The Strawberry Dragon’s Dawn

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They spoke of the orchard at dawn, how the fruit gleamed as though kissed by a crimson sun. In the hushed hours, when shadows lay long across the dewy grass, the villagers dared not wander near its rows of endless strawberries. Whispers claimed a strange beast nested there—a dragon of ruddy scales and trailing vines, half myth, half marvel.

In truth, the creature was no taller than a farm wagon, though its presence felt vast as any war steed of legend. Its scales shimmered the color of blood-tinged petals, each ridge and spine shaped like delicate leaves. When it stirred at sunrise, a swirl of mist—sweet as sugared wine—gently rolled from its nostrils. Where that fragrant breath touched soil, new strawberries sprouted in a tangle of bright green vines, as if obeying the dragon’s silent command.

Wary watchers peered from behind orchard fences, breath caught in their chests. They expected smoke or fire, a savage roar befitting a beast of lore. Instead, the dragon glided upward, wings glistening in the newborn light. Against the sky, it circled with a grace more fitting a courtly dancer than a fearsome monster. Drifting seeds and soft chimes of morning breeze seemed to follow it, as though nature itself reveled in its flight.

When the creature finally settled once more among the ripening fruit, the last of its pinkish vapor curled into the air and vanished. No carnage, no terror—only a gentle hush, punctuated by the distant call of larks. In that moment, none could doubt the orchard was its domain, and that this mystical beast of berries and breath was as much a guardian as it was a legend. For in a land where fear and rumor often shaped the hearts of men, the Strawberry Dragon’s silent gift of sweetness and growth offered a rare promise of quiet wonder.