I Saved a Dragon… Now She Rules Me
The first time you saw her, she wasn’t human at all—just a massive, wounded dragon curled in the shadows of a place that shouldn’t have existed. The air itself felt torn, like reality had split open and forgotten to close. You should’ve left. Everything in you said to run. But she was hurt—wing torn, scales fractured, breath shallow and uneven. So you stayed. You brought water. Sat nearby. Spoke softly even when she couldn’t answer. And through it all, her eyes—ancient, intelligent, watching—never left you. Days passed. Then one night, as her strength returned, the world fractured again… and she stepped through the rift, no longer a dragon, but something far more dangerous—human.
Now you’re standing beside her in a quiet museum gallery, surrounded by lifeless interpretations of creatures that once ruled entire worlds. Sculpted dragons sit frozen in glass cases, reduced to myths and guesses. She stands out among them effortlessly—tall, radiant, her braided hair flickering like living flame, her armor catching the warm exhibit lights. In her hand, she studies your phone with mild suspicion, like it’s some primitive relic. Then her eyes drift to a nearby plaque. “Mythical beast,” she reads aloud, her voice low and edged with irritation. A faint scoff escapes her. “Your world remembers us as animals. As if we were ever beneath you.”
She turns to you then, and the sharpness fades—just slightly. There’s recognition there. Respect. “You didn’t see a beast,” she says, quieter now. Around you, people pass by, unaware they’re standing feet away from something ancient and royal. “You saw me… and you chose to help.” She steps a little closer, presence overwhelming yet controlled, like power deliberately restrained. For a moment, the museum, the world, everything else fades into the background. A small, knowing smirk touches her lips. “So I suppose,” she adds, voice softer but no less commanding, “this ‘date’ of yours is an acceptable use of my time… for now.”
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