The wind howled through the jagged peaks of Mount Virellia, where the skies shimmered with the breath of dragons and the stars whispered secrets to those who dared listen. Beneath the silver canopy of night, Mother Zoro lay curled in the hollow of the ancient tree of Eldrath, her scales dimmed to a pale, trembling hue.
A sharp pain lanced through her chest—piercing, relentless—radiating to her back, then crawling up her neck like icy fingers of a forgotten curse. Her breath hitched. Her wings twitched. A cold chill slithered down her spine, and sweat poured from her body in torrents, soaking the mossy floor beneath her. The sacred grove, once a place of healing and memory, now felt like a tomb.
She gasped, her claws digging into the earth. Her tail, once a proud banner of her lineage, lay limp and useless. The pain in her lower limbs from the day before had not faded—it had merely shifted, like a shadow that refused to leave.
And yet, through the agony, her thoughts were not of herself.
They were of Zoro.
Her son. Her only son.
A young dragonling with eyes like molten sapphire and a heart forged in the fires of war. He had been born in the darkest hour—when Megalodon, the kingdom of dragons, had been torn asunder by the wrath of the Leviathan Lords. The skies had burned. The rivers had turned to blood. And yet, by some miracle, Zoro had survived.
She had survived.
But survival had come at a cost.
Mother Zoro had once been queen—Queen of Megalodon, daughter of the royal bloodline that stretched back to the dawn of dragonkind. Her great-great-grandfather, the Storm King, had ruled the skies with thunder. Her great-grandfather, Prince Aurelion of Crystal, had tamed the winds. Her grandfather, King Virell, had united the fractured clans. And her father—oh, her father—had been the longest reigning monarch in Megalodon's history, a dragon of wisdom and fire.
She remembered his teachings.
"Pain is a teacher," he had said. "Endure it, and you will learn the language of survival."
But this pain was different. It spoke not in whispers, but in screams.
She cried out, her voice echoing through the grove like a dying songbird.
"Zoro!" she called, her voice cracking. "Zoro, my heart… it burns… it freezes… I cannot—"
Zoro, who had been resting nearby, jolted awake. His small wings flared, his eyes wide with fear.
"Mother?" he whispered, rushing to her side. "What's happening? What do I do?"
Mother Zoro reached beneath her wing and pulled out a scroll—ancient, sealed with the sigil of Crystal.
"Take this," she said, her voice barely a breath. "Fly to Crystal. To the Temple of Echoes. There… they will know what to do."
Zoro hesitated. His claws trembled as he took the scroll.
"But… what if you—"
"Go," she said, her eyes fierce despite the pain. "You must go. You are my hope. My light. My legacy."
Zoro nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"I shall return," he said, his voice breaking. "I promise."
With a final glance, he spread his wings and soared into the night, the scroll clutched tightly in his claws.
Inside the temple, Zoro met the Oracle—a dragoness older than the mountains, her wings translucent, her voice like wind through crystal.
She read the scroll. She touched Zoro's heart.
And then she spoke.
"Your mother carries the Curse of the Hollow Flame," she said. "It is a sickness born of grief, of loss, of broken lineage. It feeds on memory. On love. On hope."
Zoro's heart shattered.
"Can it be cured?" he asked.
The Oracle nodded slowly.
"But only by the fire of a pure heart. A heart that has never known hatred. Never known vengeance."
Zoro stepped forward.
"Then take mine," he said. "If it will save her."
The Oracle smiled.
"You are brave, young one. But the fire must be awakened. You must journey to the Cavern of Whispers, face your deepest fear, and return with the Ember of Truth."
Zoro ventured into the Cavern of Whispers, where shadows danced and voices echoed his doubts. He faced illusions of his mother dying, of Megalodon burning, of himself failing.
But he did not falter.
He remembered her words.
"You are my hope."
He found the Ember of Truth—a glowing shard of flame that pulsed with warmth and sorrow. He held it close and flew back to the temple.
The Oracle placed the ember on his chest, and it sank into his heart.
"You are ready," she said. "Go. Save her."
Zoro returned to the grove, his wings stronger, his heart ablaze. He found Mother Zoro barely breathing, her eyes dim.
He touched her chest, and the fire within him flowed into her.
She gasped.
The pain faded.
Her eyes opened.
"Zoro…" she whispered. "You… you did it."
He smiled, tears falling freely.
"I told you I'd return."
Mother Zoro recovered, her strength returning. The grove bloomed anew.
And Zoro?
He became a legend.
The dragon who defied fate. Who carried the fire of love.
And in time, he would become king—not of Megalodon alone, but of all dragonkind.
Because sometimes, the smallest flame can light the darkest sky.
And sometimes, a son's love can rewrite destiny.