Easter special with a short story The First Breath

More about Easter special with a short story The First Breath

On the highest plateau of the Ash Mountains, where no bird flies and even the wind is silent, rose an ancient pedestal. It was hewn from black stone, entwined with cracks through which faint silver light seeped. Carved into its surface were runes whose language only the stars knew. When mists drifted through the ravines and the moons crossed, these symbols began to glow—like whispering memories from the depths of time. There, at the center of the pedestal, lay the egg. Dark as liquid obsidian, suffused from within with a pulse of light. It vibrated almost imperceptibly, as if something were awakening within it—something that had slumbered for centuries. The ancients called it the "Heart of the Evening." But no one knew who had laid it. Some believed it was a last spark from the Age of Dragons. Others said the egg was only dreaming—of fire, flight, and flame. Then came the evening, which was different. A gust of wind brushed the ruins. The runes began to burn, bright as starblood. The mist retreated. And from the egg came a sound—not loud, but weighty. Like the first drop of rain after a century of drought. A crack followed, soft but sharp. The stone beneath the egg trembled. One crack. Then two. Then a crack—shot through with blinding light. With a flash, the egg shattered. Shards of obsidian glass swirled through the air. And from within crawled a creature that no one who had ever seen it could forget. A young dragon. Still damp from hatching, its wings pressed to its body, with scales like liquid opal. Each breath was a small flash. Its eyes—large, golden, searching—looked around as if they could tell time. Carefully, it unfolded its wings. Thin as paper, translucent, yet crisscrossed with lines of force. It stood up, wobbled on claw-like feet to the edge of the pedestal—and exhaled. No fire yet. But steam, hot and shimmering. Enough to make the fog bend back. The world held its breath. And the dragon—the first of its kind in a thousand years—smiled. Not a sweet smile, but one that knew: This is the beginning. I am memory. And future at the same time. And deep within the mountain, beneath ancient stone veins, other runes began to glow. The world had breathed. Now it would burn.