Ersia: Raven Dawn

The wind drifted across the vast stone of the Heavenly Cloud Mountain Range, weaving through its ridges and valleys as it passed over an endless procession of peaks that pierced the heavens and sank their roots into seas of mist below. The mountains greeted all who arrived with a quiet, solemn calm, yet none of it lessened the astonishment that filled Fu Mei’s eyes.

She still could not quite accept what she had just heard.

The existence of the divine dragon before her—revered, exalted beyond mortal comprehension—was already enough to be called a miracle that blessed the entire eastern continent. To learn now that such a being was not alone felt almost absurd, as though the world itself had quietly expanded beyond what she believed it could contain.

And yet, no matter how much her instincts resisted, the truth stood before her in silence.

The carvings stretched across the plateau in immense, ancient patterns, their scale so overwhelming that they seemed less like works of art and more like fragments of time itself, preserved in stone. They carried a weight that could not be described. An attempt to preserve time immemorable.

t was as if Tianquan Yuguan Peak, the Radiant Spring Belvedere overlooking the vastness of the world, had been shaped for this purpose alone. The plateau did not merely hold those engravings; it existed for them, like a monument that would never fade. Even the clouds seemed to circle more gently here, and the distant stars felt as though they moved with quiet restraint, unwilling to disturb what had been left behind.

“Now, I will assign you your final task, Fu Mei.”

The dragon descended from the sky, her enormous form settling upon the plateau with a presence that pressed softly against the air itself. There was no violence in her landing, only a quiet weight, as though the world had adjusted to receive her. She lowered her head and placed Fu Mei gently upon the ground, her movements careful to a degree that felt almost deliberate.

For a brief moment, everything was still.

Then the dragon rose once more.

She did not simply fly, nor did she move in any way Fu Mei could understand. Her long body curved through the sky in slow, deliberate patterns that defied reason, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next. It was not something that could be followed with the eyes alone, nor something that could be explained through memory or knowledge.

Even Yunhe and Minghe, who had accompanied her for centuries, stood motionless as they watched.

There was something different about this.

It felt less like movement and more like intention given form, as though each turn and arc carried meaning that could not be spoken. It resembled a ritual, yet it held a quiet finality that made Fu Mei’s chest tighten without her understanding why.

A farewell, perhaps.

The dragon’s form traced the sky with unhurried grace, and though there was no force behind it, no overwhelming display of power, each motion settled heavily in the heart. It was a strange kind of weight, one that did not press from above but gathered quietly from within.

Fu Mei did not notice when her vision began to blur.

By the time she realized it, tears had already slipped free.

Beside her, the crane siblings stood in the same silence, their composure long since broken. None of them spoke, and none of them questioned what they were witnessing. They simply remained where they were, as though something within them had been stirred without warning.

When the dragon finally descended, the sky itself seemed emptier for it.

She landed before Fu Mei and reached toward her chest without hesitation, drawing out the single scale nearest to her heart. The motion was gentle, but the soft sound it made was enough to make Fu Mei flinch.

Golden blood gathered at the wound, luminous and slow, clinging to the dragon’s form before falling away like drops of liquid light.

“I need you to find someone,” the dragon said, her voice quieter than before.

“Someone who will undertake a journey to the South.”

She began to describe the person in careful detail. At first, Fu Mei listened with full attention, committing each word to memory as best she could. But as the description continued, it grew increasingly specific, touching not only on outward appearance but on temperament, habits, and details that seemed impossible to confirm.

A trace of doubt surfaced in her mind.

Then another followed.

By the time the dragon finished speaking, that uncertainty had already begun to take root.

The dragon, however, noticed it immediately.

“Have faith in yourself,” she said, her gaze steady as it met Fu Mei’s. “As I do.”

Fu Mei hesitated, the words settling over her more heavily than she expected. After a moment, she drew in a breath and straightened slightly, nodding in response. The doubt did not vanish, but it no longer grew, and that alone steadied her.

The dragon’s expression softened, if only by a small degree, before she extended her hand.

The scale rested upon her palm.

Up close, it seemed almost unreal. Light moved across its surface in quiet layers, folding into one another in a way that was subtle yet impossible to ignore. It was not dazzling, nor overwhelming, but it carried a depth that drew the eye in and held it there.

Fu Mei instinctively reached out, only to stop herself midway. Even without touching it, she could feel something emanating from it—a warmth that was steady and unmistakably alive.

