Read the first chapter of the story of the Dragon of the Mist in the previously published blog.
https://www.crystalconjuremagic2.com/blogs/news/dragon-of-the-mist-the-time-is-upon-us
our story continues....
The Return of the Silver One
From the Lunari Prophecies, Book of Stars, Scroll XIII
Chapter One: When Stone Weeps
The mist had returned.
Not the ordinary fog that rolled in from the coastal plains each dawn and faded with the sun’s ascent. This mist shimmered faintly with silver, hung low in the valleys long after morning, and moved as though it listened.
It slipped through the ruins of the Old World—ancient cities now strangled by ivy, forgotten temples veiled in green silence. It wept through cracked stones where the glyphs of the Lunari still pulsed faintly beneath layers of moss and time.
And across the broken spine of the continent, dreamers began to wake with a single phrase echoing through their sleep:
“The Silver One stirs.”
In the highlands of Yrien, where no sky-road ran and no signal reached, there lived a girl named Kaelen. She was a gatherer of cloud herbs and dew-root, an apprentice to her grandmother, who many called mad and few called wise.
But Kaelen knew the old songs.
Each morning, she brewed tea from leaves wrapped in moon petals. Each evening, she sat at the cliff’s edge and whispered her grief into the wind—grief for a poisoned river, for vanishing birds, for the crumbling laughter of once-lush forests. Grief not for the past, but for the memory of what the world should have been.
And so, when the silver mist came to her village, curling around doorposts and trailing into hearths, Kaelen did not run.
She followed it.
The mist led her beyond the known paths, past the stone watchtowers of the old realm, into the forgotten Vale of Eryth. It was here that the air thickened—not with danger, but with memory. Visions clung to the fog like dew: children laughing beneath ancient trees, wolves running through meadows that no longer existed, temples singing with the voices of the Lunari priests.
Kaelen walked with bare feet and steady breath. In her hand, she carried a vessel of oolong leaves—dark and curled like dragon claws, harvested by moonlight on the last festival day of spring. Her grandmother had said they were for the awakening.
When she reached the heart of the vale, the mist parted around a ring of standing stones.
In their center, a pool shimmered—still, but lit from beneath with a light that was not of sun or moon.
And within the pool: a shape, vast and coiled, its breath slow and ancient. Scales like liquid silver. Horns like twisted crystal. Eyes closed, as if in deep and endless dreaming.
The Dragon of the Mist.
Kaelen knelt at the water’s edge.
“When mist weeps through the stones of the old world,” she whispered, voice trembling,
“and hearts cry louder than war drums…”
The dragon’s body stirred. The mist thickened, humming with unseen voices.
“The Silver One shall stir.
In its breath shall come not wrath—”
She took a breath and cast the tea leaves into the water.
“—but remembrance.”
The pool flared with soft light. The mist inhaled, folding inward. The dragon’s eyes opened.
Not with fire. Not with rage.
But with deep, ageless sorrow—and fierce, healing purpose.
Far away, in the steel cities of the south, machines sputtered and paused. Rivers ran clearer. Birds sang unfamiliar songs. And those who had forgotten the world began to dream again.
The Silver One had returned.
Not as legend.
Not as warning.
But as a healer.
And Kaelen—once a gatherer, now a vessel of mist—would carry its breath to every broken corner of the world.
