Chapter Seven
After parting from the steam mech, Lilith reached the corridor’s end, a narrow throat of stone where shadows pooled like water. Even with space around her like a loose cloak, it couldn’t swallow a full-sized Black Dragon, so Nidhogg had to trail behind the Little White Dragon, footsteps echoing like slow drums.
She glanced back and saw the steam mech had already turned away, his iron back swallowed by the hall like a tide. She hadn’t even learned his name; the thought slipped away like smoke.
“He’s probably busy,” Nidhogg rumbled, voice like gravel rolled by a river. “Their Cleanup Corps always sounds like a storm at work.”
“Probably,” Lilith replied, her mood a calm pond after wind. “Forget him for now. I hope his shift goes smoothly.” She let the chance meeting drift like a leaf downstream; right now, her path pointed to the end of the hall, where she would report her entry into Bosaklie and her fight with the Sand. The nameless steam mech could be a tomorrow problem, a kite string to pick up later.
“Let me see,” the Little White Dragon murmured, curiosity like a candle in fog. The passage proved much shorter than she’d imagined; a dozen light steps carried her to the end. She rose on tiptoe like a sparrow and tapped her small knuckles against a door towering over her like a cliff. A soft “Come in” drifted out like warm air, and she pushed the door open as if parting a curtain of rain.
“Hello, I’m Lilith. Uh, I met someone from the Cleanup Corps, and he sent me to report,” she said, voice steady like a line on still sand. Behind the iron windbreak that kept the storm at bay stood a thin household door of white wood, yellowed like old paper by years. No lock hung there; she pushed it, and it swung inward like a sigh.
The room beyond mirrored Miss Sera’s in spirit, yet it spread wider like a field after a hedge. A wooden desk loomed first, a shoreline piled with paper waves and two brass devices Lilith couldn’t read, their gears glinting like beetle shells. They looked like tools bred for work, with a purpose coiled inside like springs.
Behind the desk stood a large cabinet, its door ajar like a mouth mid-sentence. Inside sat a kettle, a few cups, some books, and two towels, all neat as pebbles in a tray. Another door was sealed tight, a small lock blinking like a cold star; the little dragon guessed it hid clothes, like a burrow.
A curtain screened the corner beside the cabinet, a soft waterfall of fabric. The Little White Dragon figured a bed nested there, sheltered like a swallow’s nest, not naked to the doorway like Miss Sera’s had been.
“Hello, Miss Lilith. Yes, Mr. B-23 has already filed a cleanup mission report,” said the woman behind the desk, her tone warm as a hearth ember. “It does mention you. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what he wrote, like mist that won’t part—we need to check whether your accounts contradict.” She looked textbook Demon: faintly bluish skin like evening light, batlike wings folded like dusk, and a neat pair of horns like polished onyx. She seemed twenty in face like spring bloom, yet her voice carried the weight of forty winters, and dark circles shadowed her eyes like half-moons. Her patience wrapped the room like a shawl; even when Lilith felt her own staring turn rude, the woman’s smile stayed soft as warm milk. “Do you need a few minutes to recall?” she asked, gentle as rain. “I understand. An outlander meeting the Sand the moment they step into Bosaklie—it hits like thunder. Many need time to let the dust settle. By Bosaklie’s regulations, you have half a day to gather your thoughts and file your report. In that time, no one will infringe on your freedom—ah, except leaving the city,” she added, a wry glint like dawn at the horizon. “And I doubt you’d choose to leave Bosaklie in weather like this.”
“Heh,” Lilith gave a dry laugh, light as chaff in wind. “No extra time needed; I’m not that forgetful. Besides, you’ve got a mountain of work waiting like storm clouds. Let’s finish, so I don’t steal your daylight.”
“That works too,” the woman nodded, calm as a pond. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper, snow-white as first frost, and fed it into a brass device at her right hand. She pressed a button, and a metal keyboard popped out like a grasshopper springing from a bush. Her fingers began to dance, ten little swallows weaving, and words bloomed on the paper like ink flowers.
“A typewriter?” Lilith asked, curiosity flickering like a firefly. She hadn’t expected to see familiar craft on this continent.
“Mhm. Bosaklie’s newest design,” the woman said, a thread of grievance like smoke from a smoldering log. “Plenty of bugs, and I get to be the guinea pig.” The undertone faded quick as dew. “Well then. Miss Lilith, please begin.”
“It’s Miss,” the Little White Dragon corrected, tone crisp as a bell.
“I see. Noted,” she replied, eyes smiling like crescent moons. Lilith gave a simple account, from the moment she took to the sky and slammed headlong into the sandstorm like a bird into gauze, to the frantic dash into Bosaklie for shelter, and finally to parting ways with the steam mech at the hallway like paths dividing at a fork.
The woman’s hands flew, a flock of starlings against a pale sky; Lilith felt her own mouth lag behind like a cart in mud, watching a ten-thousand-words-a-day octopus work. For slow typists, it was equal parts envy and awe, a spice of vinegar in the air.
“I’ve confirmed it, Miss Lilith,” the woman said, smile bright as a candle in a cellar. “You did very well. It’s rare for an outlander facing the Sand for the first time to respond so swiftly and so precisely. If you were Bosaklie-born, I’d invite you to join us.”
“Join what? I don’t want to sit in an office processing files,” Lilith said, face scrunching like a cat in rain. The Little White Dragon had no wish to taste office-drone life so young.
“I certainly don’t mean this!” Her composure cracked, and for a heartbeat her emotions surged like black mud in a flood. The long resentment of a wage slave tore through her gentle mask like wind ripping paper, filling the small room with work-hatred thick as tar.
“Sorry—pretend that didn’t happen,” she said after two breaths, calm returning like a tide. She inhaled deeply, then bowed her head in apology, contrition soft as fallen petals. “Forgive me, Miss Lilith.”
“It’s fine. I’m actually curious what you wanted me to join,” Lilith said, interest flicking like a fish under ice. She had no strong feelings about the outburst; she’d met plenty of office drones driven half-mad by work, their sudden storms as common as summer squalls. But the “organization” tugged at her like a kite string—could this woman be a hidden master beside the Empress, playing clerk as a mask?
No way, absolutely no way, she told herself, the thought dissolving like salt in water.
“Mm, just a joke—don’t mind it,” the woman said, eyes looking sideways like a fox slipping into brush. She clearly didn’t want to answer, and the Little White Dragon didn’t press; if the door was shut, she’d let it be, like rain on a closed window.
Just as Lilith was ready to let it drop, a dark purple vortex unfurled at her side like a night-blooming flower, and a gray-white mushroom poked its head out like a timid chick.
“I just heard a familiar voice,” it piped, the words bouncing like seeds. “Has Lilith already entered Bosaklie?”
Abaddon peeked around, curiosity bright as dew, and met the woman’s gaze head-on like two flints striking.
“A-Aunt Sheryl?” Abaddon’s voice trembled like a string in wind.
“Your Highness, Second Princess?” the woman—Sheryl—answered, surprise bursting like a struck bell.
