The forest had its own language, and I had spent my life learning to listen. The snap of a twig told me where a deer had run off to, the silence of birds warned me when a wolf prowled nearby, and the sharp scent of pine carried the story of last night's storm. Hunting was never just about the bow in my hand—it was about knowing when the world shifted. That morning, as mist curled low across the Wildlands and the air sat too still, I knew something had changed. Something was watching me.
The trail was still fresh. I could make out where its hooves had pressed into the damp soil, the edges sharp from only moments ago. My bow rested loosely in my grip as I moved through the undergrowth, each step measured, each breath drawn slow and quiet. Hunting was all about patience, and there was no room for error.
I caught a glimpse of it ahead–a young buck, antlers still smooth, grazing at the edge of a clearing. My stomach tightened. Mira would be happy to have venison tonight; Father would be proud if I was able to bring it down with a clean shot. I raised the bowstring to my ear, steadying my aim.
But as I was getting ready to release the string and hit my mark there was a shift in the forest.
The ears on the deer pricked as it jerked its head towards the trees, and in a heartbeat it bolted, vanishing into the mist with a crash of branches. Keeping my bow drawn I scanned the shadows. Something else had to of startled it. Something bigger.
I followed, not after the deer, but after the disturbance that had spooked it. The ground was telling a new story–claw marks that gouged into stone, deep ruts in the mud as though something heavy was dragging across it. No animal that I knew of left signs like these. At least none that I have seen growing up.
Curiosity was gnawing at me. Against my better judgment, I trailed the marks through twisted pines and dripping ferns until the forest opened into a ravine. That's where I saw it.
At first, my mind refused to believe. Scales black as storm clouds glistened in the pale light, wings splayed awkwardly against the rocks. Smoke curled from it nostrils with each ragged breath. A dragon.
My hands began to tremble as I finally decided to lower my bow finding it useless. Every tale I'd ever heard of said to fear them, to kill them if ever such a chance came. I should have just turned back, gone running home.
But it was already too late for that its eyes were already locked on me–golden, burning, too bright to belong to any beast. But instead of the rage I was expecting, I saw pain.
It was wounded.
The hunter in me knew a creature this size should be killed or left for dead, that to linger was to court death. But I something deeper, something i couldn't name, rooted me to the ground.
For the first time in my life as a hunter, I pitied my prey.
I stood frozen, as the rain dripping from my hood, my bowstring slack between my fingers. Every lesson my father taught me echoed in my head: A wounded beast is a dangerous beast. If you hesitate, it will kill you.
I should just end it right here, right now. It would only take a single arrow through the eye, and it could all be over. The threat would be gone.
But when the dragon shifted, letting out a low guttural sound, I realized it wasn't a growl. It was… a groan. a sound of pain, not rage.
I took a step closer, my boots sinking into the mud. My pulse thundering in my ears. "You're not what they say you are," I whispered, not sure if i was speaking to the creature or to myself.
Its golden eyes followed me. They didn't blaze with fire–they pleaded. One wing lay bent at an unnatural angle, blood seeping between the scales, dark against the black hide. Its chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a struggle.
I swallowed hard. If the villagers or even my father had found it. They'd kill it before it could even lift its head. That was the way of things. the way of survival.
And yet… I couldn't bring myself to draw my bow.
I crouched low, Heart hammering. "If I help you," I murmured, "what will you do? Burn me? Tear me apart?"
It blinked slowly, smoke curling weakly from its nostrils. It made no move to strike, though it easily could have. I was close enough now that one swipe of its claws would split me in two.
Instead, it lowered its head, pressing its snout to the earth. A gesture I didn't understand. Submission? Trust? Desperation?
"Alright," I breathed. "But if you kill me, it'll be your last mistake."
The dragon's eye flickered, almost like the glint of understanding.
And at that moment, I realized I was about ot make a choice that I'll never be able to take back.