The Dragons' Wolf

Kira is captured by a rival clan and expected to die at the hands of a monster in a cave

The Dragon's Wolf

Chapter One

Kira ran through the snow‑choked pines, breath burning in her throat. Behind her rose the shouts and screams of battle. The Bearclaw clan had caught her people unaware—tents burning, women and children screaming in terror. Her only thoughts were to survive… and one day avenge her clan. Then a blow to the back of her skull sent the world spinning into black. When she woke, she was being dragged. Two men hauled her across the frost‑bitten ground like a carcass. Her wrists were bound. Her hair was crusted with blood. Their faces were painted with ash and gore—the ones who had slaughtered her people. Kira struggled to her feet, defiant. She did not beg. She did not speak. She saved her breath for standing. They threw her at the feet of their chieftain—a scar‑faced brute with a wolf skull strapped to his shoulder. He looked her over as if deciding whether she was worth the trouble of killing.

“A skinny woman, not worth even keeping my bed warm,” he grunted. “But she stands brazen.” The others laughed.

“She won’t stand long,” someone said. “She wouldn’t be so cocky if she faced the beast.” Kira lifted her chin. “If you mean to kill me, do it. Don’t waste my time.” More laughter. They liked defiance. It made the breaking sweeter.

The chieftain leaned down, breath hot with rot. “You want to live, girl? Then kill the monster in the cave. Do that, and you may join us.”

She said nothing. She knew a lie when she heard one. They dragged her to a vast cave carved into the mountain. Snow blew in drifts, piling near the entrance. The darkness within looked inviting… and menacing. They gave her an axe—crude, heavy, useless. Kira hefted it, feeling the weight, hoping it would be enough for whatever waited inside. She doubted it.

“Go on then,” the chieftain said. “Live, or die well.” They shoved her into the cave. The cavern was enormous — a cathedral of stone and shadow. Bones littered the floor, cracked and blackened. The air smelt sulphurous. In the centre, chained in iron, lay a dragon. He lifted his head as she approached. Eyes like molten gold fixed on her. Not beastly but burning with intelligence beyond Kira’s comprehension. Kira froze. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to do something — anything — but she had seen the bones. She had seen the chains. She knew the truth: No one could kill this creature. So she did the only thing left. She dropped the axe and stood still, waiting for death to claim her. Kira would not waste her last breath pretending she could stop it. The dragon’s nostrils flared. A low rumble shook the cavern.

Then a voice — not heard, but felt — slid into her mind like heat through ice. “You are not like the others.” Kira’s breath caught. She did not answer. She did not know how. “Free me,” the voice said. “And I will spare you.” She looked at the chains. At the raw wounds beneath them. At the intelligence burning in those golden eyes. Pity struck her like a blow. She picked up the discarded axe. The dragon watched her in utter stillness as she raised it and brought it down on the first shackle. Sparks flew. Metal groaned. Again. Her arms shook. Her breath tore at her lungs. One chain snapped. The dragon did not move. She went to the next. And the next. Until the final shackle fell away and the dragon stretched his wings for the first time in years, dust swirling around him like a storm.

He lowered himself, wings half unfurled. “Climb on.”

Kira hesitated—fear made her swallow hard hands shaking, but she obeyed. Her fingers gripped warm scales. Her heart hammered. The spicy scent of the dragon was overwhelming. The dragon crouched and leapt. They shot upward through a narrow chimney of stone, wings scraping rock, heat blasting around them. For a heartbeat, she thought they would die. Then they burst into the open sky. Cold air slammed into her. Light blinded her. The world spread out beneath them—the Bearclaw warriors gathered at the cave mouth, waiting for her screams. They looked up. And saw the dragon with Kira on his back. The roar that followed shook the mountains. The dragon folded his wings and dove. Kira held on as fire lit the sky. The Bearclaw finally paid the price for imprisoning a dragon as flame engulfed them.

