Tales of Miriath: The Day the Music Stopped

It began in the square again — as most curious days in Hatchmere do.

The air was crisp, still carrying a touch of autumn’s perfume, and the market hummed with its usual melody of laughter and barter. Miriath sat perched on my shoulder, tail coiled around my braid like a silken ribbon, her eyes wide with delight at all the color and sound.

But near the fountain, one musician was struggling. His lute, though well-tuned, gave no joy that day. His notes stumbled; his smile was hollow. A few villagers clapped politely, but the life had gone from the melody — it felt like a song that had lost its reason to be sung.

I felt the weight of it too — the heaviness that drifts into hearts during the changing seasons. Some call it tiredness. Others, sorrow.

And Miriath, clever creature that she is, noticed.

Without a word (not that she listens when I tell her to stay put), she leapt from my shoulder and landed softly by the musician’s feet. He blinked, startled, as she tilted her little head, golden scales catching the light.

Then, with a tiny breath, she exhaled a shimmer — not flame, not smoke, but something softer. Like golden dust motes in sunlight. It drifted toward him and dissolved before it touched his skin.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, slowly, his fingers began to move again. The melody found itself.

But this time, it wasn’t just a song — it was laughter, warmth, and life itself reborn in sound. The villagers drew closer, smiling. Children twirled. Even the fountain seemed to join in, its splashes keeping time.

When the song ended, the musician wiped his eyes and laughed — that deep, unguarded kind of laugh that comes from the soul finally remembering joy.

Miriath looked up at me, quite proud of herself. Then she hiccupped, releasing one last puff of golden light that landed squarely on my sleeve and turned my entire arm glittering green.

“Careful,” I told her, trying not to smile. “If you keep healing hearts by accident, I’ll have to start charging for concerts.”

She chirped in delight and curled back onto my shoulder, humming along with the next tune.

Her gift is unpredictable — it comes when it’s needed, not when it’s called. But in a place like Hatchmere, where laughter is as precious as gold, I can’t think of a better power for a dragon born of warmth and wonder.

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