin on a map.

“What’s this?” Lilith tipped her head like a sparrow at a crimson banner, eyes on the heavy red sign above.

They were about to move into a small inn, plain as a clay bowl. The timber house wore a thick red signboard like a lacquered shield, the word “Inn” brushed in stark white.

Just that single word, bare as bone, no other mark. It was painted in the Ancient Elven tongue, old as tree rings; without Nidhogg’s murmur, Lilith wouldn’t have known what it said.

“Who’s that sign even for?” The Little White Dragon pouted like a chick pecking a seed. “Writing only ‘Inn’—who gets it? At least put a name like a flag on a mast.”

“And don’t use only Ancient Elven,” she muttered, the complaint a small cloud. “Make it Common if you want folks to read it, like a road sign at dusk.”

“It’s not a public-facing place,” Nidhogg shrugged, shoulders loose as willow branches. “It was built to receive important guests, like a quiet hall, not a market stall.”

“So there’s no need to bait customers,” she added, voice smooth as oiled wood. “And don’t you think this style is cool, like a mountain line? It fits my picture of elves.”

“Elves aren’t obsessed with outer frills,” she smiled, a crescent moon. “Concise words that say a thing’s core, like a single stroke, match their old tastes.”

“Is that so?” Lilith tilted her head, a bird listening for rain.

“It is,” Nidhogg nodded, a stone set sure.

The Black Dragon girl stepped up and knocked twice on the brown door, knuckles rapping like seeds on a drum. From inside came a clang-clatter like pots doing battle, then a shabby elf pulled the door open like lifting a lazy curtain.

She had pale gold hair like straw lit by dawn, and she looked twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, young bark on a tall tree. Her cloth outfit hung plain as muslin, no decoration, no shine.

Her long hair was a bird’s nest blown by wind, uncombed as wild grass. The worn clothes draped off-shoulder like a loose shawl, a sweep of white shoulder bare as porcelain.

“Haah… who is it?” She yawned wide like a cat at noon and cracked one eye like a coin slit. She glanced at Nidhogg at the door, paused like a stone in a stream, then said, “Oh, it’s you—ten-some years and still the same face.”

“You’ve grown a lot,” Nidhogg answered, calm as a slate sky. “You look like your mother now, two leaves on one branch. Can we come in? It’s past dinner; the belly drum is knocking.”

“No food,” the elf waved, hand lazy as drifting smoke. “Make do with cookies, crumbs like snow.”

“Got drinks at least?” Nidhogg’s voice dipped, a line of ink.

“Only black tea, okay?” Her reply came slow as honey, a tone that begged a nudge.

“This one…” Nidhogg curled her lip, a ripple in a pond. Lilith listened, blinking like a deer, feeling Lamter’s elves all unreliable, like being back home in a muddled hut.

“Don’t mind her,” Nidhogg said, soft as fleece. “Many elves still live in yesterday’s rhythm, minds camping in forests like tents among pines.”

“They hunt and gather in their heads like old seasons,” she went on, a teacher by the hearth. “They’re not ready for the fast drumbeat of modern days, so others see them as lacking zest, fire low as embers. She’s one of those.”

“Don’t judge by the slump,” Nidhogg added, a finger on her chin like a thinker’s statue. “She’s actually young.”

“Mio,” she said, a name dropped like a pebble in a well. “She just turned twenty this year, a sapling year, but she dresses like thirty-something, dusk on noon.”

“Stand her next to her mother,” Nidhogg sighed, breath like a leaf falling. “You wouldn’t know who’s the daughter, two mirrors fogged alike.”

“Twenty?” Lilith blinked, surprise bright as lightning. Elves live long like old oaks; why the tired look at twenty like late autumn?

“Yeah,” Nidhogg said, a low note. “No idea what she’s been through, storms like knives.”

“A dozen years ago she was cute,” she remembered, a picture from a dusty shelf. “A little gloomy, a shadow at noon, but lovable like a soft peach. How did she end up like this, bark stripped by wind?”

“Probably got beaten by life,” Lilith guessed, words dry as straw.

“Maybe,” Nidhogg said, shaking her head like a bell. She slipped inside, steps quiet as mist.

Mio didn’t even show them the way; she drifted like a cloud. Nidhogg shut the door with a small thud like a book closing and led the three little girls into the kitchen, a warm square like a hearth corner.

Inside, the inn looked as shabby as its skin, a house that had sat empty like a field, then took in people after a quick sweep like a broom’s first pass.

Dust motes turned in sunbeams like tiny galaxies, and the place felt patched like an old coat, hardly a guest hall.

“You sure we didn’t get the wrong place?” Lilith whispered at Nidhogg’s ear, a hush like wind through grass. “Did Aira really arrange this nest for us?”

“It’s the right spot,” Nidhogg breathed back, words soft as silk. “I’ve stayed here since my first time in Lamter, seasons turning like pages.”

“It looks worn,” she admitted, a hand on the grain. “But it’s comfy once you settle, like sandals molding to your feet.”

“Alright,” Lilith said, her head tucking back like a turtle retreating.

“If you’re not happy,” Nidhogg offered, voice steady as an oar. “I can find us a proper inn, a brighter lantern.”

She squeezed Lilith’s hand, warmth like a live coal. The little dragon hummed, a note like a kettle, and she squeezed back, grip neat as a knot.