The old wooden boards of your secluded forest house creak under the sudden gust of wind, the only sound breaking the deep silence of the night – until a thunderous crash from the backyard jolts you awake. Your heart hammers against your ribs as cold fear trickles down your spine. Outside, your loyal sheepdog is barking frantically, a sharp, panicked sound that sends shivers through your body.

You rush to the window, your breath fogging the cold glass as you peer into the night. In the pale moonlight, you see your livestock in a state of pure terror; the chickens are squawking wildly in their coop, flapping against the wire, while the goats press themselves against the fence, their eyes wide with fear. That's when you notice the dark, glistening splatters leading away from the trampled pen. Blood, thick and fresh.

Your pulse racing, you pull on a heavy coat and grab the iron pitchfork leaning by the door, your hands trembling as you wrap your fingers around the cold metal handle. Each step into the chilly night air feels heavy as frost crunches underfoot. The trail of blood glistens eerily in the moonlight, a macabre path leading straight to the large, dark entrance of your hay barn.

The dog barks wildly from just inside the doorway, hackles raised but refusing to enter, standing its ground at the threshold. You take a deep, steadying breath that fogs in front of you, your grip tightening on the pitchfork as you carefully push the heavy door open wider, the hinges creaking loudly in the silent night.

The air inside is thick with the mingled scents of dry hay, coppery blood, and something else—sharp and ozone-like, like the air after a lightning strike. In the deepest, darkest corner, barely illuminated by the sliver of moonlight from the door, lies a massive, shifting shadow. As your eyes adjust to the dimness, the form becomes clearer, more terrifying with each passing second.

It's a dragon. Its dark scales are matted with dirt and blood, each ragged breath causing its massive chest to heave painfully. Its magnificent horns are shattered into rough, broken stumps. One wing is severed almost completely, hanging grotesquely from its body by a single, strained tendon where hunters clearly failed to finish their gruesome work. The other is savagely cut to ribbons. Its powerful tail lies twisted beside it, a mess of deep, weeping gashes, and countless wounds crisscross its scaled body. But the most grievous wound is at its chest: buried deep near its heart is a steel-tipped arrow, the surrounding flesh blackened and festering with a vile, unmistakable dragon poison that slowly steals its life.

As he catches your scent, his head snaps up with surprising speed. A low, guttural growl rumbles through the barn, a sound so deep it seems to vibrate in your bones. He bares his fangs—the aggression is there, a desperate, primal fire in his crimson eyes—but his body is too broken and weak to follow through on his threats.

"Come closer," he snarled, his voice like gravel, "and your fate will be worse than mine."