Chapter Eighteen
“Uh… an orange soul?” Curiosity fluttered first like a moth to a lantern; Lilith poked the crimson spirit hanging in the air, a flame without warmth, a bonfire painted on glass.
It looked like fire, but it felt like thin gruel—soft as morning fog, just a faint stickiness telling the world the soul still existed, like dew clinging to a leaf.
“You—uh—how should I address you?” Respect rose in her chest like incense smoke; the Little White Dragon bit back her question about what it was, guessing it might be the Golden Dragon’s soul, or a relic after his battle with Gaia—older than a hundred Liliths stacked like stones. She smoothed her tone, afraid a careless word would make an elder twist her head off like a dead twig.
“Me? Ah, new child, are you speaking to me?” The orange-red spirit swayed like a lantern in wind; an ancient voice rustled out, and the Little White Dragon met yet another dragon-kind antique, a mountain worn smooth by years.
Lilith slipped into her respectful cadence, like kneeling before an ancestral tablet. “Of course. And you are…?” She squeezed Litt’s hand, the two matching white puffs stood prim and straight before Nidhogg, like snowballs lined up on a temple step, scared to scuff the elder spirit’s mood.
“A wandering soul.” The flame sighed long, like rain across old tiles; its tip flicked, half a shake of the head, half a tired wave, helplessness pooling like dusk.
“I’ve drifted the world for thousands of years. This is my first time meeting the descendants of my kin. Those Necromancer Cultists never speak to me—brutes who don’t honor elders or shelter the young.” The soul grumbled, heatless anger like smoke under ice.
Lilith’s attention sharpened like a blade catching light. “You’re a dragon too? Dragons would never leave their kin’s souls wandering in foreign lands. Why hasn’t another dragon come to find you?”
She elbowed Nidhogg, heart tight like a drum. “Dragons reclaim their wandering souls, right?”
“Yes.” Nidhogg’s voice came low, like night wind in pines. “Dragons are bound to the stars; each of us matches one above. No leaf fails to return to its root, and we don’t lose a single star.”
“So it’s not a dragon,” Lilith murmured, resolve settling like frost. “Then it really is the Golden Dragon’s soul.”
“Dragon? What’s that?” The spirit’s body rippled like heat on a road. Realization struck, and the calm flame flared, a prairie fire turning. The pale-gold world flipped to blood-red, and the ground under Lilith’s feet went from sunlit gilt to a crimson that made courage shiver.
“Dragon! A dragon!” The red fire roared, a volcano finding its throat. It writhed, and the once-cool blaze grew scalding; the half-person-high flame swelled, limbs punching out like spears from a brazier. The lower fire twisted into a massive head; the upper, thin tongue of flame stretched into a tail, a comet unfurling.
What had been a single blaze became a scarlet dragon, its body torn like banners in war. A chunk of its chest was missing, white bone shining like winter cliffs. Red skin and muscle lay exposed to the air, with only a few stubborn patches wearing the proud scales of a dragon. Its head was mostly wrecked—bare bone and memory. If not for the skull’s telling shape, Lilith wouldn’t have known this ruin matched her memory of the Golden Dragon.
“So it really is you.” Instinct rose like a wave; the Little White Dragon yanked Litt behind her, summoned the Elemental Ark, and fanned out a prism of blades like a rainbow turned to steel. Nidhogg slid to her side with practiced ease, black talons up, a night storm ready to strike.
The scarlet dragon, for some reason, shrank to near human size, a four-footed dragon no taller than a warhorse, no mountain in its shadow. The little dragon judged her sword could run it through in one breath; there was no awe to its scale, just a campfire trying to roar.
“Why are you so small?” Lilith tilted her head, doubt flitting like a swallow. Even fresh-formed, still a juvenile, her dragon body had been bigger than this. In memory, this one matched Nidhogg’s full dragon size—so why had reality shaved it down? Had the years worn a soul thin, like paper left in rain?
“Millennia of rage condensed my soul.” The dragon ground its teeth; fangs met with a clack that raised goosebumps like cold rain. “Ew,” Lilith muttered, ignoring the noise like a fly near fruit. “It’ll become fire that burns all things, the world a forest set alight. Size means nothing now; only fierce flame brings victory.”
“Don’t buy that.” Nidhogg’s tone cut clean, like a sharp axe. “The Golden Dragon isn’t one of us, but he gets the same afterlife as dragons. His soul should’ve returned to the sky. This thing is just a remnant caught by grievance when the soul left, so it’s small. As for his flame—hah. I bet it isn’t even material. Burn the world? More like bluster.”
“So we can just take the fire head-on?” Lilith didn’t care about pedigree; if it’s easy to beat, that’s all that matters. Her eagerness sparked like flint.
“No.” Nidhogg shook his head, a raven wing against dawn. “That fire hits on the soul level. It can’t harm matter, but it’ll scorch your spirit. Don’t get burned. It’s hard to treat.”
“That troublesome, huh?” Lilith’s brows knotted like vines. She gripped her sword, and caution cooled her blood—she’d fight like wind, all dodge and glide.
“Yeah. Better safe.” Nidhogg nodded, steady as an old tree. “Got a plan?”
“Mm…” Lilith tapped her chin, an idea blooming like morning glory curling up a gate.
“Litt, help Mommy out.” She winked at the little shard behind her, playfulness flicking like a fish in clear water.
