Chapter I: The Soggy Beginning

Day of Clouded Reflections, 368 AE They say that hope in Vaelorien is like mist—clinging, vanishing, returning when least expected. I, Tidecaller of House Elavorn, have never put much faith in old sayings, but this morning the mists seemed especially thick, curling around Elavorn’s Rest as if to hide all our sorrows and secrets. My boots, of course, were soaked through before breakfast. Some things never change. Alarion Deepwake, ever the stoic, met me at the ruined archway with that resigned look he reserves for my “brilliant” ideas. I suppose, after years of patching vaults and shooing off memory-scavengers, even a glimmer of adventure wears thin. “You saw it, then?” I asked, voice hushed for fear of rousing the spirits that drifted through the square. He nodded. “A shape above the Mirror Lake at dawn. Large. Silver as moonlight, trailing mist.” A Mist-Dragon. I tried not to let my hands tremble. “Could it be Mirathen?” I asked, hope making my heart ache. Mirathen—our kin’s lost guardian, vanished during the last Sky War, believed drowned or gone mad with grief. Alarion shrugged, but I saw the spark in his sea-grey eyes. “If it is, we must try.” Thus began our mission to reunite Mirathen with the dwindling circle of Mist-Dragons. Not for glory, not even for the promise of restoration, but simply because, in Vaelorien, reunions are the closest we come to miracles. —

Chapter II: The Oath Beneath the Waves

Day of Glistening Shadows, 368 AE We gathered supplies—kelp-bread, spirit lanterns, a battered conch horn, and, for Alarion, a stout spear “just in case.” I made him swear not to poke any dragons unless absolutely necessary. Our first visit was to Sirell the Salt-Touched, who drifted through the tide-caves humming lullabies to the spirits. Sirell’s hair is always damp, his eyes distant, as if he listens to the sea more than to people. He greeted us with a sly smile. “Seeking lost things again, Tidecaller? Beware—sometimes the mist reveals more than you bargain for.” “We need your help,” I said, bowing my head. “A Mist-Dragon haunts the ruins. If it is Mirathen, only you can soothe her sorrow.” Sirell’s gaze grew sharp. “The dragons mourn as we do. Their memories shape the mist. Bring her a token of home, a memory she cannot refuse.” Alarion, practical as ever, asked, “And if she flees?” Sirell only laughed—a sound like surf breaking on bone. “Then follow, but be gentle. Mist is not tamed by force.” We made a pact: we would venture beyond the safe shallows, into the drowned vaults where Mirathen once sang with her kin. If nothing else, perhaps we would convince her that, like us, she was not alone. —

Chapter III: Driftwood and Drowned Hopes

Day of Waning Tides, 368 AE Our small coracle creaked as we paddled into the Mirror Lake, mist curling around us like ghostly fingers. Elavorn’s Rest faded behind, replaced by the silent majesty of submerged spires, their tips just visible above the water. Alarion manned the oar with grim determination. I clutched an old, silvered locket—my mother’s, and once a favorite trinket of Mirathen when she would let me ride upon her back as a child. It was our “token of home,” though I doubted even dragons cared for sentimental baubles. We drifted past the arch of Serathil, its carvings eaten by moss and time. The water below shimmered with light and shadow—sometimes I glimpsed faces of the Drowned Spirits, watching, waiting. Suddenly, the mist thickened. Alarion tensed. “There,” he whispered, pointing. A vast shape coiled just beneath the surface—a serpent of fog and silver scales. Mirathen. Her eyes, once bright as opals, now glimmered with sorrow. She did not speak, but the air grew heavy with longing. I held up the locket, hand trembling. “Mirathen,” I said, voice wavering, “we remember. We need you.” She vanished in a swirl of mist, leaving us bobbing, bewildered. But I felt hope—elusive, yes, but there. —

Chapter IV: Games of Ghosts and Dragons

Day of Restless Spirits, 368 AE We spent the next day trailing Mirathen through half-flooded ruins. She toyed with us, appearing in the periphery, dissolving whenever we drew near. Alarion grumbled about “dragon games.” I, for once, agreed. At dusk, we rested on a toppled pillar. The Drowned Spirits gathered, their translucent forms humming with curiosity. One spirit, a child in tattered festival silks, drifted close. “The dragon’s heart is broken,” she whispered. “She seeks the song of her sisters.” I blinked away tears. Once, the Mist-Dragons’ chorus had filled our nights with hope. Now, only silence lingered. Alarion, who rarely speaks to the dead, surprised me. “Can you help us?” he asked softly. The spirit-child nodded, her form flickering. “Bring her to the Echoing Vault. There, the memory of song endures.” A plan formed—mad, perhaps, but in Vaelorien, madness is sometimes all we have left. —

Chapter V: The Echoing Vault

Day of Shifting Veils, 368 AE We paddled to the sunken entrance of the Echoing Vault, a dome of pearl and coral now half-swallowed by the lake. I recited an old incantation, fingers numb with cold, and the entrance shimmered open. Inside, the air was thick with memory. Every step triggered echoes—laughter, dragon-song, the distant crash of waves. Alarion’s face softened as he listened. I pressed the locket to my heart and sang the old melody, voice rough but sincere. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, mist gathered above the vault pool. Mirathen emerged, vast and sorrowful, her body trailing ribbons of vapor. I held out the locket. “You are not forgotten,” I whispered. She regarded us with infinite patience, then touched the locket with her snout. The vault trembled. Faintly, other shapes appeared—ghostly outlines of Mist-Dragons lost to time, drawn by the memory of song. Mirathen keened—high, mournful, beautiful. The vault answered, echoes swirling in a harmony of grief and hope. Alarion squeezed my shoulder. “We did it,” he murmured, wonder softening his usual reserve. —

Chapter VI: A Reunion in Mist

Day of Returning Currents, 368 AE Word spread through Elavorn’s Rest: the Mist-Dragons had gathered. By dawn, a host of elves, living and spirit, lined the lakeshore. Even the Drowned Spirits, who rarely showed themselves by day, hovered close, yearning for the comfort of old songs. Mirathen surfaced beside us, flanked by four of her kin—ancient, graceful, their eyes bright with memory. The tide itself seemed to hush in reverence. Alarion bowed, then nudged me. “Say something. You’re the Tidecaller, after all.” For once, words failed me. But Mirathen answered in her own way: she arched her neck, releasing a plume of silvery mist that drifted over the crowd. Where it touched, sorrow faded, replaced by a gentle warmth—a promise that, even in ruin, we endure. The dragons wove through the ruins, singing their long-lost chorus. Spirits and elves alike wept with joy. It was not a miracle; it was something gentler, a reminder that bonds severed by grief can, sometimes, be mended by memory. —

Chapter VII: Reflections at Dusk

Day of Quiet Waters, 368 AE The days that followed were brighter, somehow. The Mist-Dragons lingered, their presence calming restless spirits and emboldening the living to rebuild. Alarion and I became accidental heroes—an uncomfortable mantle, but one I bore with pride. Sirell visited me by the lakeshore, a crooked grin on his salt-streaked face. “You see, Tidecaller? Sometimes hope arrives on quiet wings.” I laughed, boots still damp, heart unexpectedly light. “And sometimes, hope needs a stubborn friend and a bit of borrowed courage.” Elavorn’s Rest remains a kingdom of ghosts and sorrow, but now, when the mists drift low, I hear the dragons’ song and remember: the tide will turn again. And when it does, I’ll be ready—boots, locket, and all. —