High atop the jagged cliffs of Elderglen, where clouds brushed the mountain’s brow and eagles dared not fly, lived Ashara, a colossal dragon of burnished crimson scales and eyes like molten gold. Her wings, when spread, could eclipse the midday sun, and her roar echoed like thunder across the valleys below.

Ashara was not a beast of mindless fury. She was ancient, wise, and fiercely territorial. Her lair—a massive cavern carved into the cliff face—held riches beyond imagination: mountains of gold coins, jeweled crowns of long-fallen kings, and enchanted relics humming with forgotten magic. These were not only trophies of conquest but also tributes left by those seeking her favor... or her mercy.

Below her lair sprawled the medieval village of Stonehearth, a quaint settlement with cobblestone streets, thatched rooftops, and a clock tower that tolled each hour with a slow, solemn clang. The villagers lived under the ever-present shadow of Ashara’s mountain—not always in fear, but never in forgetfulness.

For centuries, an unspoken pact had endured: Ashara would not raze the village, and in return, the people would leave her hoard untouched. But greed is a persistent weed in the garden of peace. Over time, rumors of the treasure lured thieves, mercenaries, and foolish adventurers up the cliffs. Most never returned.

Those who did brought back stories—half-whispered in taverns—of Ashara rising from the shadows of her hoard like a living furnace, fire crackling between her teeth, wings battering the cavern like stormwinds. Some claimed she spoke in the tongue of humans, her voice deep and terrible, warning them once before unleashing fire. Others said she simply watched as they fled, letting them carry a coin or two—enough to ignite envy in others, enough to ensure more would come.

Ashara never left her cave for long. She didn’t need to. Her gaze, ever vigilant, swept across the valley and village like the eyes of a goddess carved from flame and stone. She was no tyrant, but neither was she a friend.

Some say she guards her treasure. Others say she guards the village.

But only Ashara knows the truth: the hoard is her heart, each stolen piece a wound—yet she endures. For even a dragon can learn that true power is not in destruction, but in patience... and in fire kept barely leashed.

And from her perch, watching the flickering lights of Stonehearth below, Ashara waits.

For the next fool to try.