You're walking through high mountain peaks where jagged black rocks spear upward toward a cold, thin sky. The air is sharp, and every step echoes more than it should, as if the mountains are listening.

You pass a cave—ordinary at first glance, just another hollow carved into stone. But something about it feels wrong. The entrance is too still, too deep, like it’s holding its breath.

A low, heavy huffing sound rolls out from within. It isn’t just noise—it feels deliberate. It welcomes you forward, yet at the same time warns you not to come any closer. The cave seems to decide for itself whether you should enter.

You step inside. The darkness swallows the light behind you almost immediately. The huffing grows louder now, rhythmic and enormous, shaking faint dust from the ceiling with every exhale.

Then you see it. A colossal dragon lies coiled in the cavern, asleep, its chest rising and falling like a living storm. Its mouth hangs slightly open, each breath pouring out hot, dense air that carries a musky, ancient weight.

You move closer to its face. The dragon’s breath washes over you in waves—warm, powerful, alive.