Chapter 18: Counseling
"Do I have a mental problem?" Lilith tapped her own face, like checking a mirror under morning light.
She knew she was a bit childish, her heart skittering like leaves in wind; yet on real tasks, she felt steady as stone.
But the Black Dragon wouldn’t bring this up for no reason; Nidhogg usually kept things breezy, like tea steam drifting, never heavy.
When even the Black Dragon wore a grave mask like winter frost, the Little White Dragon sensed trouble thick as storm-clouds.
"Do you know what my Word Spirit Magic works best on?" Nidhogg didn’t answer; she tossed back a question, like a pebble skipping across water.
Irritation pricked first, like nettles; but Lilith behaved and answered, her voice small as a sparrow in rain.
"No idea… on dead things?" She tilted her head, eyes wide like moons; the Black Dragon had never explained her gift.
"Not really. On dead matter, my Word Spirit Magic burns only my own mana, like oil feeding a lone lamp," Nidhogg said, shaking her head.
"And against people with iron will, my words barely scratch them, like waves slapping a cliff; they won’t hold, let alone persist."
"So…" Lilith caught the drift like smoke in the lantern. She was weak to words; even a small area-of-effect Word Spirit pinned her like ice.
"I’m… weak-willed?" The thought tasted bitter, like unripe fruit.
"The weak-willed don’t resist Word Spirit at all," Nidhogg said, voice steady as a metronome. "Worse, their minds join my spell, like moths to flame."
"They unconsciously feed it with their own energy, which is why you shake it off slower than others," she added, like laying down stones.
It felt like a direct verdict, heavy as rain; the Little White Dragon winced, like grass bending under weight.
"But I don’t think your will is flimsy," Nidhogg countered, her gaze clear as lakewater.
"You were a key hand in solving the Taint. If your will were paper-thin, you’d be an abomination by now, not chatting under sun."
"And in your fight with those ghosts, it wasn’t will that failed against Word Spirit; it was your spirit itself, thin as mist."
"My… spirit?" The words floated away, like kites in fog; Lilith felt the ground of meaning slip like sand.
"Look—when you first met the ghosts, your emotions spiked like thunder," Nidhogg said, recalling pallid figures like bleached bones in moonlight.
"Their illusions took root. By rights, that level of mental interference shouldn’t touch dragonkind, yet it hooked you deep, like a barbed thorn."
"Dragon bodies resist such attacks; White Dragons and Silver Dragons excel here, their defenses like mirrored shields," she went on.
"Even with your body filtering off most of it, you were shaken, like a bell struck too hard. So I suspect a crack in your spirit."
"Think back. Any foggy memories? Any sudden headaches or dizziness when you reach for certain recollections?" Her voice pressed gently, like snow.
Panic puckered first, like a tight knot; Lilith had never considered damage in that unseen field.
She felt normal, like a road under clear sky; she’d lived on this continent for years without a tremor in mind.
Could an Earth-born soul be more brittle than souls of this land? The notion flickered and died, like a moth skimming a candle.
"I don’t get dizzy, and I don’t have headaches," she said, careful as a cat on a wall.
"As for memories—the White Holy Maiden’s memories start from the moment she was appointed, like a book that opens halfway."
"So I don’t have what came before. But I’ve never heard the White Holy Maiden suffer spirit damage, so it’s not Icarus’s blessing."
"Nor anything from when I was human," she finished, laying the words like shells; she kept the rest tucked away like a hidden talisman.
The Little White Dragon hid her crossing, believing her soul wasn’t lower than the beings of this land; secrecy sat on her tongue like dew.
She hadn’t decided how to handle that truth; she’d tell Nidhogg once she had a plan, like planting a tree at the right season.
"On your journey purging the Taint, did you take any mental wounds?" Nidhogg asked, voice mild as shade. "Direct ghost attacks? Or curses?"
"Not really. The abominations don’t strike the mind; their souls and wills perch on the Taint, like crows on carrion," Lilith recalled.
"They pass soul and memory through infected flesh, not mental blows." She paused, then lifted a hand like a reed. "But there was one curse."
"After I defeated the Demon King, it cursed me to become…" Her voice snagged, like silk on a thorn; color rose like dawn on her cheeks.
She ducked her head and fumbled for words, like a child counting pebbles. "It cursed me into a dragon, and to never return home."
She didn’t speak the whole curse. The Demon King was shameless to the last, like a fox grinning at a trap.
Instead of killing her outright, it slung filth like mud—turning her into something for all to covet. Fitting for a Demon King; rotten to the core.
"I see." Nidhogg pinched her chin, sinking into thought like a stone into deep water.
After a quiet beat, she reached out and tapped Lilith’s brow, a cool touch like dew at dawn.
"I can’t break curses," she said, words level as a plumb line. "I can’t lift the Demon King’s hex right now."
"So I set a layer of awareness outside your mind, like a veil over glass," Nidhogg said. "If spirits attack or try to seize you again, it’ll catch the blow."
"But don’t let a shield make you careless," she warned, voice heavy as mountain rain. "We still don’t know why your spirit feels fragile."
"You must mind that weakness, Lilith. Among the Undead, many excel at mental strikes; don’t give them an opening."
"Okay." Lilith nodded, like a sapling bowing to wind, and took the warning into her chest like a warm coal.