The firestorm behind them dimmed to a dull glow, but Kira’s rage only sharpened. As the dragon climbed higher, she twisted to look down — and saw them. A handful of Bearclaw warriors, running for their lives across the snow. Her breath hitched. Her vision narrowed. “There!” she snarled. “Burn them. Burn them all!” The dragon did not answer. His wings beat steadily, carrying them in a rising arc above the fleeing men. “Do it!” she shouted, voice cracking. “They butchered my clan! They chained you like an animal! Burn them!” Still nothing. Kira slammed a fist against his scales. “Are you deaf? Kill them!”

The dragon’s voice finally slid into her mind — not angry, not cold, simply ancient. “No.”

Kira froze, stunned. “No? They’re right there! Finish them!”

“They are already finished,” the dragon murmured. “Their fear will devour them. The mountains will claim them. The cold will bury them. Let the world take its due.”

“That’s not enough,” she hissed.

“For you,” maybe. “But it is enough.” Below, the Bearclaw shrank to tiny figures, swallowed by distance and snow. Kira’s fury trembled inside her, hot and helpless. The dragon angled his wings and soared toward the horizon. For a long time, only the wind spoke.

Then his voice brushed her mind again, quieter. “What do they call you, little one?”

Kira swallowed hard, still shaking. She couldn’t form thoughts the way he did, so she spoke aloud. “Kira. Kira Wolf.”

A low rumble vibrated through him — not quite amusement, not quite approval. “Wolf,” he repeated. “A fitting name.”

She hesitated. “And you? What should I call you?” A long silence. His wings shifted, catching a colder current. “My true name cannot be spoken in your tongue,” he said at last. “Your mouth would break before the first syllable.”

Kira wasn’t sure if he was warning her or teasing her. The wind carried them onward into the frozen distance — Kira’s rage cooling, but not yet forgotten. Snow clouds gathered on the horizon, thick and bruised, swallowing the last of the daylight. The dragon’s wings dipped as he caught the shift in the air long before Kira felt it.

“A storm is coming,” his voice murmured in her mind.”

Kira’s fingers were numb against his scales. She hadn’t realised how violently she was shivering until he said it. “We need shelter,” she managed.

“We do,” he agreed. “And you need more than those thin scraps of fur.” He angled downward, gliding over a stretch of frozen fields. In the distance, half-buried in snow, stood a small farmstead — a collapsed barn, a leaning fence, and a house with its roof sagging under years of neglect. The dragon landed beside it with surprising gentleness, snow billowing around them. Kira slid off his back, legs unsteady. The cold bit through her clothes like teeth. “This place is abandoned,” she said, though the silence already told her that.

“Long abandoned,” the dragon replied. “But it will serve.”

She pushed open the farmhouse door. It groaned on its hinges, spilling stale air and dust into the night. Inside, the hearth was cold, the furniture overturned, but the walls still stood. More importantly, a chest sat near the back wall, half-buried under debris. Kira knelt, pried it open, and exhaled in relief. Fur clothing. Thick, heavy, winter furs. She quickly undressed and pulled on the warm clothing. A heavy wool blanket remained for bedding. Outside, the wind began to howl. Kira stepped back to the doorway. The dragon stood in the snow, wings half-furled, watching the sky darken.

“Are you alright outside?” she asked before she could stop herself.

A low rumble — not quite amusement, not quite refusal. “I can weather storms. Do not trouble yourself.”

She hesitated, then muttered, “Fine. Suit yourself… Goldi.”

The dragon’s head turned sharply, golden eyes narrowing with unmistakable interest. “Goldi,” he repeated, tasting the sound. A deep, rolling vibration travelled through his chest — unmistakably amused. “A bold name to give a dragon. But,” he added, that amused rumble returning, “Goldi will do… for now.”

“It’s just a nickname,” she said quickly, cheeks warming. “Until you tell me a better one.” The wind rose, carrying the first sting of snow.

“Get inside, Wolf,” he said. “The storm will break soon.”

She nodded and retreated into the farmhouse, pulling the door closed against the rising wind. Wrapped in stolen furs beside the cold hearth, she felt — for the first time since her clan’s fall — a fragile sense of safety. Outside, the storm roared. And Goldi waited.