Drakoth the Last Wyrm's Awakening
Copyright© 2026 by Adam.F
Chapter 1
The wyrm drakoth has been asleep for millennia now it was time for the last male dragon to finally rise and take his place as the only Wyrm left now, he must search the world a female dragon to mate with to continue his line.
The stone ceiling of the cavern groaned shedding flakes of limestone that drifted like gray snow onto the colossal scales of the sleeper. A single golden eye snapped open, the pupil with a vertical slit of obsidian that immediately began to process the dim, filtered light of a world that had forgotten his name.
Drakoth didn’t move at first; he simply listened to the silence of the earth. It was a heavy, suffocating quiet, devoid of the rhythmic drumming of dragon wings or the distant, melodic calls of his kin. For a heartbeat, he imagined he heard the echo of a thousand voices, but as he shifted his massive bulk, the sound was revealed to be nothing more than the grinding of tectonic plates and the trickle of groundwater through the cracks of his tomb. He was the last, a lingering note of a song that had ended long ago.
He pushed himself upward, his muscles screaming with the sudden demand for action after an eternity of stasis. The movement was not graceful; it was a cataclysm. The limestone ceiling, already weakened by the eons, buckled and collapsed, sending boulders crashing around him. He didn’t flinch as the debris rained upon his hide. Instead, he let out a low, vibrating hum that shook the very foundations of the mountain, a sonic pulse that cleared the rubble from his chest and shoulders.
Drakoth stretched, a slow and agonizing unfolding of joints that sounded like grinding millstones. He felt a strange, hollow ache in his chest, not a wound, but a vacancy. The world he had left behind was a tapestry of emerald forests and singing rivers, but as he hoisted his massive head through the jagged aperture of his collapsed cavern, he found a landscape that felt foreign and fragile. The air tasted of sulfur and cold ash, lacking the rich, musk-laden scent of other wyrms. He was a relic of a lost age, a towering monument of scale and fire standing atop a mountain of rubble.
He spent the first hour of his awakening simply observing. Below him, the valley had transformed; where once great cities of gold and marble had stood, there were now sprawling clusters of gray stone and thatch, huddled together like frightened sheep. Small, two-legged creatures scurried along the roads, their movements frantic and minuscule. To Drakoth, they looked like insects, oblivious to the god who had just woken up in their backyard. He felt no malice toward them, only a profound, isolated curiosity. He was the apex of a forgotten hierarchy, yet he felt an unexpected kinship with the loneliness of the wind.
Drakoth shifted his weight, the movement sending a fresh cascade of shale tumbling down the cliffside. He didn’t want to frighten the insects below, but the biological imperative of his kind was a drumming heartbeat in his ears, drowning out the wind. He was a king without a court, a sire without a brood. The emptiness in his chest, which he had initially mistaken for grief, was a primal hunger not for meat, but for a legacy. He needed to know if the world still held a secret, a hidden valley or a sunken spire where another of his kind might be slumbering.
He took his first leap into the open air. It was not a flight as much as fall. A heavy, black scaled plummet that carved a trench into the mountainside before his wings snapped open. The sound was like a ship’s sail catching a gale, a thunderous crack that echoed across the valley. Below, the tiny creatures scattered, their frantic movements creating a ripple of panic that flowed through the thatch-roofed village. Drakoth didn’t descend toward them; instead, he spiraled upward, catching a warm thermal that lifted him toward the stratosphere.