The morning sun cast golden reflections on the humble dwellings of Brynhill Shire. A cool breeze swept the lonely stony streets, which twisted and stretched through the maze of buildings toward the central square. Daily activity was beginning, but in a narrow corner, just a few meters from the square, a store had had its lights on early in the morning. A man was delivering a series of quick jabs to a huge ball of dough. His hair was in a ponytail, and it jumped from side to side with each flurry of blows he delivered. Despite having a thick build, Gildor moved nimbly, lengthening and stretching the dough. With a calculated movement, he picked up his knife and the gleams flashed immediately at the quick, precise cuts, slicing off uniform chunks, which would later become loaves of bread. A pair of young eyes were amazed at the cook's agility, the buns falling clustered in rows on the greased metal trays.

Finally, the scorching heat hit Gildor's face as he opened the oven door. Immediately he took the trays with the buns and stacked them inside. Satisfied, he proceeded to close the oven by locking the latch.

"Wow, I could swear it's hell in there," the apprentice commented, wiping the sweat from his brow.

A smirk painted Gildor's face.

"It's a cool summer breeze."

The boy looked at him with his eyes wide open

"Open the doors and clean the entrance, it's about time," Gildor ordered, as his rough hands tied the sack of flour lying on the table; the thin boy ran in search of the broom.

As Gildor put the flour in the cabinet, he remembered those times when magical creatures in the kingdom of Elenthir used to fear and respect him. He never recoiled from the waves of infernal heat caused by the ravenous flames of a dragon, devastating everything in its path. Igneous blasts that bent shields and melted swords. But that was in the past. Now he was only content to be Brynhill's baker, a position that gave him the peace and routine he longed for after years of constant battles. The aroma of delicious freshly baked scones and the smiles of his customers was all he needed.

The rest of the morning slipped by with the increasing demand for his hot bread. Gildor's nostrils flared as he detected a faint, familiar sulfurous odor. A great winged shadow obscured the sun and suddenly the earth shook. The screams were not long in coming. The locals scattered like ants across the square and chaos spread like lightning through the population. Gildor's face hardened. Unexpectedly, a terrified boy fell to his knees at the baker's feet.

"Hide me, for heaven's sake!" he buried his head between the cook's legs. His fists twitched as he clung tightly to the baker's apron. The smell of smoke and freshly baked bread that permeated the garment went unnoticed in the face of the anguish that made him cling to the last hope he had left.

"My mother told me, when I was little, about your exploits."

"The beast is coming for me!" he cried in despair,

Gildor's face remained impassive at the shocking news.

"Stay here,"

"Secure the doors when I leave," he ordered his assistant who paled at the shock.

Gildor ran into his room and pulled out a huge leather-lined trunk from under his bed.

On the outskirts of the shire. The mythical reptile was crushing stone dwellings like crackers, crumbling them with the spiked ball at the end of its long tail. The villagers ran in panic seeking shelter. Screams of terror merged with the roars of the enormous dragon. The devastating flames consumed everything mercilessly.

"Where are you hiding?" he shouted angrily.

It tore off the wooden roof of one of the houses, and children shrieked in terror, cowering in their parents' arms. The dragon's eyes glowed, and its maw flared red-hot, but before it spat out its explosive flare, a heavy rock struck its head.

Bewildered and pained, he noted that it was no mere rock. He took the metal ball between his long fingers and watched it for a few seconds. His eyes narrowed when he saw an ancient emblem engraved on it. He clenched his fist shattering it. Eagerly, his slitted eyes combed the area. Not far away, armed with an apron and a white scarf tied across his forehead, a man wielded a long steel sword, defiantly.

He relaxed his countenance, hiding his sharp row of teeth.

"A cook is who defends this shire?" he chuckled

The baker clenched his fists on the handle of his sword. The wrathful dragon charged at the baker with a leap. The earth shook under the weight of the dragon's massive body. Despite having been out of his profession for years, Gildor, quick as lightning, rolled on his body and dodged the dragon's attack. Wasting no time, he lashed out at the beast, leaping from side to side at the failed attempts to crush him between his paws. With every thrust of his sword, his movements became faster. Little by little, the sleeping warrior within him was beginning to awaken.

The dragon's patience was running out, every time he tried to incinerate his enemy, a new ball hit his snout, preventing him from doing so. Enraged, he launched a couple of fleeting swipes to slice his attacker; but, with a mighty blow, Gildor broke in two the long nails of his right claw. The baker's peaceful face had transformed into a fearsome, steely expression.

"Bring me the boy if you don't want me to burn the shire to ashes," the threats of the fierce dragon echoed in the surroundings and in the hearts of the villagers.

"Over my dead body," Gildor replied, gritting his teeth.

The dragon amazed at the insistence of the baker, began to intuit who was that stranger who did not tremble at his imposing and terrifying presence. The brief smile that crossed the dragon's face the moment he managed to tear the baker's clothes turned into astonishment with a hint of uneasiness when he discovered the slayer's emblem tattooed on his chest.

Seizing the dragon's surprise. Gildor swung his sword. In one swift motion, passing it from his right hand to his left, he bent his knees and drew a small vial from his back. The cork jumped out with a dry pop!

A sharp, piercing hiss took them by surprise.

"Stop!" commanded a familiar voice.

Both opponents stopped. The dragon stepped back. Gildor stood guard. Hurriedly, a woman stepped between them. Her chest rose and fell as she extended her arms towards each of them.

"Hold your breath," she repeated, calming her breathing.

She swept aside a rebellious lock of bright red hair that was obstructing her view.

"Damn it, George! What are you doing here?"

The dragon frowned.

"Martha?"

Martha turned to Gildor and relaxed her countenance.

"For God's sake, Gildor put that potion away," she pointed to the small vial he still held in his right hand. Gildor relaxed his shoulders but did not take his eyes off the beast waiting behind her.

The huge dragon curled into a ball. Its gleaming scales and imposing wings melted away as it took human form. It became a slender, broad-shouldered, elongated-faced man, no more than 6 feet tall.

"I came for the boy who stole my daughter's heart. A sneaky vermin who goes by the name of Robert Smok," George explained as he approached Martha.

Martha, stunned, held back a gasp.

"Please understand," he said taking Martha's hands. "No matter how hard I try, my daughter won't listen to me and wants to run away with," he paused, "that slithering vermin," he spat out

Gildor still didn't understand how the hell the woman had overpowered the beast.

Martha pursed her lips

"Well," she released her hands with a yank and placed them on her hips.

"That vermin, as you call him, happens to be my son."

George opened his eyes wide. His legs trembled violently, and with a vacant expression, he clutched his head. Without further ado, he sat down on a rock to process what he just heard.

"Martha, uh...", he hesitated. "Is he my son?"

Martha loosened her shoulders and tilted her head to the side, rolling her eyes.

"Of course not. For heaven's sake!"

George relaxed his complexion

Meanwhile, Gildor sheathed his sword behind his back. Then he struck his face with his fist to remove his stony, emotionless countenance. He wanted to go back to being the gentle baker of Brynhill.

Martha turned again to Gildor. Sorrowful, she scratched the back of her head and forced a smile.

"I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I'm so grateful that you protected my son."

The baker saw the frankness in the woman's eyes and nodded.

Fortunately, there were no serious injuries. After making George apologize for the mess he caused, she assured Gildor that they would pay for all the damage. If there was one thing dragons had, it was a lot of gold.

Image by dimkatomson21 at Pixabay