The Dragon Negotiator – A Dark Fantasy Tale of Duty and Defiance

They begged.
They pleaded.
They knelt at his doorstep and whispered of duty, of destiny, of the king’s will.

But still, the farmer said no.

“It’s impossible,” he told them, again and again. And still, they returned.

“Someone must go,” the soldiers said. “And it must be you.”

“No,” he replied.

They tried every approach—duty, guilt, bribes, threats.

“In the name of the king,” they insisted, brandishing their spears and puffing out their chests in armor polished for intimidation.

“I don’t care,” said the farmer. “I will not go. And you cannot make me.”

They could not. And that made them furious.

They doubled their offers. Ten dinerats. Twenty. Enough gold to buy a new life. A noble’s life.
Still, he refused.

The king’s men made solemn promises. “If anything happens, your land will pass to your parents. Your legacy won’t die.”

The farmer—once a man known for his calm and careful speech—could only repeat a single word.

“No.”

Once, he had been proud of his ability to mediate. He had settled border disputes and calmed village feuds with reason and empathy. But now, his vocabulary had narrowed into survival. Into refusal.

And for that, they hated him.

The village turned slowly, then all at once. Children who once waved now crossed the street. Doors closed before he passed. His name became an epithet whispered in anger. He watched it all and ached—not for their cruelty, but for the fact that his fear made him look like a coward.

One day, a child stopped him. “Farmer, why won’t you speak to the dragons?”

He crouched down. “Because they don’t speak back.”

“But the prophecy says they will,” the child insisted. “With someone.”

“Then let it be someone else.”

But the kingdom would not let it be anyone else.

When their diplomacy failed, the king’s men made it their mission to make his life unlivable. His crops went unsold. His savings disappeared. The land dried up, and with it, his future.

He thought of leaving. He packed once. But news of his refusal followed faster than his feet. No village welcomed a man who could have saved the kingdom—but didn’t.

The night his farm burned, he watched the flames without surprise. That was the moment he decided to run far, far away.

But he was not allowed to disappear. The king’s men followed. “Say yes, and it will all stop. A new farm, a new life, gold enough to never toil again.”

“No.”

“Then we will follow you forever,” they swore. “We’ll make sure no one will ever give you peace.”

Finally, broken and exhausted, when they asked one last time, his lips betrayed him.

“Yes,” he whispered.

They brought him to the mountains—jagged, unfamiliar, ancient. The path grew colder, the air thinner. They climbed until even the stars felt close enough to touch.

“It could be you,” the soldiers said, over and over. Their voices tried to wrap him in hope, but rang hollow.

The farmer began to wonder. What if it is me?

They reached the dragon’s domain—a place where ash blanketed the rocks and bones crumbled underfoot. Charred armor, rusted weapons, the failed remains of those who’d come before.

The captain laid a hand on his shoulder. “You could be the one to save us all.”

“I could be,” the farmer echoed, his voice steady now.

He stepped into the mouth of the cave.

The air was hot. It smelled of smoke and ancient power. He waited, saying nothing.

And then the dragon emerged.

It was colossal—wings tucked in like folded thunderclouds, scales gleaming like obsidian mirrors. But it was the eyes that held him: twin galaxies, endless and knowing.

The dragon stared. The farmer stared back.

And in that moment, he felt it: not fear, but calm.

Maybe I am the one.

He opened his mouth to speak.

But the dragon moved first.

Fire. Blinding, consuming, final.

The farmer had time for only one last thought:

Guess not.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, we are not the heroes we’re told we are. And sometimes, that’s okay—until the world refuses to accept it.