“What’s your name?”
“I am Kuntukuta Katikao Tesuwasilasong. In the ancient tongue of fairy tales, my name means ‘Death’—I am the dragon who brings an end to all things!”
“That sounds so cool! How about I call you Little Kun?”
“…I suppose it’s not entirely unacceptable.”
“Then I’ll call you Little Kun from now on.”
“…”
The dragon fell silent.
Instinctively, it sensed a hint of mischief in the name… yet it had no grounds to refuse.
After all, even it found its original name unbearably long and awkward. Compared to that, “Little Kun” was far better—easy for the little princess to say, and somewhat catchy.
Come to think of it, it felt a flicker of nostalgia.
How long had it been since it last spoke its full name to another?
Perhaps… three hundred years?
Dragons were a long-lived species, lifespans stretching into millennia. Yet the entire dragon race had withdrawn from the world four centuries ago, severing all contact.
During that time, it had scarcely encountered any living soul beyond the gold coins and gems hoarded in its lair.
As legends claimed, dragons were born with an instinctive love for shiny treasures—gathering jewels, hoarding wealth. It was no exception.
But time stretched so long that even gold and gems lost their luster. Sleep became the only pastime.
In three hundred years, the little princess was the sole being who’d spoken to it. So it granted her patience freely.
No matter her questions—its age, weight, why its scales were white, whether it had truly eaten humans as bards claimed—it answered earnestly.
Her curiosity bubbled like a kitten’s. After it allowed her to climb its back, she scrambled up and down with joyful energy.
Sometimes irritation flickered… but the moment it showed even a trace of impatience, she’d quietly slide down, curl in a corner, and sleep against the wall.
She was *too* obedient.
Even when it left to hunt or face human armies and the so-called hero, she never fled. Instead, she tidied the lair.
Once cold and bare—merely shelter and storage—the lair now bloomed. Vines crawled the walls, tiny flowers twinkling like stars. Wheat sprouted where it slept, maturing in a day; grains became her rice, straw its softest bed.
In seven days, like a gentle creation, she transformed its world.
Natural tables and chairs rose from stone. Bamboo cups and buckets appeared. She asked it to fetch salt and spices, began cooking.
For the first time in centuries, smoke curled from the extinct volcano’s lair. Loneliness melted into warmth.
At first uneasy, habit softened its heart. It even tasted her experimental dishes.
After hundreds of years, time felt both swift and endless.
Yet curiosity lingered.
Bards had twisted dragons into monsters—greedy, lecherous, abducting maidens. “Utterly wicked,” they sang.
So why wasn’t she afraid?
One day, unable to hold back, it asked.
She’d felt cooped up; it agreed to take her flying.
High above, thin air chilled her. It cast a protective barrier. She warmed, clung to its neck, gasped at the world below.
A quiet pride swelled. It spoke softly of flight, of dragon lore, of its past… then asked:
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
She tilted her head. “Why should I be?”
“I’m the dragon—the ‘wicked beast’ bards describe.”
“Oh… but they also say the Fairy Tale Kingdom’s princess wet her bed till ten. I don’t believe them.” She fiddled with a scale, voice low.
Sensing her sadness, it murmured gently: “You’re right. Bards are liars. Just as I’m not wicked… and no princess would be shamed for that. Honestly? I wet the bed at two hundred.”
“Really?”
“For dragons, two hundred is like under ten for humans.”
“Wow… you live thousands of years? I’m jealous.”
“…Living long isn’t all joy. Boredom sets in. I haven’t spoken to anyone in centuries. Last nap? Twelve years.”
“I see…” She whispered, “Sounds like me.”
“Like you?”
“I’m alone too. Just watch the sky… then sleep.”
“…But you’re a princess. Shouldn’t life be exciting?”
“I don’t know,” she shook her head, lost. “Father said a witch prophesied I’d be locked in a tower until a dragon took me—so my destined prince would come, defeat you, marry me… and we’d live happily ever after.”
“…”
The dragon’s voice was quiet. “So… I’m that dragon?”
“Seems so.”
“And soon… the prince will defeat me, and you’ll be happy with him?”
“I don’t know.”
She suddenly hugged its neck tight, voice barely a breath:
“I only know… *you* came for me first, Little Kun.”
Rage vanished. A warmth it had never known fluttered from neck to tail-tip.
In centuries of life, it had never felt this happy.
“Then,” it nodded firmly, “I will protect you… until my last breath.”
It swore with solemn truth.
“I believe you, Little Kun.”
She pressed her forehead to its scales, eyes closed, whispering.
Thus, princess and dragon forged a vow that would never fade.
…
Her frail body succumbed to wind and fatigue. She dozed against its back.
It turned homeward.
But on the horizon—flames.
The black volcano glowed. Smoke billowed. The scent of burning wood filled the air.
Impossible. Its lair was in an *extinct* volcano.
Dread seized it. It dove downward.
Magic shield raised, Dragon Tongue chanted—wind scattered smoke, feeding the fire. Rain fell, quenching flames.
They landed.
Ashes.
Every table, chair, vine—gone. Gold and gems looted. Only scorched ruin remained.
Human armies. The hero. They struck while it was gone.
“You… ALL SHALL DIE!!!”
The dragon’s roar split the sky.
The princess slid down, stared at the ashes, body trembling slightly.
She sniffled, turned, and hugged the dragon tight.
“Let’s… go, Little Kun. Somewhere they’ll never find us… okay?”
Wings folded gently around her. Its head bowed. Slit pupils flickered with fury and helplessness.
Moonlight draped them in silver.
It nuzzled the girl in its arms, voice soft as a promise:
“As you wish, my princess.”
