Chapter 26: A Secret Parley

Lilith settled in the Royal Wing of the Great Library, calm as moonlight on stone.

Their maid set a cup of red tea by the Little White Dragon, amber rippling like dawn.

Lilith lifted it and breathed in; the aroma was familiar, demon royalty in a dark incense trail.

Strange that after the Necromancer Cultists split into three races and drifted for two millennia, one tea ritual still held like a thread through dunes.

The Undead had their lineage severed for generations, yet this habit endured, thin silk stitched against time’s grit.

Little White Dragon didn’t get why a low‑chance thing persisted; she let it stand, like wind settling sand.

At least the tea was good, warmth pooling in her chest; glad the legacy wasn’t sludge and dross.

“Let’s talk business.” Satan sat across from the Little White Dragon, her presence folding like a wing.

She slid two books toward Lilith, covers heavy as iron doors.

Nidhogg moved quick as a hawk and plucked one from the Little White Dragon’s hands, sharp as a snap.

Lilith shot her a glare, then opened the other, the first page lifting like a pale scale.

“About the history of the Golden Dragon,” Satan said, voice steady as a bell.

“Bosaklie has two volumes. The one in your hand is the first.

It records how the Demons built Bosaklie in the Demon Realm after the Cataclysm, brick by bone.”

“The Black Dragon’s volume is the second. It speaks of the colossal remains beneath the city, weight like buried mountains.”

“Everything before the Cataclysm lives in the Necromancer Cultists’ legends.

They’re less dependable, knotted like riddles. Let’s shelve them first.”

Irritation rose in Lilith like smoke; she recalled whispers under Morris.

Those legends did guide the Little Dragon to the Legendary Sword, but they talked in riddles like breathing.

If they stopped, they’d pop like overripe fruit—infuriating by design.

“Let’s actually read.” Little White Dragon opened the heavy tome, pages rustling like leaves.

Just as Satan said, the contents traced Bosaklie’s rise, spine to spire.

She followed the timeline and found the first dragon’s footprint, a deep stamp in sand.

“‘Master of Gold’—that means the Golden Dragon, right?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Not quite.” Satan shook her head, cool as evening rain.

“That’s Bosaklie’s first city lord, the greatest leader of the Demons.

He built Bosaklie and became the first master of the City of Gold.”

“The Golden Dragon is the ‘eternal, undying bone’ mentioned earlier.”

Satan pinched the Little White Dragon’s hand and turned several pages, parchment sighing like reeds.

Two gazes slid toward Lilith, sharp as knives; she felt the chill before she turned.

Nidhogg’s face was dark as ink, eyes promising blood, a storm about to break.

Little White Dragon shivered, then quietly drew back her small hand from Satan’s grip, like a fish slipping free.

Jealous gremlin, she thought, sour as vinegar on the tongue.

She steadied herself and sank into the text again, like diving into a still pool.

Lilith followed Satan’s finger to the passage on the Golden Dragon, letters glinting like scales.

Legend says the first demon leader despaired at yellow sands that couldn’t block death dust, grit like poison snow.

He stumbled on a relic that had slept many years, a silence buried in bone.

By his power, the relic woke and spoke, voice rasping like wind over a grave.

It offered its bone as the base for a moving city, a fortress on legs.

Then it could flee whenever the storm eye of death dust rolled in, a black cyclone’s heart.

The lord accepted, and Bosaklie rose, a city riding bone through the desert sea.

Yet the Golden Dragon asked one condition when it gave its bone, a promise hung like a lantern.

Later, the lord failed to fulfill it, a broken thread snapping in the dark.

The Golden Dragon burned with betrayal and swore vengeance on Bosaklie, fire curled under sand.

“That’s it?” The record stopped like a cliff.

Lilith scanned start to end, but found no more, only blank shores.

“What about the rest?”

“The rest’s here.” Nidhogg shook the other book, pages whispering like wings.

Lilith slipped beside her, thrilled; she snatched it to read, hunger bright as a spark.

Her curiosity flared like dry tinder; she’d been ready to curse a locked chapter.

Then she saw a fresh update and charged on, unstoppable as floodwater.

For that, she let Nidhogg’s hand misbehave, stealing warmth while she devoured lines, sweet theft in shadow.

“Let me see.” She read aloud, words ringing like steel.

“The Golden Dragon chose to retaliate against the city,

but its flesh had fused with the golden desert, dunes welded like armor.

Its bone had fused with the eternal city, pillars braided with marrow.

Only its soul, meant for the Star Canvas, still roared at the deepest floor.”

“The second city lord found a sword from who‑knows‑where, origin fogged like dawn.”

“This sword and the Legendary Sword, tempered in dragon blood and soul, could unleash great might.”

“He used that blade to sever the Golden Dragon’s soul, leaving only a tenacious remnant.”

“Soon after, later lords dealt with that remnant as well, a flame pinched to ember.”

“So, this sword should be the one the book records.” Little White Dragon slapped a silver hilt onto the table.

The black blade unfurled like ink in water, blooming into a Star Canvas right there.

“And I’ve got this one too.” Light flared on her wrist, a comet’s flicker.

She summoned the Elemental Ark and stacked it atop the silver hilt, metal humming like a hive.

“This should be the Legendary Sword from your Necromancer Cultists’ tales, or its earlier body.”

“We have two dragons here.” Lilith tapped herself and Nidhogg, knuckles like bells.

“Even if our blood falls short, the Golden Dragon’s blood lies at Bosaklie’s bottom, cold as buried wine.

We can draw some up, a ladle dipped in night.”

“Most important.” Little White Dragon tugged a tentacle from her sleeve; it curled and breathed red mist, like incense and blood.

“I’ve got a bit of the Golden Dragon’s soul I didn’t eat,” she said, casual as a cat with cream.

She set everything on the table—steel, stars, and crimson drift—then looked to Satan, gaze steady.

“Bosaklie must have fine smiths, but we may not need them. God‑made weapons call to each other, iron answering iron.”

“Whatever woke that remnant, we hold a blade stronger than the one that felled it, edge cold as winter moon.”

“Even if our swordcraft can’t match that great city lord, we’ve got answers for whatever the Golden Dragon tries.”

“So, find me a good place to forge?” The Little White Dragon tilted her head, smiling like moonlight over tea.