Eleven: A Shabby Inn, A Strange Proprietress

Lilith followed Nidhogg to the table, an island of light in a dim sea, and sat down.

She set Abaddon opposite them, like a chess piece placed for balance. The Demon girl on the far side hugged an empty teacup, legs swinging like a metronome.

Nidhogg set a tiny baby chair beside Lilith, a small throne dropped into place. The Black Dragon said she’d dug it out of the inn’s storeroom.

The Little White Dragon sighed that the inn looked shabby like a molting sparrow, yet its supplies were surprisingly complete. She nestled Litt into the seat with a careful hand.

A Divine Fragment didn’t need food. A touch of Lilith’s magic or a sip of Taint kept her bright, like a coal with its own ember. But Lilith needed to eat.

Carrying a miniature god everywhere made meals and rest clumsy, like holding an umbrella indoors. So the unreliable Little White Dragon parked Litt right at her side.

“Be good, no mischief, alright?” Lilith pressed her snow-pale cheek to Litt’s dumpling-soft cheek, ocean-blue eyes locked to scarlet like moonlight on a brazier.

“Mm-hmm! Litt knows!” The Divine Fragment’s voice was milk-soft, a bell under a blanket. She could talk, but she was two or three at heart.

Lilith had tried real conversation and hit fog, so she switched to the lilt she used to coax her kid sister, like a flute easing a skittish foal.

“Good girl, Litt’s the best. Back in the room, I’ll give you something tasty.” Lilith stroked the child’s fluffy hair, a smile blooming like spring plum.

Who said all kids were little demons? This one was an angel with warm hands. Just looking at Litt, Lilith felt her heart melt like sugar in tea.

“Mm, Litt wants milk!” The girl beamed, pointing at Lilith’s little plain with the faintest hills, voice bright as a firecracker. “Litt wants Mommy’s milk!”

“Huh?” Heat flared up Lilith’s cheeks in a rush, a tomato fresh from the steamer. Steam all but puffed from her head like a kettle.

She stammered, words tripping like loose beads. “W-who taught you that?”

“Big sister!” Litt tilted her baby-round face to the ceiling, a pale finger spearing the air toward Abaddon. Her eyes sparkled like festival lamps. “Sister said babies drink Mommy’s milk.”

Lilith swung her gaze over, a dagger of a look. The gray-white Demon lady flinched and turned away, her guilt like a cat caught paw-deep in fish.

Lilith let the culprit go for now. She cupped Litt’s cheeks with both hands, palms warm like fresh bread. Her tone turned earnest, heavy as a folded fan.

“Litt, listen. Not every child drinks Mommy’s milk. Lots of kids like formula. And dragon children, like Mommy, don’t nurse after hatching.”

“Really?” Litt tipped her small head, curiosity shining like a drop of dew.

“Really.” Lilith nodded, solemn as a judge, her lie smooth as silk for peace’s sake.

“Pfft.” The Black Dragon girl couldn’t hold back a snort, laughter bubbling like a secret spring. She leaned close to Lilith’s ear, voice a breeze behind a screen.

“Dragons are closer to humans after, you know, reproduction. Baby dragons do have a nursing period. So little dragons do get milk.”

“You talk too much.” Lilith cut her a side-eye, a fan-slap without the fan. She lowered her voice, a soft hiss. “I’m calming a child. Don’t stir mud.”

“If you’re idle, ask Mio if the black tea’s ready. And if she has hot milk. I’m afraid Abaddon won’t sleep after tea.”

“You handle kids like a pro, huh?” Nidhogg knew she’d pushed too far. The Little White Dragon was bristling, like a cat with raised fur.

To avoid getting kicked out of the room and sent downstairs to drink with Mio, the Black Dragon obeyed. She rose, widening the space between them like a careful step on thin ice.

“I mean it.” She glanced toward the kitchen nearby, warm as a hearth. “You slipped into the parent role fast.”

“I used to look after my little brother and sister, so I’ve got practice.” Lilith lowered her head, fingers playing a game with Litt’s hands like shadow puppets. “I’m not a parent. I’m their temp big sister at best.”

She wasn’t lying. Back when she still went by Fan Yu, she did have younger siblings. Add a school of cousins, and she ranked second in a pond of ducklings.

The oldest was older by only a few days, a sliver of moon. She’d banked years of kid-handling, so watching Litt and Abaddon fit her like a glove.

