Chapter Nineteen: Deeper In
Unease first, then thought—Lilith couldn’t shake how off Nidhogg’s fix felt; the Black Dragon had given her a one-use Holy Cloak, a thin veil against mindstorms.
That blue-white cloak had saved her more than once; using it often taught its limits, like tripping a pebble only to take the avalanche squarely after.
She didn’t know if Nidhogg’s blessing had the same flaw. The worry nipped at her—some combo of mental strikes might shred the blessing, then hammer her fragile soul.
It sounded like tempting fate, so the Little White Dragon shelved the thought and breathed it away.
She kept talking with the Black Dragon while her back-born tendrils drank the Moonswallow Mist from Gargantor’s massive corpse. The giant zombie held oceans of eerie blue fog, and Lilith drew it fast.
Time slid by, and she had pulled all that Moonswallow Mist into herself.
The concentration inside her had risen to a bright, humming peak; time to imitate the Undead and work the Mist like they did.
Unlike those dead walkers, the Mist didn’t gnaw her mind. She wasn’t a puppet to the fog; she took the reins and rode the current herself. She mimicked Gargantor’s trick—condensing armor and weapons mid‑fight—plating her small body in Mist-forged panels and stretching spectral blades along her tendrils. They wouldn’t shear off so easily now; her strikes bit deeper. Why not, if it works?
“All right. We keep going down.” Lilith pushed to her feet, the Little White Dragon recalling her tendrils.
Her body held too much Mist now; drawing more from the air had turned sluggish and thin. She realized she couldn’t drink an entire dungeon dry alone. Her body was small, a slip of a frame too tiny for some folks’ fingers. The Taint had filled almost every corner in her; there wasn’t much room left for the Moonswallow Mist.
So she folded the tendrils that trailed behind her like strips of dried seaweed. Scarlet heat of flesh receded; the black track-marks that once scored her snow-white body faded. The Little White Dragon returned to a clean, lily-pure bloom.
“Whew. This shape settles the heart.” She exhaled, drifted to Nidhogg’s side, and stretched with lazy grace. She no longer recoiled from the Taint like she had before, but years as the White Holy Maiden had set her bones in a habit—keeping the Taint unleashed wore on her. Being a spotless Little White Dragon let her breathe.
“I think you’re cute with tentacles, too.” Nidhogg smiled, smoke-soft.
“And who was it that nicknamed me ‘Pothos’?” Lilith huffed. A fine, slender tendril slipped from her sleeve, hooked a key from Gargantor’s body, and she hung it at her waist.
“Let me guess—this opens a deeper gate. We find the lock that matches, turn it, and drop into the next layer of the dungeon.” She muttered while fixing the key in place, thoughts clicking like beads.
“That’s right. But how do we find the door?” Nidhogg affirmed, then asked.
“Easy. I’ve got a way.” Lilith’s smile was confident. The Little White Dragon had a special tool made for moments like this. She lifted her Astrolabe, tapped the marble-white shaft, and an azure butterfly fluttered out from the aquamarine set at the tip. Kept sealed too long, it fanned furious wings in her face—then, under Lilith’s calming gaze, turned its back and led on, drifting slow and sure.
“Follow it. It’ll guide us,” she told Nidhogg, glancing back. “It’s not very smart, but it’s weirdly good at finding paths. Worth trusting.”
The butterfly heard the tiny jab and popped a question mark in its flight, a sharp angle of air that made Lilith burst into laughter.
Her bell-clear laugh rang over a town chewed to ruin by the Undead. She laughed till she bent double; the butterfly stopped, hanging midair with its wings fluttering, antennae like twin spears aimed at her. It had no eyes, but she felt its mortified glare like heat.
“Sorry, sorry—lead the way.” She pressed one hand to her belly and the other to her chest, fighting the giggles, pretending at solemnity.
The little butterfly let itself be exasperated, turned, and flew single-minded toward its destination.
It led Lilith through the Undead streets to an ordinary house, found a crack, and slipped through. The Little White Dragon followed, squeezing herself along the wall’s narrow seam.
Nidhogg didn’t have that luck; her size made the gap too tight, so she peeled off to find another route. As for Abaddon—the Demon who mastered space—he stepped to Lilith’s side with casual ease.
Following the butterfly, Lilith climbed a long stair to a sealed door.
It was pitch-black, a heavy iron face bearing a weight of countless memories.
The Little White Dragon tipped her chin up in quiet awe and slid the key into the lock.
She turned it. The azure butterfly looped a half circle in the air, then whooshed back into Lilith.
