70. Next Step

Lilith blinked awake, like surfacing from cold water.

A familiar ceiling hovered above, pale as winter clouds.

She mumbled and sat up; relief settled like a warm quilt, as if that near‑death misery had been only a dream.

The White Dragon sat alone in her inn room, a hush like cool glass.

The bed beside her was empty, quilt folded, a few long black strands clinging like rain‑wet silk.

She had been carried back to the inn in Lamter; the Little White Dragon wondered who had brought her, a question hanging like mist.

She reached for the door, curiosity pricking like needles—when Nidhogg pushed it open and stepped in.

The tall Black Dragon held a steaming cup; the liquid was a strange brown, like muddy tea daring the throat.

Seeing Lilith upright, the Black Dragon blinked in surprise, delight rising like lamplight.

“Awake?”

“Awake.” Lilith answered low; her throat rasped, voice muffled like someone talking under a quilt.

“Then drink your medicine.” Nidhogg set the warm glass by her hand, like placing a hearth.

Lilith didn’t take it; she frowned at the brown liquid, face scrunched like a cat smelling bitter herbs.

“What is this? It looks impossible to swallow.”

“The medics from the Academy of Astrology brewed it. It works fast; your fever broke by afternoon, like frost yielding to sun.”

Her words tugged on Lilith’s hazy memories, drifting like smoke.

She remembered the fog of fever, her head spinning like a windblown lantern.

The Black Dragon appeared; careful hands fed her bitter bark by spoon; then sleep fell like snow, and everything after went blank.

“How did you get me down?” Lilith accepted the cup, cradling it with both hands like a squirrel hugging a pinecone.

She tilted her small face up, blue eyes wide as lakes.

“Xilisade Mountain stands so high; I was sick; how did you carry me alone?”

“I carried you down. I wrapped you in several towels, bundled warm like a winter nest.”

“Not a frostbite on you—or you wouldn’t be healing this fast.”

Nidhogg spoke as if it were routine, calm as stone.

She leaned in to warn, words tapping like fingernails: “Your immunity is low for a while. Keep warm. Don’t run around just because you don’t fear the cold.”

“I get it—hey, keep your face away!” Lilith flinched from the Black Dragon’s head nudging in, like a cat avoiding a wet nose.

Her hands held the warm cup, no free palm to push; she arched back, her weak waist trembling like a reed.

Afraid to spill bitter medicine across the bed, she squeaked, “Sit up first! I’ll drink, then talk!”

“Fine.” Nidhogg pulled back like a tide, standing over the bed with a playful squint, gaze falling like sunlight.

“Go on, drink.”

Lilith shot her a glare, a spark like flint.

She guessed the Black Dragon had staged this to force the dose, a trick sharp as a thorn.

She focused on the cup; the brown liquid breathed a weird smell like wet bark, making her hesitate.

But the stubborn Little White Dragon had promised to drink; begging didn’t suit her temper, pride stiff as ice.

The White Dragon gritted her teeth, shut her eyes, lifted the glass to her lips, and gulped it down, gulp gulp.

Bitterness flooded her small mouth; her cheeks puffed and crumpled like wrinkled paper.

Face sour, Lilith swallowed everything, like biting through a thorny stem.

“So bitter.” Her face looked green in spirit; eyes watered as she whined at the Black Dragon, clinging like a kitten.

“Why is it so bitter?”

“Crude herbs are like that.” Nidhogg sat beside her, calm as midnight hills.

She fished a candy from her pocket and popped it into Lilith’s mouth, sweet landing like a bright pebble.

Lamter’s doctors believe natural or lightly processed herbs hold elements lost in refined drugs.

They claim those elements are the true key, like hidden roots.

No one knows if they’re right.

Only the Ice Spirits in Ursas, masters of another method, have said it plainly, clear as a bell:

“Raw herbs only intensify the torture of taste buds; beyond that, they’re no better than normal medicine.”

“I think those Ice Spirits are right.” Lilith swore she had never understood Ice Spirits better than today, understanding blooming like frost flowers.

The elves’ remedies felt like trials not meant for any sane tongue, sharp as gnawing bark.

“What candy is this?” Lilith rolled the hard candy on her tongue, sweet blooming like sunlight, with a faint fruit aroma trailing like mist.

She couldn’t name the fruit, the taste pointing like a distant star.

