The tragic story of Marigora

Marigora was born to humans—raised by children, chased by dogs, and trained alongside warriors. She grew up not as a beast, but as kin. Her claws were used to cradle, not crush; her wings carried laughter as often as battle cries. Yet she had never seen another like her. At night, a quiet ache stirred in her chest—a longing she could not name.

Was she truly the only one of her kind, a misplaced ember in a world of men?

The answer came when the sky turned black.

The ground trembled as a shadow swept across the fields, blotting out the sun. The air grew heavy with ash and iron. A roar thundered over the land, shaking the stones of the castle. From the walls, archers scrambled to defend the stronghold, their courage a thin shield against the dread that filled the air. With a single lash of his tail, the Black Dragon tore the roof clean off the tower, raining fire and stone upon the courtyard.

Marigora launched herself skyward, loyalty blazing hot. Her jaws snapped for his throat and missed, tearing instead into the edge of his wing. His answering strike sank into her leg, ripping muscle, pain burning like molten iron. The battlefield echoed with their cries, hers fierce, his deep and thunderous.

Then—stillness.

They hovered above the smoking ruin, wings beating the same rhythm. His gaze fixed upon her, molten gold, unblinking. And then she heard it—clearer than her own thoughts, heavy as prophecy.

At last.

The voice filled her skull, not sound but certainty.

Daughter of flame. Stray ember. You are mine. You are kin. You are not theirs.

Her heart lurched. A tremor of belonging rippled through her body. She had never heard such a voice, and yet it felt older than memory, woven into her blood.

Do you not feel it? The hollow ache each night? The question gnawing at you in silence? I am the answer. I am your blood. Cast off these fragile creatures of mud and bone. Come. Learn what it is to burn without chains.

For a heartbeat, she faltered. In him was everything she had longed for: a reflection of her own fire, the promise of a name, of a history, of a place where she was not a beast in a man’s world but a sovereign of the skies. His voice was not merely temptation. It was truth, and her very marrow answered it.

But behind her, the castle groaned. She thought of the children who had tugged her tail in laughter, of the warriors who had treated her as comrade, of the farmers who had set bread at her feet as if she were their own. Their faces rose before her. Their frailty, their love, their trust.

The Black Dragon’s voice pressed harder, insistent, like fire against the mind:

They are not your kin. They will age, wither, die, while you linger on in solitude. Stay, and you will forever be a prisoner in their crumbling halls. Come, and you will know eternity.

Her wings quivered. The hollowness inside her begged to be filled. For a moment, she almost turned.

But then she saw the ruin beneath—the tower half-destroyed, the walls blackened, the children clutching one another in terror. His “eternity” was built on their ashes. Her home’s survival depended on her defiance.

Her answer was not spoken, but screamed through action. With a roar that tore her very soul, Marigora struck. Her teeth ripped into his flesh, spilling blood hot as molten stone. His answering cry shook the sky, raw with pain and betrayal.

No! His voice rang in her mind one last time, cracking into sorrow. Daughter of flame… I would have given you the sky.

She spread her wings wide, flames bursting from her mouth to shield the castle, her body a wall of fire between him and those she loved.

The Black Dragon staggered back. His gaze lingered—no longer commanding, but grieving. With slow, weary wingbeats, he turned and vanished beyond the hills, his voice fading into silence, leaving her more alone than she had ever been.

The battle was over. The cheers rose from the walls, voices naming her savior, protector, kin of men. But she heard none of it. The echo of his voice remained, not as threat, but as absence.

She had chosen her family, and in doing so, she had slain her truth.

Though the village has long since vanished, and the castle lies cloaked in ivy, they say Marigora still remains— Watching. Waiting. Bound to the stones she saved, yet haunted by the voice that once called her home.

The last guardian.
The last orphan.

The last ember of a choice that burned her hollow.