Chapter 27
Lilith limped through moonlight to the toppled great fox, like a shadow dragging a wounded wing.
The giant white-furred fox deflated like a pricked balloon, winter breath hissing from its seams.
That bulk, larger than five Little White Dragons stacked and tied, exhaled white vapor like frost from a gate.
In a blink, fur and shape ran like ink in rain, and a human form settled—a fox girl a head taller than Lilith.
Girl wasn’t quite right; she stood between maiden and woman, blade-bright eyes set in a face with lingering youth.
Lilith felt the cold certainty settle like dew—this was the adventurer she and Nidhogg had guessed.
She just didn’t know why Moonswallow Mist had taken her, turned her rabid, and sent her at adventurers and Undead like a storm.
The Little White Dragon wrapped her right calf in Taint, black lacquer over porcelain, and tucked both legs to one side like a duck at rest.
From her back, two tendrils slithered like night vines, pricking the fox’s right calf and drawing out the Moonswallow Mist like cold fog from a lung.
Lilith nursed her grudge like a banked coal; her own calf throbbed like a war drum, so the fox would taste the same sting.
But she wasn’t cruel; she left only two neat holes, didn’t swing the girl’s leg like a cudgel, and still pulled poison like a healer in rain.
Earlier, the Mist had fought her like thorns; with the fox fainted, resistance thinned like silk, and the flow came easy.
In five or six slow minutes, her tendrils drank more than half the Mist, and the white fox stirred like a boat in ripples.
The girl lifted her upper body, crimson eyes foggy like dawn, and stared at the Little White Dragon in a daze.
Her words broke, and she coughed blood like crushed pomegranate seeds, hot and sharp as iron in winter air.
Don’t talk yet, Lilith said, heart tight as a knot, and caught her gently, a White Holy Maiden steadying a fallen sparrow.
She held the injured fox at the right angle, palm warm as spring over her back, and eased her to rest in her arms.
Afraid the Taint would seep like ink into snow, the Little White Dragon swallowed it back into herself, keeping only two threads to the calf.
She dragged her hurt leg into a kneel, pain buzzing like bees, and laid the fox across her pale, tender thighs like a silk pillow.
Fingers combed her hair like wind through reeds, and she spoke soft and apologetic, rain on a paper window.
Sorry. I can’t heal these wounds, so bear with it for now, she said, voice as low as a temple bell.
It’s fine… the white-fox breathed, nestling on those soft thighs like a cloud, springy as bamboo and warm as sunlit cotton.
Aside from her small butt and the two soft mounds on her chest, that was the only place with a hint of sweet softness.
My self-healing’s strong, she murmured, eyes shut to savor the mercy, like a cat in a patch of light; these internal injuries will mend soon.
No, even so, I’m sorry, Lilith whispered, guilt like snow in her chest; I beat you this badly when there were gentler ways.
I could’ve restrained you and pulled out all the Moonswallow Mist without carving you up like this, she said, remorse swallowing the heat of her anger.
Don’t say that, the fox said, shaking her head like a trembling leaf; without you, I’d still be a puppet in mist.
I don’t know how you did it, but I’m grateful, she added, gratitude steady as a lantern in wind.
You remember what happened? Lilith blinked, surprise rippling like a stone tossed in water.
I’m stronger, so I kept a shred of mind, the fox said, each word a careful thread; I recall blurs and stains.
About your leg—sorry, she added, earnest as a vow, apology falling like a leaf at Lilith’s feet.
If you’ve got a way to move on a broken leg, run, she said next, voice thinned by urgency like a fraying rope.
Before that, give me a clean end, she added, calm as still water over a shaking hand.
What? Why? Lilith’s confusion rose like steam; a second frenzy? Even so, she could pound the madness flat like wet clay.
She’s coming, the fox blurted, panic fluttering like trapped sparrows; I tried to fight the mist.
Moonswallow Mist isn’t as infectious as other calamities; strong will is a shield like iron, she said, breath steadying like a drawn bow.
But that one—the Reaper Fragment—amplifies it, and under Her shade, even I can’t slip the leash, she confessed, voice cold as moonlight.
She treats me as her sharpest claw; if I fail, she will arrive soon, she said, dread settling like rime on grass.
Her voice trembled like a string, yet her tone was still as stone; help me, grant me one request.
Say it, Lilith answered at once, promise ready like a blade in the hand.
Take this, the fox said, fighting to lift a yellowed sheet, old paper brittle as autumn leaves.
My name’s on it, and some notes from before I was taken; I hope someone in this world remembers me, she said, hope like a candle cupped against the wind.
Okay. I promise, the Little White Dragon nodded, vow firm as bedrock, and reached to turn the slip.
A ghost-blue longsword kissed her slender neck, cold as river ice, and pressed until skin parted like silk.
The edge bit and drew a line of red, and Lilith jerked her head up like a swallow snapping skyward, saving her neck from harvest.
She looked up and froze, shock hardening like glaze—before her stood a girl uncannily familiar.
She was Litt, scaled up, yet with a presence like a cresting tide that the younger one lacked.
Lilith knew in an instant, recognition flaring like lightning across a night sea—
Divine Fragment.
