In the West, they speak of Helios and his burning chariot, of Apollo drawing light across the sky.
But in the East, light does not come from fire. It is born of shadow—from a dragon who breathes both dawn and night.
His name is Zhu Yin, the Candle Dragon. He dwells beyond the northern sea, where the horizon freezes and the stars drift like embers on water. His body coils through the darkness for a thousand leagues, scales glinting red as dying coals.
When his eyes open, day begins. When they close, the world falls into night. His breath warms the wind; his stillness governs time. All things rise and rest to his rhythm, though he himself remains unseen.
But even gods grow weary of constancy. One age, the dragon opened his eyes and saw the world below—a place of fleeting lives, of light that burned and faded with purpose. And for the first time, he envied them.
He descended through cloud and mist, seeking to walk among mortals. But wherever his shadow fell, seasons twisted, rivers stilled, and the pulse of the world faltered. The mortals prayed, but their prayers froze in their throats.
Realizing what he had undone, Zhu Yin withdrew, curling once more around the pole of the heavens. There he remains, half in dream, half in watchfulness, letting his light and darkness flow in measured breath.
To this day, when dawn hesitates and twilight lingers too long, the sages whisper that the Candle Dragon stirs again—not to destroy, but to remember what it is to desire.
For even the keeper of balance once envied the warmth of a single mortal day.