The Last Roar

The sky had turned to ash.

Where once the sun ruled the heavens, now a dark veil loomed. Thick clouds of smoke and dust stretched across the horizon, blocking light, choking the air. The world was changing, and not even the mightiest creatures could stop it.

Tarak, a lone Tyrannosaurus rex, stood on a rocky hill overlooking what was once a thriving forest. The trees were now splintered skeletons, smoldering from distant volcanic eruptions. Earthquakes had split the land, and the air smelled of sulfur and death. But Tarak did not roar. Not yet.

He remembered the days when his thundering steps echoed with dominance. Herds of hadrosaurs would scatter at his scent. Other predators kept their distance, for none challenged Tarak — not openly. He had been the king of this region, a symbol of raw power. But power meant nothing now, not in a world falling apart.

A sharp cry broke his thoughts. He turned his massive head and spotted a young Ankylosaurus, no more than a juvenile, struggling to climb a muddy slope. It slipped, panicked, and let out a desperate wail. Tarak could’ve walked away. Normally, he might have hunted such an easy target. But these were not normal times.

Instead, he moved toward it, slow and deliberate. The young one froze, expecting death. Tarak lowered his head slightly, his golden eyes meeting the creature’s frightened gaze. Then, he turned away, allowing the small dinosaur to scramble up and flee.

There was no hunger in Tarak. Only emptiness.

The air had grown colder over the past moons. Food was scarce. Many had died — not from claws or teeth, but from starvation, sickness, and fear. Tarak had not seen another of his kind in many days. His mate, Keera, had vanished weeks ago, and despite his roars across the valleys, she never answered.

That morning, the ground had shaken again. A massive quake split the earth near the river, draining it into a newly formed canyon. With the water gone, the last of the plant-eaters would vanish soon. The end was near, and Tarak knew it.

He wandered through the wasteland, passing the bleached bones of creatures great and small. Occasionally, he would stop and press his snout to the earth, listening. Feeling. Hoping.

By nightfall, the sky flared red again. Another firestorm raged in the distance, lighting the clouds from below. It was strangely beautiful — a final burst of color before the world went dark forever.

Tarak climbed to the peak of an ancient plateau, one he had stood upon many times before. From there, he had once looked down on a lush kingdom. Now, all he saw was ruin.

And still, he stood tall.

Something in him — ancient and unbroken — stirred. A voice older than instinct, deeper than fear. He was the last of his line. The final king of a dying age.

So he lifted his great head, and for the first time in days, he let out a roar.

It echoed through the canyons, over the broken forests and charred plains. It shook the ash from the trees. It was not a cry for help. It was not a threat. It was a declaration — that he had lived. That he had ruled. That he had not gone quietly into extinction.

Somewhere, in the distance, a faint roar returned.

Tarak turned his head. Was it Keera? Another survivor? Or just the wind playing tricks on a weary mind? He didn’t know. But he roared again, louder this time, and waited.

No answer.

He stood in silence for a while longer, eyes scanning the darkness, heart pounding with a wild, dying rhythm.

The cold wind blew harder. Ash swirled like snow around him. But Tarak stood unmoved.

As dawn approached — if it could still be called dawn — the sky grew faintly lighter. Just a shade less black. And in that dimness, Tarak stepped forward, one slow step at a time, into the unknown.

For even at the end of the world, life does not simply stop.

It roars.