Chapter 46: The Cabin
“Anyone here?” The Little White Dragon followed the marks on the ground to a small room. Snow had half-buried the cabin, white as bone, like an igloo from Lilith’s other world.
But the door was blocked by packed snow, thick as a wall. Lilith flicked her little tail, sweeping the drift aside. The door showed. The Little White Dragon tapped politely on the heavy brown wood.
No answer returned, as if the room held only silence. Lilith guessed no other life remained inside. The Little White Dragon pushed the solid door and slipped into the small room.
“Hello there.” Only inside did she see someone already wait. A tall woman’s silhouette sat by a ruddy fireplace. She lounged on a brown leather sofa, eyes fixed on Lilith, amused as a cat with a bird.
“Hello.” Lilith nodded. The Little White Dragon stepped to the room’s center. The woman snapped her fingers. A sofa bloomed behind Lilith like a shadow sprouting leaves.
The Little White Dragon glanced back and plopped down.
“I’ve been waiting here for you a long time. I thought you’d come sooner.” The tall woman snapped again. A small table appeared between them like a pond rippling from nowhere.
On the table sat two teacups and a teapot. The young dragon watched them, curious, but kept still. The woman stood and poured tea for Lilith and for herself.
Lilith hugged her cup and sniffed. Milk tea. Even without drinking, she caught an oily sheen on the surface. A trace of salt lingered. The main note was lush, creamy milk.
It smelled good, but Lilith didn’t drink. Snow had taught her a bitter lesson. The Little White Dragon no longer tasted anything here on her own. If it were packed snow in a cup, fine. If it was something else, she’d need ten minutes to throw it all up.
“Good instincts. But you came a little too late.” Seeing Lilith only cradle the cup, the woman smiled. “Relax and drink. I’ve hoarded this for years. Never brought myself to open it.”
“Thanks.” Lilith lifted her eyes, half trust, half doubt. She took a tiny sip, ready to spit it out the instant anything felt off.
“Not bad.” Her tongue said the tea was excellent. Her mind said her senses might be lying. She set the cup down after that one sip. “I think we should introduce ourselves first?”
“Of course. Though I already know your name, Miss Lilith, don’t I?” She winked. The look felt wrong to the Little White Dragon. Like a composite dream, pasted together by a restless brain.
“Fine. You already know my name, so I won’t repeat it. Who are you?” The Little White Dragon frowned. She figured the woman had learned about her through Eternal Life. Even if the body looked human and solid, the essence hid otherwise. It fit Lilith’s guess: a Wraith of the Undead. The face in Lilith’s eyes was likely a suggestion pressed straight into her mind. “I don’t even know your true face beyond a name. At least lift your veil, right?”
“Aren’t you wearing a veil too, Miss Lilith?” She tossed out a line Lilith couldn’t parse. The Little White Dragon wondered why folks in the Grand Mausoleum loved riddles so much. Not a single one talked straight.
Lilith glared, heat rushing up like a storm-front. She hated every riddler.
Too mean. Fine, stare them down.
😡
“Alright, alright. You can call me Arika. How’s that? Pleasant ring, isn’t it?” She laughed. Lilith’s angry face was a toy to her. Her pale cheeks flushed to rosy red. A ripe tomato no one could resist teasing. “Anger suits you, but staying angry is bad for the skin. A girl should mind her skincare.”
“Miss Arika.” Lilith ignored the teasing. The Little White Dragon’s eyes cooled. “I think Eternal Life used the Moonswallow Mist to take you. But I want to know why you’re still lucid.”
“Good question. I thought you’d know the answer.” She arched a brow. Instead of replying, she set a new hook. “Miss Lilith, do you know why the Undead split into zombies, skeletons, and Wraiths?”
The Little White Dragon shook her head. The Undead were a blank page to her.
“No problem. I can tell you. Don’t let this dress fool you—I like telling stories.” She smiled and snapped again. Her clothes became a thick fur coat. A gold-rimmed monocle sat on her face. A book nestled in her hands. She leaned toward the fire and began to read.
Figures. The Little White Dragon muttered inside. These riddle-lovers are all master storytellers. If they’re not spinning tales, they’re spinning riddles. Least favorite genre.
“The Undead’s trick is not dying. Useless line, I know.” She smiled and turned a page. “But not dying has tiers. Flesh that never rots becomes a zombie. Their insides already rot. What’s left is a shell. So they’re the bottom rung in Undead society, stuck with mindless labor.”
“Skeletons have bones that endure. Bone, deeper than meat, stores more spirit. They hold some wit. So skeletons handle finer tasks. Farming. Or fighting.”
“Wraiths are soul distilled to purity. We keep every bit of wisdom from before we became Undead. We are the true masters of the Grand Mausoleum. The city beyond exists to feed us as we chase higher thought. We hunt the questions the world still hides.”
“Moonswallow Mist is Lord Eternal Life’s blessing. It sharpens our minds by leagues. Only weak souls get bound. The truly strong Wraiths treat it as a tool, nothing more. Of course we won’t be controlled.”
She shut the book. In her eyes, the Little White Dragon caught a flicker of ghost-blue flame, cold as moonlight on ice.
She’s lying. Lilith knew it at once.
