Little dragon Popik doesn’t want to breathe fire

Chapter One: The Dragon Without Fire

Popík lived high in the Amber Mountains, where the rocks shimmered like honey in the morning sun and the clouds drifted so close that they brushed against the dragon caves like soft white blankets. His home was a round cave carved into warm stone, glowing faintly from the heat of other dragons nearby, though Popík’s own cave was always a little cooler. While the other young dragons woke each day to the crackle and pop of their own tiny flames, Popík woke to silence and the slow sound of his own breathing. He was smaller than most dragons his age, with moss-green scales that faded into pale gold at the tips, and eyes as wide and thoughtful as morning dew. When he stretched his wings, they caught the light beautifully, but Popík hardly noticed. His thoughts were already drifting toward the same worry that followed him everywhere, like a shadow that never quite disappeared. Today, just like yesterday, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—his fire would finally come. He practiced every morning, because that was what dragons were supposed to do. Dragons breathed fire, and Popík wanted more than anything to be a real dragon.

He stood at the mouth of his cave and took a very deep breath, filling his chest until it felt round and tight like a drum. The air smelled of warm stone, sulfur, and distant pine forests far below the mountains. Popík closed his eyes, scrunched his snout, and pushed the air out with all the strength he had. Instead of a flame, only a gentle puff of gray smoke drifted out, curling lazily in the air like a sleepy cloud. A few tiny sparks followed, glowing for a moment before fading away without warmth. Popík opened one eye, then the other, his heart sinking as the smoke vanished into nothing. Below him, he could hear other young dragons laughing and showing off bright red, blue, and golden flames that crackled proudly against the rocks. Each sound felt like a small pinch inside his chest. He tried again, and then again, until his throat felt dry and tired, but the result was always the same. Smoke, sparks, and silence. Popík lowered his head, feeling embarrassed even though no one was watching.

As the sun climbed higher, Popík curled his tail around his feet and sat very still, staring out over the wide world beyond the mountains. He watched birds glide on warm air currents and wondered if they ever wished to be something else. Part of him felt angry, not at the other dragons, but at himself, as if he had somehow forgotten how to be what he was meant to be. Another part of him felt sad in a quiet, heavy way, like a stone resting deep in his belly. He thought of the stories older dragons told about roaring fires and blazing courage, and he worried that he would never belong in those tales. Still, even as doubt pressed against his heart, Popík felt something else flicker inside him—something soft, steady, and warm in a different way. It wasn’t fire, not yet, but it felt important. With a small sigh, he stood up and folded his wings, unaware that this very difference, the thing that made him feel broken, would one day change how everyone understood what it truly meant to be a dragon.

Chapter Two: The Night Flight

That evening, when the Amber Mountains began to cool and the sky slowly deepened into shades of violet and indigo, Popík could not make himself stay inside his cave. The other dragons gathered near the lava vents, their fires painting the rocks with lively flashes of orange and red, but Popík slipped away quietly before anyone could notice him. The air was calmer at night, softer, as if the world itself was exhaling after a long day. Stars began to appear one by one, shy at first, then brighter and bolder, until the sky felt full and watchful. Popík stepped to the edge of a narrow ledge and looked down at the vast darkness below, where forests and rivers merged into a single flowing shadow. His wings trembled slightly, not from fear of flying, but from the weight of the thoughts he carried. Flying had always been the one thing that felt easy and natural to him. If he could not breathe fire, at least he could still touch the sky.

With a careful hop and a strong push, Popík leapt into the open air, and the wind rushed up to meet him like an old friend. His wings caught the night breeze, steady and sure, lifting him higher until the mountain peaks sank behind him. As he glided, the cool air slid between his scales, soothing the tight feeling in his chest. Below, the world stretched out endlessly, quiet and peaceful, untouched by dragon fire or worry. Popík banked gently, letting himself drift rather than forcing direction, and for a little while, he forgot to feel small. The moon rose ahead of him, round and pale, casting silver light across his wings and making his shadow ripple over the clouds. He practiced breathing slowly, in and out, the way the elder dragons taught for fire control, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. When he exhaled, a faint glow shimmered in his breath, not hot, but warm, like candlelight behind frosted glass. Popík noticed it and frowned, confused, yet strangely curious.

He landed on a high, lonely peak far from the others, where the stones were cool and smooth under his claws. Sitting there, wrapped in moonlight, Popík finally allowed his thoughts to speak freely. What if he was not broken, but simply different in a way no one had explained yet? The idea felt dangerous, almost rebellious, like stepping onto thin ice. He remembered the warmth in his breath, how it had not burned but had comforted him instead. Slowly, Popík breathed out again, watching the soft glow spread gently across the rocks, lighting them without leaving a single mark. The light faded, but the feeling remained, calm and steady. Popík’s heart beat a little faster, not with fear, but with wonder. For the first time, he did not feel empty where fire should be. As the stars turned silently overhead, Popík sat very still, unaware that this quiet discovery would soon lead him to a truth far greater than flame.

