Sir Alistair of Lionhelm sat tall upon his immaculate white steed, chest puffed, armor polished to a mirror-like shine that reflected the mountain winds. His sword, crafted by the finest smiths in the realm, gleamed at his side—notably because he spent hours polishing it each night. Determination surged through him, but something far grander filled his heart: his own sense of importance.
He imagined how the kingdom would greet him upon his triumphant return.
Children would chase the parade shouting his name.
Bards would compose grand ballads extolling his unmatched bravery.
And the king—ah, the king would bow in gratitude.
His name would be etched into annals of history so deeply that even time itself would hesitate to forget him.
“Oh, Alistair the Magnificent,” he murmured to himself. “Yes… that has a rather fine ring to it.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind—buried beneath layers of ego—was the faint recollection that a princess was involved, possibly in danger. Rescue her, win her hand, receive a lavish dowry, and then—why not?—ascend to the throne itself. But the dragon? Slaying the beast was the true prize. He could almost hear the roars of admiration now. As he reached the cave’s mouth, the sound of heavy breathing echoed from within. He drew his sword dramatically, ensuring his stance was heroic, in case anyone happened to be watching.
No one was.
Still, he strutted inside.
Finally, he arrived in a vast chamber where the Dragon lay sleeping at its center. Its scales shimmered like emerald armor, each plate edged in a faint golden hue that caught the torchlight. Massive wings rested folded at its sides, rising and falling with slow, thunderous breaths. Even in slumber, the creature radiated an ancient power—terrifying, yet undeniably majestic. Alistair smirked.
“I shall end this before the fiend wakes,” he whispered, indulging in the fantasy of cutting cleanly through its neck—no muss, no fuss—and returning home before dinner.
He crept closer.
The Dragon’s eyes snapped open.
Alistair froze, his heroic fantasies stuttering.
But then, regaining his composure, he thrust his chest out and proclaimed, “You face Sir Alistair of Lionhelm! Slayer of ogres, conqueror of the Black Knight of Rivenstone, and hero of the Battle of Kerndale! I have felled a dozen foes fiercer than you before breakfast! Surrender and I may grant you the honor of a swift—”
The Dragon rolled its eyes.
Then turned its head——and exhaled a torrent of fire.
Alistair’s mighty speech ended in a single, undignified squeak as the Dragon’s fire swept over him, leaving only his charred remains where he had stood moments before. His sword clattered to the ground beside him, still glistening with all the polish he’d lovingly applied.
Silence settled.
A few moments later, a young woman stepped into the chamber from a side passage, stretching and rubbing her eyes.
“Did I wake you?” the Dragon asked, its voice deep but oddly gentle.
“Not at all,” the Princess replied, her tone bored but amused. “I see another one has come to rescue me.”
She walked over to the smoldering knight, plucked up his sword, and casually carried it to a far corner, tossing it atop a towering pile of other swords—each belonging to a knight equally overconfident and equally deceased.
“Are you going to eat that?” she asked, pointing at what remained of Alistair.
“I thought I’d save him for later,” said the Dragon. “But perhaps I shouldn’t wait too long. They do start to smell.” “Very true,” she said thoughtfully.
The Dragon lifted the remains and paused, turning them toward her with a playful smile. “Would you like to share? I was careful not to overcook this one.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You are not funny.”
The Dragon laughed, deep and rumbling, and munched happily.
When finished, the Princess approached, resting her head against the warm scales of his chest. A massive claw curled carefully around her. “When will my father realize,” she said softly, “that I am not a prisoner? I’m here because I love you.”
The Dragon rumbled a gentle purr in response, lowering his head to nuzzle her hair. After a quiet moment together, they turned and made their way toward the cave entrance, the night air cool against the lingering heat of his scales. Side by side, the Princess rested her hand upon his scaled foreleg as they walked toward the cave entrance, where moonlight spilled across the rocky ground. She untied the knight’s horse with a gentle pat and sent it off into the night. It galloped away, eager to be anywhere else.
The Princess turned her face up to the full moon, smiling.
Behind her, a sudden flash of white light burst through the air. When she looked back, a handsome young man stood there, tall and strong, his eyes the same molten gold as the Dragon’s. He slid an arm around her and kissed her neck softly. “I love when the moon is full,” he murmured. “Only then can we truly be together… even if only for one night.”
She intertwined her fingers with his, smiling warmly. Together, the Princess and the transformed Dragon returned to the comfort of their cave—to love freely until sunrise returned him to scales and wings once more.