The Cool Mist

A soft plume rises near the skirting board. I circle it twice, keeping my claws low. It smells like pure water and cold stone. No danger here. I plant my heavy feet into the carpet fibers and lean forward. The white vapor curls around my bark, condensing into tiny, cold droplets across my shoulders. The blue glow in my maw catches the mist, turning the whole column pale sapphire. I stand still for a long time, drinking in the damp air until my wood feels weighted and refreshed.