The Last Guardian

They had always called him a monster.

Long before humankind learned to scratch words into stone or whisper them into books, his wings darkened the skies above their villages. He was not born into hatred, yet hatred followed him like a shadow. Children grew up hearing stories of his fire scorching fields, of his claws tearing apart brave men who dared to stand against him. But none spoke of why he came—the real reason as to why he was there. None spoke of the truth.

He was the last of his kind. The others lay scattered as bones beneath the mountains, ash across the rivers. All of them dead— killed by the same people they were there to protect. Their songs the low, resonant thunder that once echoed between peaks had long since fallen silent. Where once the world trembled with their majesty, now it lay quiet, safe for his wings beating against the wind. To men, dragons were destroyers. Yet what they had truly guarded was something humankind had already forgotten.

It was not gold that filled their caverns, nor jewels stacked into glittering mountains. Their treasure was older than any kingdom built or broken. They guarded the balance the thread that held earth, water, fire, and air in harmony. Every dragon carried a piece of it within their marrow. And with each death, the world dimmed. When the last of them was gone, the thread would finally snap and the whole world would be in danger of being wiped out.

And so he endured, cursed to survive in a world that despised him, even as he protected it.

The night he was hunted, the air was sharp with winter. He felt the tremors of men gathering at the foot of his mountain, their hearts blazing with courage and desperation alike. Their steel glimmered like stars in the firelight. He smelled their fear sweet, bitter, undeniable and he pitied them. They had not come out of cruelty, but hunger — hunger to eliminate the very being that protected them.

A famine had swept their lands, and whispers spread like wildfire: the dragon's hoard brimmed with food, grain sealed in golden chests, magic enough to turn stone into bread. He was not magic neither did he have any treasures. He was just a calm,harmless and peaceful being.

He only had a stone chamber, carved with runes older than man, where the heart of the world pulsed faintly in silence.

Still, he descended.

Their torches flickered when his shadow fell across them. Some dropped to their knees, clutching charms. Others raised their weapons high, shouting their king's name though their voices trembled. He landed with a roar that rattled their bones, though he meant it as a warning, not an attack. Snow swirled around his talons. His breath steamed in the frozen air, glowing faintly as embers drifted from his nostrils.

"I don't belong here," his soul whispered into the night. "Not among them, not against them. My war is not with men."

But no man could hear a dragon's tongue. To them, it was only a growl, another sound of monstrous rage.

The first arrow struck his wing. He did not bleed red, but molten gold that hissed into the snow. The sight of it drove them into frenzy. More arrows followed, clattering against his scales, some finding the gaps between. Pain flared, ancient and sharp, but still he did not strike back. He could have ended them all with one sweep of fire. Instead, he curled his massive body around the cavern entrance, shielding it with his flesh.

For if they entered, if they shattered the chamber within, they would not only end him. They would end the world.The men did not relent.

Their king rode at the front, armored in silver that gleamed like a shard of moonlight. His banner snapped against the wind, bearing the crest of a lion with its teeth bared. To his people, he was courage incarnate, the hero who would free them from the beast that haunted their skies. To the dragon, he was only another shadow in a line of countless rulers who had mistaken destruction for deliverance.

"Loose!"the king cried, and the valley lit with fire. Flaming pitch rained down, searing the snow black, striking against scale and wing. The dragon bellowed, the sound rolling through the mountains like thunder.

The men heard fury.

But it was sorrow.

He remembered the first time he had been hunted, centuries ago, when he still shared the skies with his kin. Back then, he thought men could be taught. He spared their villages, left their flocks untouched, tried to shield them even as they raised spears against him. But each mercy was twisted into proof of weakness. Each retreat was taken as a sign that men could win. They returned stronger, hungrier, greedier.

And one by one, his kin fell.

Now, their bones were dust, their songs forgotten, their wisdom scattered on the wind. He alone remained, the last guardian of the chamber. Its heart beat behind him even now, pulsing through stone and soil , an ancient rhythm men could neither hear nor understand.

An iron spear pierced the thin membrane of his wing. Agony seared down his side, but still he held his ground. With each step forward, men grew bolder. They struck not as frightened peasants, but as conquerors certain of victory. Their voices rose in chants, echoing off the cliffs:

"Monster! Monster! Monster!"

The word tolled against him like a curse.

If only they knew. If only they had remembered the old tales, of what stirred beneath the earth, what the dragons had bound with their blood and fire. Once, priests had spoken of it, warning their kings never to raise sword against the keepers of balance. But kings had changed, priests had died, and memory had withered into myth.

Now they saw only a beast blocking their path to imagined treasure.

A knight broke from the ranks, driving forward with a lance tipped in silver. His horse screamed as the dragon's shadow fell upon it, but the man did not falter. He charged with blind faith, plunging the weapon into the dragon's chest.

The point did not pierce his heart, but it cut deep enough that golden fire streamed forth, hissing as it struck the snow. The knight fell, crushed beneath the sweep of a wing, but already others surged forward, stepping over his body.

The dragon's vision blurred. Each breath burned like coals inside his throat. He could end it, one roar of fire, and the entire valley would turn to ash. He had done it before, in younger, angrier days. But those flames had only confirmed men’s fears. He would not die a monster in their eyes, even if it meant dying misunderstood.

He braced his body once more against the cavern mouth, every strike of sword and arrow rattling through his frame. The men screamed with triumph as they drew blood.

They thought the monster was weakening.

