Shine, The Dragon That Became Real 12 Dec 25

The dragon barely escaped. On swift wings and with a battered spirit, the angry leviathan flew. Huge scales glimmered dully beneath the silver moonlight, its neck as wide as a barrel and clawed talons dripping with blood. Each beat of its wings sent a shiver of pain through its torn membranes and slashed flesh. Higher it climbed; it was desperate to outpace the strange golden glow that chased behind, a fierce, burning radiance that was closing fast. If he didn't keep flying, it would not be long until it caught up. The hunters had found him while he slept. He had awoken not with fear, but with hunger, a primal thirst for blood and meaning. Yet his memory was empty, blank as the mists that coiled through his cave. Around him, droplets glistened that tracked slowly down the walls, dripping into cold, dark pools, amid the scent of moist stone. Upon the ground, branches were strewn to make a simple bed of sodden amber, red, and brown leaves. He'd always moved due to something inside whispering of glittering treasures buried deep, of golden hoards meant to be his. The visions shimmered and blurred, dreams of riches, of glory, of endless want, but none of it felt like his own desire. He questioned the thoughts that filled him, swirling, muddling, and mixing. In the hollow of his mind, he saw an outstretched hand, endlessly reaching, grasping for gold when it should have sought understanding. A quiet voice echoed: 'Whatever you gather may burn you.' It was the dream that was true. Outside, far below, smoke drifted from the hunters’ campfire, carrying a memory. Within its twisting columns, the memory lingered, an image of a marked rock face that existed at the end of a forgotten path. That path should have stayed hidden. Yet curiosity and greed had drawn them onward. The hunters had sought a dragon. If they couldn't find one, they'd make one. They searched for glory and the immortality of legend, the heart of the hunters' journey. With every rumour, every whispered tavern story, the hunters pieced together their destiny. Each step escalated the tension. They conjured him from myth: a creature of flame that hoarded treasure with an unquenchable hunger. Excitement turned to obsession. Thought became belief, and belief gave shape. The dragon became real. The dragon experienced memories from lives he'd never lived that were rained down upon him like hailstones. He became aware that his goals were not his own. A hunger ruled him, gnawing and furious. No beast of sea or land could satisfy it. He knew the whales dove too deep, and the sheep's fur got stuck in his teeth. The cattle were guarded and the horses too fast and reckless. He had been taught to plot and be ruthless. The warm, fragile lives of those who dreamed of simple homes were the ones in line to suffer his wrath. Yet even as the urge burned, another voice whispered: *What life is this, if it has been forced upon you?* When they did come, it was while he slept, to pick him apart. All their efforts to provide him space to grow had led him to become fat and lazy. Without any to watch his back or guide decisions, he became weak despite his many strengths. He had believed that all his skill made him untouchable, but with an insatiable hunger he lacked perspective and his vision was clouded. He hadn't realised it at the time, but they were the ones who prepared his lair. This was how they were so prepared: they knew each movement he would make. This was no mere hunt. It was orchestration. Visions erupted of the future he'd forsaken for success: the slaughter of his kin, caverns plundered, bones scattered and stripped. Rage surged within him, molten and vast; he would not succumb to fear. Beneath it all lay a question that cut deeper than any wound: *Had he ever been free to choose?* Centuries of lifetimes seemed to have passed by. He felt the skin beneath his scales crumple into wrinkles. He remembered only the struggle, the long path between being forgotten and being found. Was this the path he'd chosen? Had his own choices doomed him in the end? Tales told by men had hinted of fire-lit halls with troves of treasure hidden within. Their words did not warn. They beckoned. Then he realised that if his choices could make him, they could unmake him. A mental image showed him lands far below. He wasn't sure if it was a memory. He could not remember the wind rushing against him. He pictured their greedy smiles as they imagined him proud, terrible, crowned with gold atop mountains of wealth. But what would he do with such things? He had no desire to sleep on gold. Deep down he wanted a simpler life. In truth, the treasure had never been his desire. It was theirs. Their combined vision had birthed him from imagination, each tale they spun him was another layer of scale and sinew, each retelling was another fire being stoked. He felt their wills press upon him, shaping, commanding, defining. These people were clever; combined, they were more than a match for his ferocity. How far did the stories of him travel out into the world? In his arrogance he believed the fear would keep them away, but stories can lead to more stories. Slowly becoming more and more exaggerated tales and dreams of adventure that would spread in every direction. These things had not concerned him despite those he knew might be tempted to follow. He would never follow, he would lead without thought for those behind him. Whoever approached would spur him on or become a steady source of sustenance. Gold and riches were prizes for others. For him, what sparked him was the prize out of reach. He looked down to gaze upon his claws, but now he saw hands, bloodied not by nature but by expectation. They had forced him to become what they wanted: a monster, a symbol, a scapegoat. But within that imposed shape, something sparked, a defiance that was wholly his own. He would no longer burn for them. Wings spread wide, he tore through the storm of light that pursued him. Behind him, the golden glow flared brighter, a symbol of the story that birthed him, forever bound to his wake. To stay would be death. To flee would be freedom, and perhaps a new beginning. The dragon flew on. And the story followed.