There was a time when the sky was not silent.
From the deep, where sunlight dies and old gods sleep, the dragon rose. Wreathed in salt and flame, it split the sea with its roar, climbing into the sky as if to devour the stars. Kingdoms trembled. Oceans fled. Men forgot their names in fear.
But the sky had its own keeper.
He came not with thunder, but with fire. A god riding a chariot of bulls, hooves pounding clouds into storms, eyes cast in judgment. In his hand, a blade carved from the first lightning.
The clash shook the heavens.
Above the waves, god and beast met. The dragon twisted and lashed, but the god struck true once, only once. That was enough. With a scream that shattered gulls mid-flight, the beast plummeted back into the sea, its body torn, its reign ended.
Or so it seemed.
Below, ships surged forward. Not in victory but in fear. For the dragon was not dead. Just fallen. Wounded. And they knew: if they did not bind it, the sky would split again. The god had done his part. Now, mankind would do theirs.
As the last light of dusk kissed the water, the Sky Charioteer vanished into cloud not triumphant, but solemn. His war was not with flesh, but fate.
And even gods know…
Some things always try to rise again.
art by tobydphotographer
