Chapter 6

The sandstorm loomed larger than the Little White Dragon had imagined, a rolling wall of grit shouldering the sky.

A giant bigger than the firmament hung over Bosaklie, its red‑brown head bowed like a dying sun.

Golden sand poured off its cheeks in shimmering cascades, raining onto empty streets.

Steam‑hissing automata swept by and cleared the drifts, their brushes squealing like crows.

Lilith stepped into the Eternal City at a strange hour, and the avenue that should’ve been a tide of people lay deserted.

Only writhing yellow sand crawled along the stones, and steam‑belching mechs chuffed through, making the still city breathe again.

She pulled up her hood; a blue‑white cloak shielded the Little White Dragon from the growing grit, a soft holy glow veiling the small girl.

Dust roared around her, yet couldn’t smudge the ends of her hair, like soot skidding off glass.

Weariness gnawed first; the cloak couldn’t soothe the ache in her feet, a dull fire licking her calves.

A true traveler shouldn’t be this fragile, yet the Little White Dragon hadn’t rested for days.

She craved a pause, a bench, a breath, so her legs could stop screaming.

“Almost there.” The steam mech heard her impatience, its voice a kettle under the wind.

Thick yellow sand blindfolded his lenses; even locals struggled to judge distance.

He read the silhouettes of buildings like stars and guessed where they were.

“We’ve covered two‑thirds. Cross this street, there’s an underground passage. No sand there—you can rest.”

“Good.” Her spirit lifted like a thirsty traveler picturing tart plums, and she bit down and kept pace with the steam mech.

“Does Bosaklie shut down whenever a sandstorm hits?”

Her clear voice dulled under the veil and hood, the wind howling like wolves.

She raised it, again and again, and only on the third try did the steam mech catch her words.

“No. Most storms aren’t this big.

Old folks and children stay inside; adults can still work with minimal protection.”

“Even in a citywide surge—say eighty‑five percent sheltering—many hold their posts.”

“Like me. And those workers.”

“Do the factories all have sand‑proofing?” Lilith recalled Sera’s talk of wind‑sand systems.

“You must churn out glass.”

“Not every factory’s sand‑proofed, and we don’t mass‑produce glass.”

“Only the big state‑run plants have robust systems; even this level of grit won’t stop them—just makes the main furnace strain.”

“Private shops? Who knows.”

“Their filters are antiques, or worse, missing. Dust slips through like mice in old walls.”

He tried to shrug—his shoulders barely moved.

Two drive shafts twitched, venting a white puff, and Lilith took it for a shrug.

“As for glass—please.

With sand this impure, the melt has no industrial value.”

“We mostly ship it to Usas.

Those Ice Spirits love that junk glass for reasons beyond me.”

“What do they want so much glass for?”

Lilith’s ears still wore the ice‑crystal studs Nidhogg had gifted, and the memory cooled her tone.

“They use glass to carry their spells.”

“Honestly, I don’t get it.

Across the whole Demon Realm, you can count real casters on one hand.”

“But I saw them crack a mountain with our reject glass—my gods.”

“One little cart—maybe one‑twentieth of what Bosaklie churns out per minute in a storm.”

“They dumped it on a mountain half as large as Bosaklie.”

“Boom—one note—and the whole peak powdered into yet another ordinary snowfall in Usas.”

“I should be glad Lord Satan allied with Usas from the start.”

“If I ever had to fight those ice‑crystal folks—no, thanks.”

She heard the tremor in his tale; the fear clung like dust behind the eyes.

“So when a sandstorm hits Bosaklie, the central main furnace pulls the sand in.”

“Mixed grit gets tempered into cheap glass, so useless our Demon Realm can’t use it.”

“You haul it to Usas, and the Ice Spirits turn it into mighty magic bombs.”

“I worry they’ll drop one on Bosaklie someday.”

“Uh, maybe?

I’ve never thought about it.”

“Not my job.

I follow Lord Satan’s orders; she does nothing without a reason.”

“Ask the desk folk—the researchers, the diplomats—when the sand dies down.

They’d know better.”

“Can I even meet them?

They feel… important.”

“Of course.

Bosaklie welcomes every friendly outsider.”

“This is a city built of gold.

On brass‑colored streets, gold lies underfoot like fallen suns, enough to fatten a whole continent.”

“Bend and pick one.

You’ll taste the Eternal City’s prosperity and its grave majesty.”

“No one scolds unearned wealth here.

Everyone holds vaults of gold, too much to count.”

“Just prove you’re friendly, outsider.”

His steps halted.

He pushed open a door, and led Lilith and Nidhogg inside, steam trailing like breath in winter.

“Go to the end of this corridor.

Report what you’ve lived through.”

“When the grit settles, you can savor the city’s vistas.”

“What should I do?” Lilith asked, pausing at the threshold, heart tight as a knot.

“Wait. Listen. Then answer.”

He waved once, vented a final sigh of steam, and turned away.