LITMIR.BIZ

      As the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, a calamity befell the village. Marauders, like shadows cast by the fleeing night, descended upon the peaceful hamlet. Flames soared as thatched roofs caught fire, painting the sky with the colors of despair. Amidst this chaos, a young figure emerged – it was Oliver.

      With courage swelling in his heart, Oliver confronted the invaders. His voice, clear and defiant, cut through the turmoil. «Beware, for I command a black dragon, mighty and fierce! Leave now, or face our wrath!» he declared, his words echoing with a mix of hope and desperation.

      The raiders’ commander, a brute of a man with a sneer that spoke of many battles, stepped forward. Laughter rumbled from his throat, a sound as harsh as the clanging of swords. «Fairy tales won’t save you, boy,» he mocked, brandishing his sword with menacing ease.

      Oliver dodged the lethal arc of the commander’s sword, nimble as a deer. In a swift motion, he drew a rusty knife, its blade a silent witness to many a lonely night in the forest. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and hope, silently calling for Alaric, his dragon friend.

      But Alaric, bound by a secret curse, remained ensnared in the forest’s shadow. The daylight, a barrier as unyielding as iron, held him captive. Only under the cloak of night, blessed by the moon’s caress, could Alaric roam free.

      The clash between Oliver and the raider commander was a dance of desperation. Despite his bravery, Oliver was no match for the seasoned warrior. With a swift, cruel thrust, the commander’s blade found its mark. Oliver staggered, pain flaring through his body like a star falling from the heavens.

      He collapsed, his body hitting the ground with a thud muffled by the chaos around. Tears blurred his vision, not just from pain, but from the crushing weight of unfulfilled hope. As darkness encroached upon his sight, Oliver’s thoughts lingered on Alaric, on their unbroken bond and the nights filled with whispered secrets and dreams. His breaths, shallow and ragged, were the final whispers of a tale that seemed destined to remain unfinished.

      After the marauders had vanished like mist under the morning sun, the villagers, their hearts heavy with sorrow, gathered around the fallen figure of Oliver. He lay motionless, a silent testament to his bravery. To them, he seemed to be teetering on the edge of this world, a candle flickering in the wind. Yet, in his faint whispers, Oliver’s spirit clung to one last hope, repeating a name over and over again – that of his dragon friend, Alaric.

      Among the crowd, a young girl, stepped forward. Her eyes, brimming with tears, reflected a resolve beyond her years. Gently, she lifted Oliver’s hand. It was light, far too light – a heart-wrenching reminder of the hardships he had endured, his body as frail as a half-filled sack of corn.