The flight across the Valley of Ryn was slow and deliberate. Alfazar's wings beat with the rhythm of a world older than words. Beneath him, the land bowed gently under the pressure of his passing—trees swayed, small, winged creatures scattered, and the rainbow light refracted from the planetary ring rippled off his silver-white scales like oil across water.
As he crossed the central lake, the reflections of his wings sent glistening distortions across the water's surface. The fish below, massive and armored, did not stir in fear. They had learned, over generations, that the dragon above was no longer their hunter.
On the far side of the lake, carved into a mountainside hidden by curtains of moss and mist, lay a cave vast enough to house an empire. It was not built, nor shaped by hands. The den was formed by time, pressure, and the movements of Alfazar himself—his sleeping body, his vast breath, his settling weight. Now it welcomed him home like the nest of a god.
The ancient dragon descended onto the stone, claws echoing like thunder with each step. The rock bore his weight without protest. As he curled within the cavern's mouth, wings folding like cathedral walls around his slumbering form, Alfazar finally exhaled.
And with that breath, he fell into a deep and formless place.
Dreams, for a dragon of Alfazar's age, were not gentle visions. They were oceans of memory.
Time folded in on itself, fractal and endless.
He saw stars being born—new stars igniting in the black beyond the sky. He felt the tectonic groans of Thareon in its youth, when the land was molten and the air tasted of fire. He saw younger dragons, bold and foolish, challenging him for sky and stone—none of whom lived long enough to remember why that was a mistake.
And then came the humans.
He had seen them first as ants, crawling through the cracks of his valley. Tiny, upright things with hair and tools, weaving together sticks and stone like nesting lizards. He had watched them from above with slow, disinterested eyes, thinking at first they were merely another curiosity blown in from the beyond.
But they did not leave.
He remembered the moment he had risen from the lakebed, shedding water in towers as he emerged before their leader—his breath ready to calcify their bones into silent monuments if they showed even a glimmer of arrogance.
Instead, they bowed.
A full prostration, eyes downcast, palms offered. Not with weapons, not with bravado. With respect.
And that changed everything.
Alfazar, though ancient, was not without reason. He had grown weary of plunging into the lake, of chasing his prey through murky water, of using flame beneath the surface only to watch his meal vanish in steam and bubbles. The humans, in their cleverness, proved far more efficient. They hunted the lake's bounty with long nets and underwater traps. And once every eighth moonrise, they gave him an offering—enough to sate his hunger and avoid his wrath.
A mutual pact. Unspoken, but eternal.
He allowed them the valley. In return, they ensured he never hungered.
But more than that, he gave them something they had not expected: peace.
No lesser predators prowled the valley. Not with Alfazar reigning above. And the pact had given the dragon more than food. It had given him time. Time to sleep. Time to remember.
And time to guard.
A deep vibration stirred his slumber.
Gonnnnnnng...
The sound echoed across the lake, reverberating through the stone walls of his cavern. Alfazar's eye opened—an orb of silver-blue, cold as glaciers and older than any storm.
The villagers were calling.
The offering was ready.
He stirred, lifting his head from beneath his wing. Dust fell from his scales in cascades. He rose slowly, his long body unfolding like a landslide. As he made his way toward the opening of the den, each step rumbled like the ground was shifting beneath him.
The valley outside welcomed him in silence. On the far side of the lake, the villagers waited at a safe distance from a great pit—carved generations ago by hand and claw. Inside it lay a glistening mountain of giant fish, their silver bodies still wet from the lake's waters, their numbers enough to feed an army.
But Alfazar was no army. He was a god to these people. And gods ate in silence.
He descended his head towards the pit.
And while Alfazar satisfies his needed sustenance, deep in the shadows of his cavern, lay a place untouched by even dragon claws. A solemn corner of stone marked by no carvings, no flame. A mound of ancient dust, half-buried in shadow.
And beneath it, a gemstone the size of a fully grown human protruded from the ground—pulsing with a dim, violet glow.
The villagers called Alfazar the Guardian of Ryn.
But for all these millennia... had he truly been guarding them?
Or had he been guarding something else?