Chapter Three: The Warmth That Heals

The next morning, the Amber Mountains awoke beneath a sky washed in pale gold, and Popík woke with a feeling he did not recognize at first. It was not excitement, nor fear, but something gentler, like a quiet confidence that had settled into his chest overnight. Sunlight slipped into his cave, catching on the smooth curves of the stone and warming the floor beneath his claws. As he stretched, Popík remembered the soft glow of the night before and the calm it had brought him. Instead of rushing outside to practice fire, he sat still for a moment, breathing slowly, listening to the distant rumbles of older dragons and the echo of wings beating against the air. His breath felt different now, fuller somehow, as if it carried meaning instead of pressure. When he finally stepped out of his cave, he noticed the mountain seemed less intimidating, its sharp edges softened by morning light. For the first time in a long while, Popík did not feel the urge to hide.

Near the lower slopes, he heard a familiar voice filled with frustration and pain. Drakařka Fífa, his closest friend, stood beside a cracked boulder, holding her wing awkwardly against her side. Her scales, usually bright and fiery red, looked dull, and her eyes were squeezed shut as she tried not to cry. Fífa had been practicing sharp turns and fast dives, pushing herself too hard, the way she always did. Popík hurried to her side, his heart tightening as he saw the small tear in the thin membrane of her wing. He wanted to help, but doubt rushed in, whispering that he had nothing useful to offer. Still, he remembered the warmth, the light that did not burn. Carefully, gently, Popík took a deep breath and let it out slowly toward Fífa’s injured wing. A soft, golden glow spread from his breath, wrapping the torn skin like a warm blanket. Fífa gasped, not in pain, but in surprise, as the ache faded and the membrane slowly knit itself back together.

They both stared in silence as the light faded, leaving no scorch marks, no smoke, only smooth, healed scales. Fífa flexed her wing carefully, then once more with growing confidence, until her eyes widened in disbelief. She looked at Popík as if she were seeing him for the first time. Popík’s chest filled with a warmth far stronger than embarrassment or fear—it was pride, quiet but powerful. He realized then that his breath carried something rare, something meant to protect rather than destroy. Word of what happened began to ripple softly through the mountain, carried on whispers and curious glances. Popík lowered his head shyly, but inside, something strong and steady took root. He did not yet know what to call his gift, but he understood one thing clearly. Fire could burn, but his warmth could heal—and that, he sensed, was just as important.

Chapter Four: A Dragon in His Own Way

By the time the sun dipped low and painted the Amber Mountains in deep shades of orange and rose, the dragons had gathered in the wide stone hollow where important matters were usually decided. The air hummed with quiet conversation and the soft crackle of distant flames, but there was a different feeling among them now—one of curiosity rather than judgment. Popík stood near the edge of the gathering, his tail wrapped nervously around his feet, aware of many eyes resting on him. The elders, their scales darkened by age and wisdom, sat upon a raised ledge carved smooth by centuries of claws. Among them was Ember, the oldest dragon of the mountains, whose fire was said to burn as steadily as the heart of the earth itself. Popík felt small beneath their gaze, but he did not feel ashamed. The memory of golden light and healed wings warmed him from the inside, steadying his breath. When Ember asked him to step forward, Popík did so, lifting his head despite the tremble in his legs.

Ember’s voice was low and calm, like rolling stone, as he asked Popík to show what made his fire different. The hollow grew silent, the flames of other dragons dimming as if they, too, were listening. Popík closed his eyes and breathed the way he had learned to trust, slowly and with intention. When he exhaled, the golden warmth flowed outward, filling the space between the dragons without heat or harm. The light settled over cracked scales, tired wings, and old scars, sinking in gently like sunlight after a long winter. Dragons shifted in surprise as aches eased and old stiffness softened. A young dragon with singed scales sighed in relief, while an elder straightened, his expression changing from doubt to awe. The warmth faded, leaving the hollow quiet and still, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. Popík opened his eyes, unsure of what he would see.

What he saw was understanding. Ember lowered his great head, a sign of deep respect rarely shown, and the other dragons followed. Ember spoke of balance, of how not all strength roared or burned, and how the mountains needed healers as much as warriors. Popík felt something settle into place inside him, like a missing piece finally found. He was not a dragon without fire; he was a dragon with a different kind of flame. As the stars appeared above the hollow, Popík stood among his kin, no longer at the edge, but truly part of them. His breath glowed softly in the cool night air, a promise rather than a threat. And as the mountains grew quiet and the dragons returned to their caves, Popík curled his wings around himself and smiled, knowing that being himself was more than enough.

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