Forty: Where Tattered Gods Never Cast Their Eyes

Nidhogg didn’t love the idea of letting the Little White Dragon follow Liya home; caution coiled in her chest like a cold snake. Then she thought of the girl’s bite—her strength—like steel under silk. Lamter wasn’t a storm‑tossed city; it was a placid harbor under gray skies. With her new weapon, Lilith was a thorn no one could grasp without bleeding. The Black Dragon girl murmured a few soft warnings, like a mother bird fussing, then let the White Dragon slip away like a pale fish.

Liya wasn’t thrilled about bringing Lilith home; the little werewolf wore a storm‑cloud scowl and shuffled along, head drooping like a wilted reed. “Why the long face?” The Little White Dragon wasn’t dense; she’d stopped Liya’s grab, and now was marching her toward her guardian like a lamb to a gate. If it were Lilith, she wouldn’t be happy either; fairness felt like frost on the tongue. Still, teasing this razor‑smart cub felt like kicking drifted snow; the crunch was satisfying. So Lilith chose mischief, a spark under dry leaves.

“Because if I bring you back, Ama will be upset,” Liya muttered, her voice a pebble skimming a pond. “Ama forbids us to bring strangers. She’ll see I failed to lift anything this time, and she’ll beat me like a drum. And my sister’s food will go up in smoke, like a pot left too long.”

“Why not ask someone else for help?” Lilith asked, words light as windchimes. “Forget Lamter’s orphanage for a moment. Even the Mali Church runs relief for the poor; they’re a lantern in rain. Why didn’t you go?” Lilith, a tourist under a month, knew that much; she couldn’t believe a local kid wouldn’t, like a fisherman ignoring the pier.

Liya’s tone sagged with sorrow like wet cloth. “We don’t have papers. Ama took us in as babies. No household registration, no records—just names written on water. Lamter’s institutions won’t touch us; their hands are gloves. We have to survive on our own, like grass between stones.”

“Makes sense,” Lilith nodded, the thought settling like a pebble. She heard another key in those words, a sharp tooth hidden in the mud. This Ama didn’t just traffic kids; she cherry‑picked infants with no papers, kids like smoke without shadows. That wasn’t petty crime; that called for a hammer, not a feather, for thunder, not drizzle.

“Does Ama take everything you lift, then dole out the food?” Lilith asked, curiosity stretching like a cat. When they met, she suspected there’d be only one way to talk—through fists beating like drums. If she didn’t ask now, she might never get answers; doors close like eyelids.

“Yeah,” Liya said, the word dropping like a stone. “We can’t do business at all.” She lifted her chin, pride glinting like a cheap coin. “We can’t sell what we pinch. Better to hand it all to Ama; she handles it like flipping a hand!”

Lilith sighed, a small wind slipping through her teeth. This cub had been scrubbed clean by brainwashing, like cloth beaten on a river rock. Sold, and still counting the seller’s money with a smile, like a bell that rings on command. Anger smoldered, ember by ember, a brazier under snow. That Ama was rot in human skin, a worm in sweet fruit. Lilith’s temper hated bullies strutting like crows on a wall. She would haul Ama to the city lord’s manor, chains clinking like rain.

“I got it,” Lilith said, ruffling the little werewolf’s head, her palm a warm leaf. She fished two silver coins from her wallet—enough to buy three meals—and set them in Liya’s small palm like moons. “You answered me honestly. Here’s a little reward. I hope you won’t do today’s thing again—don’t take other people’s stuff, okay? Let your hands be clean as spring water.”

Liya bristled, fur up like a cat at night. “That’s not stealing! Eating from a hundred kitchens—how can that be stealing? That’s taking. That’s claiming,” she huffed, breath like steam. “And you’re about my height. Why’re you talking down like some adult?” Her glare was a pair of needles.

“Because I am older than you!” Lilith bit back, spark meeting tinder. “I’m short, sure, but I’m an adult.” Height jokes were a tripwire, a wire in grass. Insults she could swallow; height she could not; it stuck like a fishbone. She pounced, a white blur, and ground her knuckles into the little werewolf’s head like a millstone. “You got a problem with my height?”

“You’re as tall as my second sister! No way you’re an adult!” Liya yelped as Lilith noogied her, voice fluttering like a sparrow. The Little White Dragon wasn’t that strong, but the malnourished cub was just as flimsy; two twigs wrestling in wind. Big and small, a handful of little girls tangled in the street like windblown kites. Passersby stopped, curiosity pooling like rainwater in ruts.

“I’m a mother of two!” The Little White Dragon overheated; she puffed up like a tiny river puffer, cheeks flushed like apples, words firing straight from the heart like arrows. And the instant they flew, she knew how wild they sounded, like thunder from a blue sky.

“A mother of two?” Liya froze, eyes wide like coins. She looked at Lilith, then replayed two small figures in her mind, silhouettes like ducklings. She’d seen them at Lilith’s side when she tried to lift from her, a pair of shadows hugging light. Understanding dawned like sun on frost, sharp and bright.

The little werewolf went still, as if glassed by ice. The onlookers went still, breath held like oars. The Little White Dragon, realizing what she’d said, went still; embarrassment rose like a red tide. Awkwardness filled the air like thick fog over marsh.

“Uh, well…” Lilith tried to salvage her image, voice wobbling like a loose string on a lute. Truth was, with this face, being a mother of two sounded absurd, like a child wearing a crown. And it wasn’t true; the truth sat like a pebble in her shoe. Abaddon was a friend she picked up, a stray star. Litt had come to her on his own, like a moth to a lamp. At most, you could call it adoption, a ribbon tied after the fact.

“No need,” Liya said, waving her off as if brushing dust; she shoved the silver back into Lilith’s hand, fingers stiff as sticks. “Sorry—I didn’t know you had two kids,” she added, guilt wrinkling like wet paper. “I shouldn’t take your money.”

“What’s that got to do with you not taking my money?” Lilith blinked, puzzled, like a cat hearing a flute. Did these little thieves have a rule about not robbing the weak—some alley code? But Liya herself was weak, and she still lifted from others, a contradiction like crossed threads.

“Because Ama works hard to care for kids,” Liya answered solemnly, eyes steady as a small pond. “So I don’t take from people with children. Here—take it back,” she said, her hands trembling like leaves.

“You’ve got a decent moral compass, kid,” Lilith said, warmth like a candle in her tone. She didn’t take the coins; her fingers stayed open like a fan. “But relax—keep it. I can afford to treat you to a meal; it’s a small thing, like pouring tea.”

“Oh—thank you, sis,” Liya said, the words soft as cotton. She nodded, obedient as a spring sprout, and flipped like a coin in sunlight; she stopped bristling at the Little White Dragon and started chattering about Ama instead, words bubbling like a brook.

Lilith hadn’t expected her to turn that fast; the change was a door swinging on oiled hinges. A kind girl, really; taught to steal because the one who raised her wore ugliness like perfume. That Ama—her harm to the young was a shadow spreading without end, a stain crawling across cloth.

Lilith simmered, cheeks puffed, breath hot like tea over coals.