The dawn after the storm was unlike any other.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the lingering echo of thunder.
Mist drifted lazily across the valley, veiling the mountains in hues of silver and gold.
In the heart of the clearing, beneath an ancient banyan tree, the Ritual of Shifting Fields—the sacred rice rotation—was about to begin.
Phimrung, Noona, and Pantawan stood side by side at the front of the gathering.
Behind them stretched the people of all three races—Humans, Spirits, and the Divine—their eyes filled with awe and reverence.
The ground had been tilled anew, and at its center burned a circle of sacred fire, its smoke twisting into symbols that shimmered and dissolved into the morning mist.
From the forest's edge came the Elders of the Earth, carrying wooden bowls filled with soil from the three realms.
Each bowl glowed faintly with its own light—
the warm brown of human earth,
the silver dust of divine soil,
and the dark violet sand of the spirit world.
They poured the earths together into a single vessel, and the union of colors shone like a breathing heart.
The elder spoke, her voice both frail and eternal:
> "The land that was once divided… shall be sown again with truth.
May the gods of mountain and sky, the spirits of forest and river, and the souls of our ancestors guard this season."
The people bowed low, pressing their hands to the soil.
From every direction came whispers—the sound of the unseen—ancestors and guardians who had waited centuries to return.
Their voices mingled with the hum of wind and the rhythm of the rain returning to life.
Phimrung knelt and placed the first seed into the soil.
Noona followed, chanting softly:
> "Seed of the past, root of forgiveness, grow into the dawn."
Pantawan lifted her hands, calling forth the blessing of the sky.
A gentle drizzle fell—warm, shimmering with faint light.
Each droplet seemed alive, carrying whispers of ancient prayers.
Then, the sky darkened—not with storm, but with shadow and light entwined.
From the clouds above the sacred field, a deep rumble rolled across the heavens.
A vast shadow circled once, twice—
and from the mist descended the Dragon of Dawn, scales glinting like molten silver.
Its wings stirred the clouds, its eyes glowing with peace.
It landed beside the sacred tree and bowed its head to the three.
> "You have freed the land and mended its blood," it spoke.
"The curse is gone, but life's duty remains—to protect what has been reborn."
As its breath touched the soil, the seeds shimmered and sprouted instantly, green shoots breaking through the earth.
The field came alive, glowing softly beneath the morning light.
Phimrung's heart swelled with emotion.
For the first time, the world felt whole—not through power or magic, but through unity.
The Dragon rose again, spreading its wings wide over the valley, its roar echoing like a hymn.
When it vanished into the horizon, only light remained—
pure, endless, and alive.
And so began the first season after the curse,
when gods, spirits, and humans sowed the same soil,
and the world learned to breathe as one once more.