But the truth was far darker: the world itself was weakening with him.The snow had turned black with soot and red with blood.

The dragon's body trembled beneath the weight of wounds. His scales, once radiant with a sheen of molten gold, now dulled where steel had struck true. Yet still he held his ground before the cavern, each labored breath a vow: he would not move, no matter how fiercely they pressed him.

The men mistook his faltering for weakness. Their courage swelled. The king rode closer now, urging his soldiers forward with shouts that cut through the storm. Arrows rattled against the dragon's wings, spears found the soft flesh between his plates. They believed victory lay within their grasp.

But none of them noticed the mountain shifting.

It was subtle at first, the faint groan of stone, the tremor that rippled beneath their boots. They thought it was the weight of the beast collapsing, his claws digging furrows into the earth. They did not see the hairline cracks that laced outward from the cavern mouth.

For each drop of his golden blood that struck the soil, the seal within the mountain weakened.

The dragon felt it. A deep pulse beneath his talons, once steady, now faltering. The ancient rhythm that had thrummed there for millennia wavered, like a drum losing its beat. He lowered his head, pressing his brow against the ground, whispering in a tongue older than man, begging the heart of the world to hold a little longer.

But stone does not bargain.

A fissure split across the snow, glowing faintly with fire from below. The soldiers nearest it stumbled back, their cheers choking into silence. The earth heaved, belching a gust of heat that melted ice to steam. A foulness bled into the air, sharp and bitter, the stench of rot that no winter wind could mask.

Still, the king pressed forward. His voice thundered across the field:

"Stand fast! The beast falters! One final strike, and freedom is ours!"

The dragon raised his head. His eyes, ancient pools of molten amber, swept over the army. For a fleeting moment, there was no fury in them, only sorrow. He had seen this before. The blindness of men, the arrogance that made them deaf to warnings written in earth and sky alike.

Another volley rained down. One arrow, loosed from a bow strung too tight, sank between the scales of his throat. He staggered, golden fire spilling from his mouth as if his very soul leaked into the snow. The men roared in triumph, but their cheers were drowned by the grinding roar of stone splitting open behind him.

The mountain shuddered. Snow cascaded down its slopes in avalanches. From deep within, a voice stirred. Not like his, nor like man's, but something vast, broken, and ravenous. It seeped into the world as a vibration, a sickness crawling beneath the skin. The soldiers froze, their blades forgotten, their eyes widening as shadows writhed against the fissures.

Something was waking.

The dragon's wings sagged. His strength waned, yet he dragged his body tighter across the cavern mouth, sealing it with his flesh. Pain burned through him with every heartbeat, but worse was the despair blooming in his chest. They had struck too deep. The seal would not hold.

He was not fighting to win now. He was fighting to delay.

If only for another breath. Another heartbeat. Another moment before the world remembered what true monsters were.The cavern split with a sound like the sky tearing apart.

Stone, ancient and bound with runes, crumbled into ash. A scream unlike any dragon's rolled out from the depths. Low at first, then rising into a howl that scraped bone and curdled blood. It was the sound of hunger given shape. Men dropped their weapons, clutching their ears, some collapsing to their knees in terror.

The dragon knew the voice. He had heard it once before, when the first seal had been bound by his kind, and he had sworn never to hear it again. The memory tore through him. His kin circling above molten chasms, their wings stirring the air as they poured their lifeblood into fire, weaving a prison for what could never be slain. They had sealed it away with their own deaths.

And now, he was failing them.

A final spear lodged between his ribs. His vision dimmed, the world flickering between light and shadow. Yet still he pressed himself against the cavern mouth, his body the last barrier between men and the horror beneath.

"Monster," the king whispered, though the word trembled now. For the first time, doubt cracked his voice.

The dragon's golden eyes met his. In that gaze lay no hatred, only weary truth. But truth was a language men had long forgotten.

A claw slipped. The fissure widened. From the darkness below, tendrils of smoke spilled outward, thick with shapes that seemed almost human, almost beast, but never either. The air grew heavy, as if the night itself leaned close to swallow them whole.

The soldiers scattered, their courage broken. Some fled into the snow, abandoning their banners, their king, their pride. But flight would not save them. The world itself was shifting beneath their feet.

The dragon summoned what fire remained in him. It flared weakly in his throat, casting light across the cavern walls, revealing for one final instant the runes carved by claws older than memory. He roared, not in rage but in defiance, the sound rolling like thunder through the valley. Fire poured forth. Not enough to destroy, but enough to sear the shadows back into the cracks for a moment longer.

A heartbeat.

A breath.

A delay.

That was all he could give.

When the last ember faded, he collapsed, his wings folding like broken sails, his body sprawling across the shattered seal. His golden blood seeped deep into the fissures, glowing faintly before vanishing into the dark. The pulsing rhythm beneath the mountain stilled. Not gone, but waiting. Waiting for the moment the last trace of dragonfire faded from the earth.

The king stood frozen before him, sword trembling in his hand. For all his triumph, there was no victory in his eyes. Only the dawning horror of a man who realized too late what he had done.

The dragon's chest rose once more, then fell. His eyes dimmed to embers. He exhaled a final breath, and with it, the memory of his kind drifted into silence.

Snow fell again, soft and relentless, covering the battlefield in white. To future generations, it would be told as a tale of conquest, the night a king slew the last monster. Songs would be sung, statues raised.

But beneath the mountain, in the silence of stone, something stirred.

The true monster had only begun to wake.