Chapter Nineteen: Tendrils!
Litt’s power now rises from two storms: the Moonswallow Mist and Black Sun Devouring, like twin tides under the same moon.
The two disasters wear different faces, yet their roots share one wound—the fall of the same god, the Grim Reaper, the Nameless One, like a shattered sun spilling night. Holding both, Litt can wield every trick they offer, and forge stranger paths, like new rivers cut through old stone.
“Mix a little Black Sun Devouring into the Moonswallow Mist, then drop it under that crimson giant’s feet,” the Little White Dragon whispered, like wind threading bamboo. The small shard—Litt—nodded, obedient as a dew bead on grass.
After setting Litt’s move, the Little White Dragon drew the Elemental Ark. The multicolored blade wore an azure veil over its blush-white body, like dusk draping snow. She reversed her grip and gently stirred the golden liquid under her toes, like a ladle in molten honey.
Heat pricked through the blade where it touched that gold, like sunlight catching metal. This river wasn’t simple; it hid other uses, like fish under a still surface.
“Nidhogg, how sure are you you’ll beat this thing?” She minced over in small steps, like a sparrow crossing frost. The Black Dragon’s forearms had shifted into taloned claws; black scales glinted in the dark like wet obsidian, pressure rolling off her like a stormfront. The White Dragon tilted her chin and asked, soft as silk.
“A wisp of Wraith, nothing more. It won’t be a problem,” Nidhogg said, flexing her claws like iron fans. To her, brute flesh was enough. The Golden Dragon might be the oldest, a mountain of power, but this was only a Wraith—a shadow on water—and Lilith alone could break it, like a blade through paper.
“Don’t tempt fate by planting flags,” the Little White Dragon murmured, lips pressing like cherry buds. She stepped forward, light as a feather. Lilith’s fine features curved into a tempting smile, like peach blossom in spring. She looked at the dragon barely bigger than herself; scarlet lips parted. “Can’t keep you waiting. Leaving a guest to stew while we chat is rude, like leaving tea to go cold.”
Before her words fully settled, Nidhogg moved in tune, heel pounding the floor like thunder. Stone shards popped up from the golden current, like carp leaping a fall. The floor split with a slam, drawing the Red Dragon’s gaze like a flare.
The lingering Wraith unfurled his wings, like torn banners. He gaped and spat a crimson orb at Nidhogg, like a comet thrown low.
His focus clung to Nidhogg like iron filings to a magnet, so he missed Lilith ghosting behind him, shadow to shadow. Her sword lunged up, like a springed needle, stabbing for the Red Dragon’s wing. Startled, the giant flapped to rise, like a barnstorming kite—but the White Dragon’s sword wasn’t just one edge.
In empty air, a second blade manifested, azure wrapping blush-white, like moonlight glazing cherry blossom. Two edges made a vast pair of shears, like a hunter’s jaws. The twin blades closed and bit toward the Wraith’s wing.
“Roar!” The Wraith bellowed, voice breaking like ice. Three water jets burst from the golden liquid, lashing the dragon’s sides like whips. One surge rose under the Little White Dragon’s feet, and drenched Lilith from crown to ankle, like sudden rain.
Even so, Lilith’s cut landed. The Wraith’s already thin wing lost a piece, shrinking like a leaf torn by wind. The White Dragon saw the inner tone, paler than the skin, like bone under parchment.
“Wicked hatchling dares to wound me. Hah—time to send you on,” the Golden Dragon’s Wraith snarled, wings fluttering as he floated, hawk over field. He glared down at Black Dragon and White Dragon, eyes like burning coins. “Prepare for the wrath of gold. Let me show you children of the Star Canvas a way to wield star power you’ve never, ever seen.”
“Do all villains love lines that cheesy?” the Little White Dragon muttered to Nidhogg, annoyance pricking like nettle. Lilith had already raised her right hand to cast, ready to give him the crash-test king treatment, like tossing a boar into brambles. But the old thing’s trash talk hooked her attention, like bait on a line. Now she really wanted to see this so-called ‘true way’ his mouth kept polishing.
Bragging about the Star Canvas in front of an Astrologer is like telling a Frenchman no one surrenders better than you—salt rubbed into salt.
No kidding—Lilith couldn’t swallow that, like a thorn stuck in throat.
“Careful you don’t flip the cart,” Nidhogg warned, easing back like a cat before pounce. The Black Dragon stepped half a stride ahead, ready to shield Lilith if the wind turned.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a backup,” the Little White Dragon said, palm tapping her rising chest like a drum. She lifted her chin toward the Golden Dragon fussing in the sky, like a crane tracing clouds.
To be fair, the old thing wasn’t all smoke. He knew the astrological craft; Lilith’s gaze, sharp as a needle, caught it. He was sketching star charts by beating his wings, like a scribe writing in light. Lilith can project constellations she resonates with; he too was trying to cast a Star Canvas, sky painted onto air.
But isn’t that speed a little slow, like amber trying to flow?
Following his pace, star by star in her mind like beads on a string, Lilith realized he wasn’t drawing a single constellation. He was charting a whole sector, at least six constellations worth of lights, like a map stitched from many skins.
“This fossil’s got some bite,” Lilith said, eyes on the forming Star Canvas behind the Wraith, like a tapestry rising. The Golden Dragon wasn’t wrong; she had never seen star power used this way, like a loom weaving storms.
“Hard to handle? Want me to knock him down now?” Nidhogg asked, blunt as an axe. She wasn’t an Astrologer; the weave hid its threads.
“No need,” the Little White Dragon said, shaking her head like willow. It wasn’t that she couldn’t project like that; she just never bothered. And she had her own reasons, like closed boxes under a bed.
“Litt.” Her call was soft, like a bell behind fog. The prepared shard answered and moved, swift as a fish. Azure mist and crimson-black haze rose from the floor, twining like dragons. In a blink they blanketed the Star Canvas the Wraith had labored to summon, like stormcloud smothering moon.
The mixed fog fused into a colossal hammer, like a mountain falling into shape, and it smashed down on the Golden Dragon’s skull, thunder in iron.
The hovering Wraith couldn’t bear that force. He floundered, wings beating twice like broken fans, then—thud—he slammed into the ground like a felled tree.
Now that’s the crash-test king.
