Chapter Fifty-Four: The Palace
The Little White Dragon sipped the hot soup Sakunae Mashiro cooked, steam curling like pale clouds over winter snow.
It didn’t taste great; it matched Lilith’s picture of wild roadside fare, dry as grass and smoke. She still finished half a pot of bland broth, obedient as a moonlit cat.
She let out a small burp, a bubble rising in a quiet spring, then passed the rest to Nidhogg like handing off a warm ember from the fire.
“What meat’s in this?” The Little White Dragon rubbed her full belly, voice lazy as a cat in sun. “There’s a hint of salt, like sea spray—jerky?”
“Mm. I found it on me when I woke, tucked in a storage pouch like a sleeping mouse, probably another adventurer’s,” Sakunae Mashiro nodded, eyes dim as dusk.
“It’d just sit here like a cold stone; better let me warm it with a last spark,” she added. “I can only apologize to the adventurer I ambushed.”
“Alright.” Lilith bowed her head for a few heartbeats, a candle flicker in wind, thankful for rare cooked food even if it was rough.
“Shall we move? Lilith, how’s your rest?” Nidhogg finished the soup, voice steady as dark ice.
She scooped snow, melted it to water, and rinsed the pot, frost hissing like a small stream under gray sky. Sakunae Mashiro took the pot and stowed it, metal clinking like a soft bell.
“Close enough. I feel great; let’s head out,” Lilith said, energy humming like a coiled spring.
The Little White Dragon stood and bent her slender arms, striking a muscle pose, playful as a sparrow puffing itself up.
Sleep had lifted her, like frost melting at dawn; most of her fatigue had lived in the mind, now gone like morning mist. Lilith was back to full strength, a blade newly sharpened.
“Don’t push yourself,” Nidhogg murmured, rubbing her head, touch soft as falling snow.
“Relax, I’ve got this.” Lilith raised her face, eyes bright as stars on ice, and patted her chest like a drum.
Watching their sweet banter, Sakunae Mashiro wore a lonely smile, a reed bending in cold wind. She lowered her head, packed the gear, and shouldered the camp tools, steady as a mule under cloud.
“Let’s go.” Nidhogg caught the shadow in Mashiro’s eyes, took Lilith’s hand, and moved first, like a black river guiding a lantern.
“Mm.” Lilith nodded and followed, footsteps etching twin lines across fresh snow.
Sakunae Mashiro led, the fox lady who’d just fled Eternal Life now heading back to His lair, a kite returning to the storm’s eye without the Reaper Fragment’s leash.
The Little White Dragon and Nidhogg followed. The Black Dragon held Lilith’s hand, grip tight as iron in winter, enough to ache. Lilith didn’t complain; the ache felt like a tether in a gale.
She knew Nidhogg’s worry and blame—bruises from head to toe because Lilith had bolted, facing nightmares alone like a deer in black woods. Lilith squeezed back, a warm ember pressed to iron: I won’t leave again.
They traveled in silence, a file of shadows crossing a white plain like ink on rice paper.
The tundra’s bite made the fox lady conserve strength, lest cold and snow steal it before the fight like thieves at night.
Lilith wasn’t bothered by cold; words just felt lost, like birds without branches. She kneaded Nidhogg’s palm, and her big eyes wandered like lanterns seeking sparks.
“Hey, is that a house?” she said, hand lifting like a white sprout, pointing at a shape half-swallowed by wind and snow.
It looked like their last shelter: a house buried in ice, only a stub showing, a tooth in glacier light.
Lilith rubbed her eyes; dragon sight cut the storm like a blade. Beyond that house, she caught more gray outlines, faint as ink stains on fog.
“It’s not just one; there are several like that,” Lilith said, voice crisp as frost. “Are we at some tall Undead complex?”
“Yes.” After a long silence, Sakunae Mashiro confirmed it; her weaker sight reached and failed, falling back like a tired bird. “That’s the former palace of the Undead.”
“Former?” Lilith’s ears pricked, a fox catching a leaf in wind.
“Mm. Now it’s the source of the Moonswallow Mist,” Mashiro said, breath pale as smoke. “Eternal Life and His underlings hide in the Undead’s old palace, while the underground seal keeps venting the Mist.”
“Here the Mist runs thick; the ghostly blue condenses to ink-like blue-violet,” she added. “It mixes with snowfall, easy to miss yet always there, like dye in milk.”
“Got it.” Lilith’s eyes flashed, a storm skirting a nest. “So Eternal Life and His pack are in that palace, and we rush in and clean them up, right?”
“Don’t make us sound like terrorists,” Nidhogg said, tapping Lilith’s head like a knuckle on wood. Lilith yelped, a pup in the rain, and shot her a wounded glare.
The Black Dragon ignored her silent protest and went on, voice iron under snow. “Sakunae Mashiro knows a shortcut that skips most Undead forces and slips into the palace.”
“We take that path and avoid conflict,” she said. “Most Undead here are Wraiths. Besides you, neither of us handles Wraiths well.”
“Got it.” Physical fighters hit a wall against things immune to steel; the thought fell like a dull blade. Another doubt budded in Lilith’s chest, prickly as thorns. “Wraith senses are sharp. Can we really slip in?”
“We’ll take it step by step,” Nidhogg said, calm as dark water. “The rest depends on luck. You’ve been lucky lately; maybe we slide through like a fox threading reeds.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Lilith groaned, a sparrow scolding the sky. Her luck had been good at attracting monsters we needed to fight; for stealth, that luck might flip like a coin into a curse.
Hope nobody gets hurt, she thought, a small prayer drifting across the snow like ash from a quiet fire.
