Why Do You Wake Me From My Slumber

The mountain stirred. The ground shook.

Red scales tore across mist like flames from rock. Steam coiled from the snout of the dragon, incinerating snow—and nerve. Eyes like dual suns anchored on the shape below.

A hooded sorcerer, barely taller than the dragon's tooth, stood with a staff plunged like an insult into sacred soil. Wind tore at his hood, but he did not stir. That in itself was reason enough to deserve a moment's forbearance.

The voice of the dragon thundered across the valley, great and low.

"Why do you wake me, little one?"

The sorcerer lifted his chin. "The kingdoms burn. The sky runs red. You were meant to defend. Instead, your wings sleep as tyrants wear your name like armour."

A growl shook off the peaks. The dragon leaned closer, breath heavy and hot.

"So, wake a god to scold him?"

The sorcerer swallowed. "To remind him."

Silence. Then a grin, slow, sharp and menacing.

"Very well. I will make them remember me, too."