Chapter 8: The Empress’s Voice

“No—no, not me. You’ve got the wrong person. Second Princess? I don’t know her.” Fear crawled her scalp like ants as Abaddon tried to slip into her pocket dimension like a fish into shadow, but the Little White Dragon snagged her by the hair and hauled her out like a hooked carp.

“Then you were bluffing back then, huh?” The Little White Dragon’s words clicked like stones. “Satan didn’t lock you there. You ran in yourself, then ran out to Bosaklie?”

“How could that—of course I didn’t—ha…” Abaddon’s protest was as pale and thin as her snow-pale skin, a winter leaf in wind. Lilith’s face was all doubt, cool as frost.

Sheryl didn’t grant her another breath. The woman surged forward like a wave and crushed the little demon in a hug; her arms cinched so hard Lilith could almost hear Abaddon’s bones cry like reeds in a storm.

“Your Highness, you don’t know how Her Majesty has worried all these years.” Her voice trembled like a taut bowstring. “Why vanish back then? Where did you go? Did you suffer?”

She turned Abaddon over and over like checking a lost sparrow for broken wings, shaking her until the little demon howled. Then she caught herself like a door slamming, let go, but worry still pooled on her face like rain in a basin, even deeper.

“Ugh… my head’s spinning.” The world swayed like a boat as Abaddon spoke. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve lived well. Lord Satan’s pocket dimension suits me like spring suits bamboo.”

“Did Satan really give you that?” Lilith’s disbelief rang like cold steel. The Little White Dragon pinched the back of Abaddon’s neck like scruffing a cat and murmured, blade-soft, “That forest still owes me a favor. If you lie, I’ll make it talk. You won’t control what pours out like water from a cracked jar.”

“I—I get it. Let me go.” Tears pricked like salt. After she swore, the Little White Dragon released her, and the small demon sagged like a kite losing wind.

“I admit it.” Words fell from Abaddon like guilty petals. “I snuck out. That pocket dimension was for my sister, Lord Satan’s fifteenth-birthday gift. I stole it from her gift box, swapped in the spare Lord Satan kept, then slipped inside and headed south, like a swallow chasing warm wind.”

“So it was your sister’s gift.” The Little White Dragon’s summary was neat as a blade. “You stole it. You rode your sister’s birthday present out of the Demon Realm, all the way to Morris, and I found you?”

“More or less.” Abaddon nodded, shame tight as a knot. She wasn’t that runaway brat anymore; she could taste the size of her mistake like iron on the tongue. She shrank before Sheryl, small as a lantern in fog, afraid of the years of worry and anger piled up like winter snow at home.

“Ah.” The Little White Dragon sighed; the sound drifted like smoke. Once she’d felt for rebellious kids; after raising Litt this long, her mind had grown parent-shaped, solid as a tea bowl. “You should go straight to your Lord Satan,” Lilith said softly. “And your sister. They must be worried sick.”

“I know, I know. I’m back, aren’t I?” Abaddon’s cheeks flushed like peaches. “I’ll go after the sandstorm stops. Don’t rush me.” Her fingers twined like vines, toes clawed the floor like anxious birds.

“No need to wait. I’ll take you to Her Majesty now.” Sheryl stood from the desk, sure as sunrise. She caught Abaddon’s hand and lifted her like a bundle of feathers.

Abaddon couldn’t fight a woman so tall; her arm was a ribbon in Sheryl’s grip. The woman cradled her, then offered Lilith and Nidhogg an apologetic smile, gentle as warm rain. “Sorry, Miss Lilith. I’ll deliver the Second Princess to Her Majesty first. Please wait a little. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble. Abaddon comes first.” Lilith felt the weight of family like a tide; reunion was a fragile flower. She didn’t know if she’d ever get such a chance for herself. “We can wait. Go ahead.”

“Thank you for understanding.” Sheryl dipped a small bow, then carried the ash-pale Abaddon to a shut cabinet, its wood sealed like a lid on a coffin. She snapped a kick; the door flew open with a bark, and inside lay a control platform, buttons scattered like a star field. Lilith watched Sheryl press a purple one, a bruise-colored gem.

A dark-violet vortex budded before the two demons, the same hue as the Void Abaddon loved, a whirlpool of twilight. Sheryl glanced back with a smile like a lantern’s glow, then stepped in with Abaddon.

Their figures vanished. The vortex sealed like an eye closing. The small room fell quiet again, still as dust on a pond.

“What now? Do we just sit and wait for Sheryl to return?” Lilith found a chair, wood scraping like a cricket’s chirp. She dragged it to the center, pressed Nidhogg down onto it, then dropped onto his thighs like a cat commandeering a warm rock, her thin white tail coiling his long leg like a silk ribbon.

“If you’ve got a better idea, we can do that.” Nidhogg’s voice was calm as a deep well. “For now, we wait.” The Black Dragon caught her restless tail, fingers gliding upstream to the root at her lower back. The touch stilled the mischievous creature in his lap like a spell turning her to stone.

While they flirted, a small dark-red vortex popped open before Lilith, a pomegranate seed splitting. A slip of paper fluttered out like a lone leaf.

“Miss Lilith, save me!”

Only one line. No signature. But Lilith knew Abaddon’s cry like a friend knows a footstep, and the red whirl matched the sigil on the little demon’s face, the same spiral of trouble. She was likely being disciplined by her kin, thunder after lightning.

“Should we meddle in another family’s storm?” Lilith hesitated, heart a bird at a window.

“It’s the perfect chance to meet Satan,” Nidhogg said, voice steady as stone. “And Abaddon called you. You’re friend, guest, and the one who brought her home. They’ve no reason to be rude.”

“You’re right. But how do we get there?” The problem hung in the air like a bell with no striker.

Nidhogg didn’t answer. Her gaze slid to the red vortex, calm as a compass needle.

“You mean… this?”