The Last Dragon of Ashfall

Long before maps dared to name the mountains, a dragon slept beneath them.

The people of Ashfall believed the peak was cursed. Smoke curled from its crown even in winter, and the ground trembled like a breathing chest. Shepherds swore they heard wings scraping stone at night. No one climbed the mountain twice.

The dragon’s name was Vaeloryx.

He was older than kingdoms, older than language itself. His scales were the color of burned copper, cracked and glowing faintly like embers beneath ash. Each breath he took warmed the bones of the earth. Fire was not his weapon—it was his memory.
Once, dragons ruled the skies openly. They shaped rivers with their tails and carved valleys with their shadows. But humans feared what they could not command. Armies rose. Spells were forged. And one by one, dragons fell—not to strength, but to betrayal.

Vaeloryx survived by choosing solitude.

For centuries he slept, dreaming of a sky filled with wings.
Until the day the mountain cried out.

A deep wound split the earth—iron machines tore into the stone, hunting the molten heart beneath Ashfall. The pain jolted Vaeloryx awake. His eyes opened, twin furnaces glowing in the dark.
Intruders.

He rose.

The mountain cracked as his body unfolded. His wings stretched wide, scattering avalanches like dust. When Vaeloryx roared, the sound rolled across the land like thunder learning to speak.

The miners fled.

All except one.

A girl stood frozen near the edge of the dig site, her hands covered in soot, her eyes wide but unafraid. She dropped her tools and stepped forward.

“Please,” she said, her voice shaking. “We didn’t know.”

Vaeloryx lowered his massive head. One eye alone was larger than her body. He smelled fear—but also something else.

Respect.

“You dig into bones that are not yours,” his voice rumbled, echoing inside her chest rather than her ears.

The girl swallowed. “They forced us. The mountain feeds our city. Without it, we die.”

Vaeloryx paused.

Fire stirred in his throat, but he did not release it.

He had burned cities before. He remembered their screams. He remembered how empty victory tasted.

Instead, he rose into the sky.

Clouds tore apart as he flew, his shadow sweeping over Ashfall like a forgotten god returning. He circled the city once—just once—then unleashed his fire not upon homes, but upon the machines.

Steel melted like wax. Towers collapsed. The earth sealed itself.
By dawn, the mountain was silent again.

The people expected destruction.

They received mercy.

From that day on, Ashfall changed. No blades were raised toward the peak. No drills scarred its sides. And sometimes, on cold nights, warmth flowed through the stone streets as if the mountain itself was guarding them.

As for Vaeloryx, he returned to his sleep.

But he did not sleep alone.

Legends spread—of a dragon who chose balance over wrath, who remembered when the world was young and decided it was still worth protecting.

And high above the clouds, when the sky glows red at sunset, some swear they see a vast shape moving through the light.

Not hunting.

Watching.

Conclusion
And so, the legend of Vaeloryx did not end in fire or ruin, but in understanding. The dragon remained a silent guardian beneath Ashfall, a reminder that true power lies not in destruction, but in restraint. The mountain stood whole, the city endured, and an ancient balance was restored between sky and stone. Though the dragon faded once more into myth, his presence lived on in the warmth of the earth and the wisdom of those who remembered. Some forces are not meant to be conquered—only respected. And as long as that respect endured, the last dragon would continue to watch over the world in silence.