They say the river holds nothing forbidden…. but in its moonlit depths, where lost souls drift and stars refuse to shine, he is known only as the Dragon of the Dark.
~~~~~
The sun stands tall above the dark river, spilling its warmth like honey across the gentle waves. The water flows slowly and deeply.
Beneath the glinting surface, where the sunlight thins into shadow, he lies motionless, immense—not asleep, not awake, just breathing, just being.
The current bends around him and embrace his massive form like an old song remembered only by the river.
A soft glow pulses from beneath his scaled skin, it feels something older, something divine. Faint glimmers ripple outward with each slow breath, brushing against the stones.
Then—a sound.
Not from the water, but from the river's edge.
A child's voice. Broken. Crying.
"Why…. Why her, what did she do to deserve this? Please...someone help me…."
The dragon's eyes open, twin holes of fire, within darkness. Not alarmed, just…. irritated.
'It's been so long since anyone came here,' hethinks.
He knows this cry. Not the child's but the grief behind it. He has heard it too many times over nine hundred years, mothers, lovers, warriors, kings and so on. And now this child. This trembling ache is spilling over a riverbank he owns.
He tries to ignore the voice, 'not my concern' he thinks.
His tail shifts against the stones, he closes his eyes.
But the sob returns soaked in helplessness. And somehow….it gnaws at him.
His ancient chest tightens. Slowly the dragon rises, not in rage, not to destroy, but to see. To understand or maybe to remember.
Just his head breaks the surface, horned and glistening like wet stone kissed by sunlight.
From the shadowed depths, he watches the boy, small, trembling, his fists buried in sand. He doesn't ask the boy what happened, he doesn't need to.
With a quiet breath, he summons his divine sight. A soft glow flickers in his eyes and time bends. The boy's memories open like a wound. A mother, burning with fever. A home stitched together by grief. Hope fading day by day, as medicine fails and prayers grow tired.
He sinks lower, tries to forget. Tries to remind himself 'this is not mine to feel.' But memory is very cruel.
Something inside him cracks— quietly. Like ice breaking deep beneath the river. He remembers faces long gone, Kin who once called him family, some lost to flames, some to fate, and some to time.
The little boy cries again, and this time he couldn't turn away.
The dragon exhales. A soft shimmer of light winds around him, the glow swells. Bone shifts. Flesh bends. In a breath the water beast becomes a man.
He steps from the water, tall and silent, towards the house that smells of sorrow. Water slipping down his skin like silver threads. His shoulders are broad, his frame carved like a warrior, eyes like molten gold that hold the weight of centuries—gentle, yet unyielding. Dressed in simple modern clothes, a loose white shirt, dark jeans rolled at the ankles—he blends in, almost.
Outside, a man leans against the doorframe, worry carved deep into his eyes.
The dragon smiles softly, careful, human.
"I am with a community health initiative," he says, voice calm as still water. "We are doing free wellness checkups in the area. I heard someone here is unwell…..thought I might be of some help."
The man offers a weary smile, his gaze narrowing.
"Thank you…...but…"
"I won't take long" the dragon cuts in gently,
"No charge. Just a quick check, no trouble."
A beat…. Then another.
The man sighs, long, tired and pushes the door open.
He steps inside.
The air is heavy with illness, the woman lies on a thin bed, her breath slow, body curled like a wilted flower, her skin is pale, and her light is fading.
The dragon moves to her side.
And when the husband steps out for a call, the moment opens like a secret, quiet and hidden.
He kneels.
One hand rests gently on her forehead. A quiet glow hums beneath his palm, soft, unseen and celestial.
The sickness recoils, shrinking like mist before dawn. Her breath deepens; warmth returns to her skin. Her soul, drifting just moments ago, settles once again into the body.
When the husband returns, the dragon stands.
"She is very weak..." he says brushing a hand through her hair like any health volunteer. "I gave her something. It may help."
The man nods, not understanding, not questioning.
The dragon steps out, his work is done. He walks the road back to the river, shoulders lit by the late afternoon sun.
The mother stirs, her breath no longer a struggle. Inside the house hope blooms like dawn after endless storms.
But far beyond the hills, a healthy man falls ill, lungs burning, vision dim. He has no reason to die, yet death circles him now. A karmic shift, unnoticed and unnamed.
To save a life, another must bear the weight, balance demands it. Always has.
The dragon does not steal; he simply moves it.
As the water swallows him whole, he mutters to the darkening water 'I am no god of fairness.'
KaanKuwar, the king of the forbidden river. Saviour to some, curse to others. Power runs through him like water, but so the regrets that never drown.