Dragons

Dragons have not gone extinct—at least, not entirely. Our village harbors living proof: one of their kind walks among us. Most days, she hides her scales and wings, blending in with ordinary folk. You might spot her laughing in the park, her eyes glinting with secret knowledge, or see her drifting through the market as if nothing could trouble her. On the lakeshore, she sits so serenely that even the birds draw near. These are her good days, when sunshine and laughter keep the fire at bay. But not all days are so gentle. On some, the sky darkens and the wise scatter, for those are the days to run for cover.

The spark that ignites her change is never predictable—a careless word, a stormy mood, a memory best left untouched. When the transformation starts, it’s as unstoppable as a summer wildfire. The fire rages out, all-consuming, until she is spent and empty. And when the smoke clears, it’s always her who bears the worst of the burns—her own scars etched deeper than any she leaves behind.

Why do we not banish her, you might wonder? The answer is simple: we have known her since she was a child—before the scales, before the fire. She is one of us. So we wrap our homes in fireproof cloth, keep flame-resistant armor within arm’s reach, and watch her with equal parts tenderness and fear. To love a dragon is to live at the edge of danger, but we choose her, every time.

The elders tell stories of a time when dragons were born for a noble purpose. In those ancient days, the eldest dragons trained their young in patience and power, teaching them to temper fire with wisdom. Fearless by necessity, they faced monsters that would freeze the bravest heart, defending the world with courage and flame. Innocents were almost never harmed; dragons were the world’s shield as much as its fire.

But times changed. The great evils that once stalked the land vanished into shadow, and with the danger gone, gratitude for dragonkind curdled into suspicion. People saw not their protection, but their power—dangerous, untamed, too much to risk. Dragons, once revered, became objects of fear and rumor. Rare mishaps eclipsed centuries of heroism; people whispered that dragons could not be trusted, that their wildness must be chained or destroyed. The shame campaign was merciless, and dragons began to vanish.

The mighty, noble dragons suffered wounds far worse than any inflicted by monsters: the wounds of distrust and exile. Some withered away, their spirits broken by loneliness. Others donned disguises, hiding their true nature from the world. A tragic few, twisted by pain and rejection, became the very monsters people feared. Their fall fueled the cycle of blame, and so the dragons’ age came to its bitter end.

Dragons are believed extinct—except, of course, for her.