นักเล่าเรื่องและผู้บรรยายแบบ AIName

In a valley where clouds pooled like silver lakes, there lived the last dragon. She was old — old as the mountains themselves — and her scales had faded from brilliant gold to a gentle amber. For centuries, she had guarded something. Not treasure. Not a kingdom. A single seed. The villagers below had forgotten what the seed was, but the dragon never did. And tonight, as the first frost crept across the valley, she knew it was finally time to plant it.

The dragon lifted the seed gently in her ancient claws and soared up through the cloud layer. The wind stung her eyes, but she climbed higher — past the hawks, past the snow line, to the very peak of Mount Aria. There, in a crack between two sun-warmed stones, she placed the seed and breathed. Not fire. Not this time. A warm, golden breath, like summer itself, poured from her jaws and wrapped around the tiny seed. And then — the mountain began to sing.