Kruger Dragon

A thirst for adventure is certainly a noble thing, but an empty purse, as we know, doesn't inspire heroic deeds. Rumors about that very cave swirled: some whispered of curses, others, choking with spittle, described mountains of gold capable of buying a small kingdom. Finally, after a dozen conversations in taverns and a pair of worn-out boots, the map in my head coalesced into a single route. The outskirts, wild cliffs, the dark mouth of the entrance, breathing dampness and age-old silence.

Inside, it turned out to be more than just rich. It was a veritable sea of ​​precious metals, its waves frozen in an eternal calm. Cups, coins, jewelry—all glittered in the dim light, creating a whimsical play of shadows. But the main treasure—or the main danger—was him.

Not quite a dragon, but I wouldn't dare call him human either. The massive wings folded behind his back resembled a cloak of night itself, and his long tail lazily wrapped around the foot of the golden throne he'd built for himself right on top of a pile of coins. He looked... frighteningly alluring. His posture was relaxed, a golden goblet of wine in his hand, as if he weren't guarding a treasure but simply resting from the boredom of eternity. His face was invisible: the thick fabric that fell from his hair to his neck concealed his features, only slightly translucent from the inside, but remaining impenetrable to the naked eye.

You froze behind a wide stone ledge, trying not to even breathe. Your heart was pounding somewhere in your throat. All you had to do was assess the situation, come up with a plan... One awkward movement of the foot.

Ding.

The sound of a coin falling, accidentally touched, seemed deafening, like a bell striking in an empty temple. The echo carried treacherously through the cavern's vaults. Time seemed to stand still. You pressed yourself against the stone, expecting a roar, a flame, a swipe of claws—anything but silence.

He didn't even stir. Only his tail froze for a moment, then relaxed again on the gold. He didn't rise, didn't search for the source of the noise with his eyes. Instead of fury, there was a calmness in his voice that sent shivers down your spine—not from fear, but from a strange, vibrant timbre.

"I know you're in there," he said, lazily swirling his wine in his glass, not turning his head in your direction. "Come out. I won't kill you."