Chapter Eleven: Plague
“So. Before we begin, Miss Lilith, how much do you know about Divine Fragments?”
After she paid with a slice of Abaddon’s black history, the Little White Dragon earned one answer from Lord Satan. The tall Demon guided them into the palace parlor, steam‑light pooling like rain on brass.
Little White Dragon and Nidhogg sat opposite Satan, like frost facing flame. Abaddon sulked in his mother’s arms, a reluctant doll, limp and pitiful.
A maid in late‑Victorian dress served black tea. Lilith dropped in two sugar cubes and stirred, slow as moonlight on a pond.
“I know a fair bit about Divine Fragments,” Lilith said. She offered Satan a clean outline, no extra strings. The Little White Dragon kept her own Divine Fragment identity veiled, like a lantern wrapped in silk. Telling everything felt wrong; secrets were a boundary, cool as night air.
“Is that so? You already know that much,” Satan nodded. Lilith’s summary was crisp; the Demon grasped her situation like a blade catching light. She clapped, cleared her throat, and, with a thoughtful look, began to answer the Little White Dragon’s question.
Just like the Reaper Fragments you saw in Morris and the Grand Mausoleum, Bosaklie also holds one, a shard like frost in the gears. It’s called Plague, and it embodies death‑dust—no, more precisely, death‑dust is only one face of the Plague. Unlike most races on this continent, Demons rarely use magic; we don’t worship any gods. In this city, gods are teahouse gossip, jokes tossed like dice. What truly shields us are machines that hum and spit steam toward the sky, iron lungs breathing under a brass heaven.
Because of that culture, Bosaklie built a cell from the start—set inside the main furnace, scoured always by steam and heat. There, Plague is kept, caged like a fever under lids of steel. With the Reaper Fragment sealed tight, the death‑dust that once howled over the Demon Realm has thinned. It only surges when it rides our innate weather, a wild tide paired with native winds. Otherwise, it can’t threaten Bosaklie as it is now.
Her brow tightened, a storm gathering. “You sealed the Divine Fragment, yet the Demon Realm’s calamity hasn’t stopped; it’s spread to far‑off corners of the continent,” the Little White Dragon said. “I met a roaming dragon in the far west, across the entire continent from you, in dragon territory. It was wrapped in death‑dust like ragged fog; it left marks on me.” Lilith bared her forehead; shattered holy light flickered within, then crimson—the Demon King’s hue—washed over it.
“A roaming dragon?” Satan stiffened, a teacup pause. The demon lady watched Lilith, wary as a cat in wind. “We did have roaming dragons in the Demon Realm,” she whispered, words thin in the wind. “But they died before the Cataclysm—no, before the Necromancer Cultists were even born. For one to appear now on this continent—it’s strange.”
Frustration pricked like sand. “That dragon caused us plenty of trouble,” Lilith said. “I need more about that dragon. If not that one, then any roaming dragons—I’ll take whatever there is to hear.”
“Sorry. About roaming dragons—I really can’t tell you,” Satan gave an awkward smile, thin as paper. It touches the deepest secrets of Bosaklie. I can’t hand that to outsiders. Secret is a rule of silence, sealed like wax; if you find it yourself and see it with your own eyes, that’s fine.”
“What a strange rule,” Lilith tilted her head, curiosity sparking like a firefly. “What must not be spoken but must be seen?”
“You said it yourself: if it can’t be spoken, I can’t tell you,” Satan shrugged, shoulders like wings folding. “What I can say is it’s not dangerous. You’ll have to go down, to Bosaklie’s lowest pipes and alleys. Say farewell to the demons living deepest, then go alone—oh, with your companions; you’re not alone. Dive to the heart of the city; cross the last web of brass and machine oil; find your answers where everything began.”
Her heart quickened, like a kite tugging its string. “Sounds romantic,” Lilith said. She craved adventures steeped in romance, incense and iron. The Little White Dragon already itched to bolt from the palace, plunge with Nidhogg into the city’s core, and glimpse the roaming dragon’s truth.
“Of course—but there’s a small snag.” Satan’s words cut through Lilith’s daydream like a cold draft. “I can’t offer much help, not even a lantern in fog. You must enter Bosaklie’s depths yourself, down like a diver. It’s the hardship of seeking knowledge, a tollgate you must cross. I can’t pay it for you; it has to be you, your hand on the wheel.”
Confidence rose, warm as tea. “It’s fine; this level of difficulty—I can handle it,” Lilith shook her head. Bosaklie isn’t colossal, not a mountain of wheels. A city that roams a vast desert can’t be too huge; a few furnaces couldn’t drive a juggernaut. Getting into Bosaklie won’t be that hard, not a wall of stone. She just needed a solid source of intel, a thread to tug, then she’d follow her own plan.
A prickle of guilt, quick as a pin. “I’m good. Just—what about Abaddon?” The Little White Dragon pointed at the small demon in Satan’s arms, a quick arrow of intent. The gray‑white little guy glared at Lilith, cheeks puffed, silently condemning a treacherous dragon for airing his black history.
“She—she’s staying with me, of course.” Satan hugged Abaddon tighter, like a mother clutching a warm coal, unwilling to let go.
“Mm,” Lilith murmured, like a pebble dropping into tea. Lilith had expected that; no surprise, just a soft nod like falling ash.
Nidhogg had been silent; his voice cut in, deep as a bell. “Got any ideas? About how to get down?” Lilith showed the Black Dragon a small badge, a gleam she’d gotten in Lamter.
“Heh, don’t underestimate my intel network,” Lilith said, winking like a star behind smoke.
