Legend XCVII – The Guardian of the Burnt Feathers

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It is said that beyond the known paths, where valleys flow together like forgotten thoughts and rivers wind as if searching for their own way out of the world, lives a being older than the names of the mountains. On a moss-covered ledge, high above a gorge where mists and waterfalls breathe ceaselessly, rests the Guardian of the Burnt Feathers, a creature of scale and feather, whose body bears the form of a dragon, yet whose back is covered in heavy, earthy feathers, as if it once longed to fly but remained bound to the earth. Its wings lie folded against its body, each feather marked by time, by wind, and by an inner glow that flickers in fine cracks like dormant embers. Its long tail winds across the rock like a living trail of past fires, and when it moves, centuries of dust trickle into the depths. The Guardian gazes down into the valley with eyes that do not threaten, but test, for he is neither hunter nor ruler, but a keeper. It is said that he was created when the world learned that power needs limits, and that every fire unleashed must find a place to rest. Once he carried the flames of the gods, sparks of pure creation, but when the world threatened to shatter under their weight, he sacrificed himself, burning his wings to bind the fire within. Since then, he can no longer fly, yet he never leaves his post, for below him lies a valley where decisions are made that are greater than individual lives. Sometimes a wanderer reaches this place, driven by loss, guilt, or a question that allows no sleep. Small as a shadow, he stands at the edge of the path, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, gazing up at the immense being whose mere presence makes the air heavy. The guardian does not speak, for his voice would move mountains, yet in the silence between them, more happens than words ever could. Whoever stands here senses that escape is impossible, not because the path is blocked, but because they cannot escape themselves. The guardian of the burnt feathers does not test deeds, but intentions. He reads in the silence, in the hesitation, in the courage to take a step closer, even though every instinct warns. Some turn away and return to the valley, relieved and yet empty, for they were not prepared to know the price. Others remain standing until their knees tremble and their breath grows heavy, and in this endurance lies the true test. It is said that for those who stay, the guardian lifts a burden, not by destroying it, but by making it visible, inescapable, clear as the river beneath them. When the guardian finally lowers his head, very slowly, as if a mountain were bowing, it is not a sign of mercy, but of recognition.