“I grabbed it from Mio’s stash. She’s been snacking by the handful lately, eating like a bird.”

“She looked happy, so I brought you some, warmth shared like embers.”

“Her tastes are close to yours; what she likes, you likely will, like twin notes.”

“It’s pretty good.” Lilith nodded, then scooted closer, pressing against Nidhogg’s waist like a little wave.

Her voice dropped soft as silk: “Closer. I have a question.”

“What is it?” Nidhogg leaned in obediently, ears perked like leaves.

“It’s just us,” Nidhogg murmured like water. “Even if you sit away, I can hear you. Why this close?”

The answer came quick, sharp as a hook.

Lilith pinched Nidhogg’s ear and twisted, small fingers biting like claws.

The Little White Dragon turned it until the pale ear flushed red, a friendly smile on her lips, tone cold as frost.

“You—and—that—Mio—what—exactly—is—your—relationship?”

“Let go first, and I’ll tell you.” Nidhogg found herself pressed to Lilith’s soft, flat belly, pressure gentle as a cushion.

She didn’t fear injury from such petulant play; she worried more about her horns, jagged like branching antlers, poking the White Dragon.

Lilith’s horns were simple, almost austere, clean as snow lines.

“You’d better explain clearly.” Lilith released the ear and muttered sourly, words curling like smoke.

Usually, Lilith wasn’t possessive about Nidhogg’s past.

She understood a long‑lived dragon’s history ran like a river, while she herself was barely past hatchling.

To claim every past moment was greedy, like trying to net the sky.

But that didn’t mean the Black Dragon could toss old names at random; cotton looks soft, yet cotton can jump up and bite.

Especially after a fever, anger still simmered like hot broth.

She had just sat up, and Nidhogg brought up Mio instead of caring.

No wonder the Little White Dragon bristled like a cat.

“The last time I met Mio, she was still a young girl, and I wasn’t this… mature,” Nidhogg began, voice steady as a road.

She laid out her past with Mio.

Sensing Lilith’s mood fraying like a thin thread, she behaved prim and obedient, doing whatever Lilith asked.

“Look, I’m a Black Dragon; she’s an elf.”

“About fifty years back, she was a little older than Abaddon.”

“She was at the age when blood runs hot, and I had just passed my fledgling phase.”

“I went out to train while still young, eager as spring.”

“I met Mio through her mother, the previous city lord of Lamter.”

“Lamter was stuck midway in becoming a commercial city; market order was chaos, crime spiking like weeds.”

“Back then, Lamter still used the Adventurer Guild system.”

“But the guilds colluded with gangs, sheltering criminals; outside the North Market, crime flared daily like brushfire.”

“Mio, Aila, and I helped clean up the city’s security, sweeping dens like clearing thorns.”

“We wiped out several large groups; fighting side by side made us close, bonds hammered like steel.”

“After that, I left Lamter.”

“I was only passing through; my real destination was another city in Kuri, a point on the map like a star.”

“We only exchanged letters now and then, words crossing distance like migrating geese.”

“Over twenty years later, Aila invited me back for the Coining Festival; that’s when we met again, smiles ringing like coins.”

“By then, Aila was city lord, and Mio worked at her side, handling meetings and errands like weaving threads.”

“I don’t know how Lamter selects its lord; ask them and you get fog, answers soft as mist.”

“Mio said Aila had a knack for governance, with ideas for Lamter.”

“She felt Aila as city lord would be better, so at the handover she ceded the seat and became her little secretary.”

“Aila truly had talent; under her, Lamter kept improving, streets brightening like dawn.”

“Only the South Market remains stubborn, a sore hard as old bark.”

“So Mio decided Lamter no longer needed her constant care; a few years ago she resigned, opened this inn, and started retirement early, like stepping off a busy river.”

Nidhogg’s account laid stones into a clear road, detail by detail.

She skipped some early battles, but Lilith judged it enough, letting breath settle like dust.

Still, one detail snagged her like a fishhook.

“Where’s my cloak?”

“Here,” Nidhogg said, taking Lilith’s cloak from the rack, movement smooth as a wing.

She laid the blue‑white Holy Cloak by Lilith and asked, “What do you need it for?”

Lilith didn’t answer; she drew out the note her mother had given her, paper whispering like leaves, and handed it to Nidhogg.

“You wiped out so many dens.”

“Have you ever seen this mark?”