This blog continues the legend. Here is the first one
Under their guidance, the world learned the Spiral: a year was not a line but a helical ascent. Each full moon offered a lesson; each lesson prepared the next. By the cycle’s end, under the Star Dragon, communities gathered to consecrate meaning—naming what they had learned, preserving wisdom for the winters to come.
Humanity lived in rhythm with the lunar currents. Each full moon opened one of twelve gates, and through it, a dragon’s wisdom flowed into the world. Villages timed their planting, birthing, trading, and journeying by the dragons’ counsel.
The Red Dragon was invoked at each year’s first moon, when courage was needed to plant hope into winter’s soil.
The Snow Dragon cooled tempers and brought healing to households.
The Blue Dragon whispered insight to poets, healers, and those who sought clarity in the unseen.
The Yellow Dragon taught laughter as medicine,
and the Dragon of the Dawn stirred pioneers to begin again.
Under the Green and Gold Dragons, crops and hearts alike flourished.
The Fire Dragon purified pride; the Water Dragon cleansed sorrow.
The Dragon of the Mist carried messages between the living and their ancestors, while the Ice Dragon taught endurance.
The cycle culminated in the Star Dragon, who reminded all that each soul was a mirror of the heavens.
Together, these rituals created societies woven from grace. No one sought to dominate, for to act against another was to pull against one’s own reflection. The dragons were not gods; they were partners, mentors, and sometimes mirrors. The people did not worship them—they listened.
The Rise of Ambition
But as the centuries passed, listening grew difficult. Villages expanded into kingdoms; harmony gave way to hierarchy. Where once lunar keepers served the cycles, kings began to command them. Wealthy rulers desired the blessings of multiple dragons in one season—prosperity without humility, passion without rest. The harmony of the Spiral became distorted into the Ladder—a climb rather than a dance.
The dragons, bound by the covenant of free will, did not intervene. Yet Na’Luna, the Serpent of Light, sensed strain in the Gate’s rhythm. The dragons’ voices began to tremble, their colors thinning as imbalance deepened. To some, the heavens themselves appeared fractured—moons with halos that flickered like cracked glass.
The event that broke the Accord came during what was later called The Night of the Weeping Sky. A council of mage-kings, each aligned to a different moon, conspired to summon all twelve dragons at once. They believed that by merging their powers, they could reopen the Silver Gate and command eternity itself.
On the appointed night, twelve towers lit with silver flame rose across the continents. Chants in lost tongues echoed through the heavens. The Gate trembled. The dragons—bound by their oaths of compassion—answered the call, not in defiance but in sorrow. Their presences converged above the world in a brilliance too great for mortal eyes.
Na’Luna screamed—a sound that tore through the void and shattered the harmony of the Gate. The Silver threshold split into twelve luminous fragments, each containing a portion of lunar power. The dragons, caught within their own emanations, were drawn into separation—each bound to a single rhythm, exiled to their own moonlit current.
As the Gate broke, storms of silver dust rained from the sky. Oceans boiled with reflected light, mountains sang like crystal bells. When the glow faded, the world had changed. Magic no longer flowed freely; the once-harmonious cadence of creation had become twelve separate pulses.
Human memory blurred. Where once people spoke with the dragons openly, now they could only dream of them. Myths replaced memory; rituals became symbols; truth became story. Na’Luna vanished into the rift, wounded and silent. Only faint echoes—the Full Moons—remained as living reminders of the twelve lost harmonies.