“There is a part of me within this,” the dragon said.

“When you find that person, tell them to carry it to the edge of the horizon.”

She paused briefly before continuing.

“And when the two moons, bound in love, begin to sing… speak to the ocean.”

Her gaze drifted past Fu Mei, unfocused, as though following something far beyond sight.

“Deliver this message.”

Her voice grew softer, yet no less clear.

"With longing unspent and love unlimited, from the helpless plume to the warmest bubble, the youngest sends her most solemn prayer for her sister’s eternal smile, a grace no measure could ever repay."

Fu Mei found her fingers curling slightly at her sides, her chest tightening in a way she could not fully explain. The crane siblings were already in tears once more, their reactions mirroring her own, though none of them spoke.

Even the air felt heavier than before.

After a short while, the dragon spoke again.

“Yunhe. Minghe.”

The two cranes straightened immediately, their response instinctive.

“Yes, exalted mistress,” they answered together.

The dragon exhaled, a simple, unremarkable breath.

Yet the moment it reached them, their bodies stiffened. Their pupils contracted sharply, and their expressions emptied as though something had been stripped away in an instant. For a brief span of time, they stood there without movement, like figures carved from stone.

Then the moment passed.

Their awareness returned, and both of them collapsed where they stood.

Yunhe managed to catch herself, one hand rising to cover her face as she struggled to steady her breathing, while Minghe fell fully to the ground, her body unmoving aside from faint, shallow breaths.

Fu Mei stepped forward without thinking.

“I-If I may ask... What did you do to them, Long Niang?” she asked.

The dragon regarded her calmly.

“They are fine,” she replied. “I have only teared their memories of this conversation.”

She paused, her gaze settling more firmly on Fu Mei.

“I trust you understand what that means, child.”

This time, Fu Mei did not need to ask. She understood perfectly.

For a while, the dragon remained silent, her attention drifting back to the wound near her heart where the scale had been taken. A trace of golden blood still lingered there, gathering in slow, radiant droplets before slipping free and falling in threads of dim light. She regarded it without expression, though there was something unspoken in the stillness, as if what remained held meaning beyond what could be seen.

“Tread closer, child,” she said at last, her voice quiet.

Fu Mei stepped forward, drawn in despite herself.

The dragon tilted her head slightly, guiding her gaze downward. “Take it.”

From this distance, the presence of that blood was unmistakable. It did not scorch or dazzle, yet it carried a quiet vitality, a subtle rhythm that seemed to echo against her own breathing. Fu Mei hesitated only briefly before lowering herself, her movement guided more by instinct than thought, and pressed her lips lightly against the luminous trace.

The change unfolded at once, though without force.

A gentle current spread through her body, seeping into places she had never been aware of, settling deep within her marrow and breath. It was not overwhelming, nor sudden, but complete in a way that felt almost inevitable, as though something long fragile had been restored without leaving any mark of its absence.

She drew back, unsteady for a moment, her hand rising to her chest as she tried to make sense of the sensation. There was no pain, no discomfort—only a quiet fullness that lingered, constant and reassuring.

The dragon observed her calmly before speaking.

“With this, no pestilence shall find root within you, and no venom shall claim your life. Any harm you suffer will mend in time, and even that which is lost may be returned, so long as your breath has not yet ceased.”

Her voice remained even, yet the certainty within it allowed no doubt.

Fu Mei stood still, the weight of those words settling slowly. It was difficult to comprehend, too vast to grasp all at once, but the steady presence within her seemed to affirm it without question.

After a moment, the dragon continued.

“Yet do not mistake this for mastery over fate. The span of your years has already been set, and nothing I bestow can lengthen what has been measured.”

There was no warning in her tone, only quiet finality.

Fu Mei lowered her hand, the unfamiliar strength within her now settled into something almost natural. She did not respond, but understanding took root all the same—not complete, but sufficient.

The dragon studied her briefly before inclining her head.

“You may go.”

Her voice softened, though it carried no less weight.

The road ahead will test you, but you will not walk it unguarded.”

She paused, as though letting the words settle.

“May fortune finds you where hardship gathers, and may your life endure beyond all that seeks to claim it.”

For the first time, there was something almost imperceptibly warm in her gaze.

““Go now, Fu Mei. Ride every tailwind, and heed the signs written across the heavens. Not all paths are seen, but none are without direction.”