Only her heart didn’t fit. Once, she’d been the reliable big brother, a pillar in a storm. Now she was a petite mom herding two little comets. The whiplash hurt.

The thought rose like a dark tide. She swallowed the sigh like bitter tea, then smiled warm as lantern light. She played with the little Fragment, laughter knitted like a soft scarf.

Nidhogg watched a dragon and a Divine Fragment on one side, and a Demon princess on the other, a painting with clashing inks. She let out a breath like autumn wind.

Lilith was still a child herself. Asking her to tend children was a stone on soft shoulders.

Nidhogg wouldn’t help, not out of laziness, but fate. She had no gift for childcare, a terror famed for stopping night-crying—because babies froze like rabbits at a hawk’s shadow.

She’d scare Litt. Then Lilith would bare her fangs. Better to check on an old friend.

She slipped to the kitchen, feet light as a cat’s. A sign hung on the door like a warding charm: “Kitchen—Authorized Personnel Only.”

She pushed through to a clean, bright space. A lone figure stood at the stoves, the air spiced and warm like a festival stall.

Mio was wrestling a big pot, steam curling up like ghosts. Vegetables stacked at her elbow like a little market.

She followed a recipe pinned to the wall, adding greens one by one into the glug-glug of the iron cauldron, a pond freckled by bubbles.

Nidhogg ghosted to the fridge. No squeak, no clink. She opened it and pulled a chilled bottle, cold fog kissing her fingers.

She popped the cap against the door with a click like a pebble on a bell. One sip of the brown fizz and she sighed, satisfaction spreading like warm sake.

“Looks like you’re rusty with this soup.” She stood behind Mio, one hand on cool glass, the other a light perch on the elf’s shoulder. Her eyes skimmed the bubbling broth.

“The onions aren’t caramelized enough, not that golden river. And the potatoes should’ve gone in five minutes ago. Any later and they won’t go mealy.”

“You’re so annoying!” Mio snapped, words sharp as a ladle’s edge. But she still tipped in the cut potatoes, rescuing the dish from the brink like a net under a tightrope.

With the pot settled to a slow simmer, she wiped sweat from her brow, a crescent of damp like rain on stone. She glanced back. “You still crave this soup after all these years?”

Ten years had passed like leaves down a stream. “How come you remember it better than me?”

“I like this soup.” Nidhogg’s answer was a stone in the river, simple and sure. “Humans track their loves. Dragons fixate even more.”

“And I’m guessing the Little White Dragon traveling with me will like it too,” she added, voice lazy as a cat in sun.

“Yeah?” Mio arched a brow, a bowstring testing draw. She scrubbed her face with a towel, then tossed it into the sink like a spent ribbon. “You know her tastes now?”

“Not that well. But we lived together a while.” Nidhogg’s gaze drifted, memory a lantern in mist. “She’s picky, and she’ll never tell you.”

“She’ll eat what you cook, but if she dislikes it, she’ll eat a bird’s share. She’ll go hungry and won’t complain.”

“Yikes. Sounds like a handful.” Mio’s nose wrinkled, a leaf curled by heat. For all her messy look and this ragged inn, she was still in the service trade.

A customer like the Little White Dragon was a needle to thread. “So you came to hand me a cheat sheet so I dodge land mines when I cook?”

“Of course not. If you want to know what she likes, ask her.” Nidhogg blinked at her, expression flat as a pond. No hesitation, no list.

“Then why are you here?” Mio grumbled, voice a wooden spoon against iron.

“To drink.” Nidhogg lifted the glass bottle, the label shining like a badge. “Nuclear Cola. Kuri’s craze.”

“I wanted one on the magic rail, but the car sold out. So I’m raiding yours.”

“For real?” Mio stared, her mood wobbling like a plate on a stick.

“Not just that.” Nidhogg shook her head, hair a dark curtain. She returned to the fridge and pulled two dew-cold pouches of milk. From the top box, she took one bottle at room temp.

“I’m bringing the little ones drinks.” Her arms were a cradle of white bags, cool as morning stone.

Mio watched, speechless, as the Black Dragon marched toward the dining room, the milk swaying like lanterns on a pole. A sigh rose like steam.

Before it escaped, Nidhogg reappeared, swift as a kite on a gust. Mio opened her mouth to ask.

The Black Dragon went straight to the fridge, grabbed an entire pack of Nuclear Cola, and headed back out, face smooth as lacquer.

“Huh?”